Hey You, Young Mom

Hey you, young mom
Who's forever exhausted
Often frustrated
While being delighted
Hey you, who feels no one gets it
(Maybe they do, maybe they don't)
Who wishes for once
Someone would see what she's doing
Feeling
Going through
Who craves empathy, not sympathy

Hey you, mommy
Who feels this is a lonely road
With or without a co-parent
Parts you've to walk alone
There are others like you
Invisibly walking alongside
Feeling alike

Hey you, who craves
A single night of full rest
Who steals moments to call her own
Wishes someone would officially
Permit me-time
You have permission. Go.

Hey you, who physically loves her children
Yet feels her body doesn't fully belong to her
And is instead at the whims and demands of this little rascal
Remember you were one, once?
You and this little thing
Your body feels the separation
As does hers
So gravitating towards each other
Don't mind this transition
You'll miss it once it's through
And you'll have your body back, fully

Hey you, always on the move
Rushing here, there
Always on an elastic band
Tied back home
To your little one
Like you're away on borrowed time
It's okay to feel happy
About being away and on your own
Enjoying the taste of freedom
As much as it's fun to revel
In the reunion
Once back home
You can have the best of both worlds.

Hey, new-age mother
Trying to always better yourself
It's okay to not do it all
To do it now
With your child
There is time, there will be time
Breathe. Pause.
The moment will pass you by
Before you know it
Your child's childhood
Will pass you by
It's okay if the clips don't match
Every once in a while
Heck, every time
(Your pre-teen won't put up with it though. My toddler often doesn't)

Mommy, my dear
It's okay if it isn't all clear
You haven't figured out your act
Are too busy getting by
Day to day
Look, catch your child's gurgle
Doesn't it put everything into perspective?

What you're doing is a big deal,
Even if every mother before you
Has done it
And several fathers too
(Except the birthing and feeding)
I'll make a big deal out of it
Watching your every move
Lauding your every success
The small steps
Of victory. Of growth.
You're not alone
Not one bit.

I want someone
To say all this to me
So I say it to myself instead.

Written on 04 May 2018 at 20:51hrs
On a flight from Mumbai to Chennai

Playschool Pangs II

Dear Zara,

The playschool account would be incomplete without telling you what happened the day after I wrote the post, and the day after that day.

That Thursday night, I tried putting you to sleep by telling you how you need to get up early to go to school, to go play and have fun, make friends and so on. You said, 'But I don't want to go. It's no fun.' I was taken aback. You proclaimed you didn't want the trampoline or the slide in the school either, stuff that I know for certain you thoroughly enjoy. So I was able to shake off your announcement as a passing phase. At least, I hoped it was. Later, I even requested your father to take you to playschool for a few days, to try and see if you would be less clingy with him. But for now, it was just you and me, because he was travelling on work. I knew he would've handled this a lot better. At least that's what I felt. So I looked to him for guidance.

In the morning, Srikrishnan advised me not to read too much into these things, that it would help you if we were matter of fact and light about the matter. An hour later, I messaged him saying I was going to cry. I had just left a sobbing, leaky-nosed you behind in playschool. It was so painful, again. All morning you had been chanting that you didn't want to go to playschool. It was tough for me to be light, to laugh about this. I was torn between giving you your time and being around until then, or just letting you cry, and leave. My deepest values, all education theories floated in my head. 'Let the child take the lead', I had held, always. But for how long? Should I wait around until you happily asked me to leave? Would that time ever come? I didn't have any answers. This process was going against my conviction. Your father suggested I pick you up and gently talk to you about your day, assuring you we were right here. He was aching to do it himself, and would, a few days hence. Unfortunately though, that morning I had a meeting and would be meeting you only after you were picked up and back home.

I put my mind to rest and threw myself into the work meeting. With trepidation, I returned home, wondering how you would be. Turned out you were laughing, playing, waiting for me to pick you up and take you home after my meeting. I heaved a sigh of relief. That evening, your Paati spoke to you about how you did enjoy school but were really not admitting it. We had many conversations too, you and I. Sweta didi shared what she had told your cousin Yuvaan and I tried it with you. Explained to you how you were anyway going to go to school, whether you did it happily or grudgingly was your choice. And that you did enjoy, after all. In another post-dinner chat I told you how I was always here, waiting to play with you once I was done with my 'office kaam', when you returned from Paati-Thatha's house. That evenings and nights and mornings were ours.

Just as I was about to put out the lights for the night, you quietly told me, 'Mamma, I won't cry tomorrow. I will go to school with a smile.' I smiled and kissed you goodnight, surprised and yet wondering if this sentiment would last until morning. As soon as you woke up, you sat up in bed and declared, 'Mamma, I'm not going to cry. I will go to school happily.' My heart gave a whoop of joy. We together went over your schedule from morning to night. You repeated it multiple times, including in the car just before getting dropped at school. You told me one more thing when we were headed there. 'Mamma, I'm going to count to ten. Then you can go, okay?' 'Okay', I said with a smile. True to your word, you got off from my arms, held me tight, and counted slowly to ten. I could sense you were being brave. When you were taking long to reach the end, I told you I had to leave before all the kids came out into the play area for yoga. On reaching 10, you let go and walked a few hesitant steps away from me. You looked back just as I was about to leave, and waved a bye. I smiled at you, feeling choked and proud. You had found your own way. You had indeed taken the lead, and helped this rather conflicted mother out of her quandary.

It has been more than a month and a half now. Your hugs during countdown have slowly loosened. Now I'm the one who hugs you tight and gives you a goodbye kiss, asking for one in turn, while you peacefully, smilingly, walk into the playschool waiting to play with your new friends.

Love,
Mamma

Playschool Pangs

Dear Zara,


Taking you to playschool is so hard. I was slightly nervous about the routine – wayward as I have been in my ways – never once thinking anything else would pose a challenge. Turns out that getting that schedule right isn't the hardest thing, it's what happens after that that is. To leave you there and walk away.

It's what they call the 'settling in period', when they allow us parents to anxiously hover around our little ones. The second day you went there, this cute little Montessori playschool in our neighbourhood, I was told that I need not linger any longer; that you had settled in quick and fast. I was relieved. Saved us both the initial hiccups. I saw a few other kids hollering as they were carried inside by the Akka (helper lady) and bid goodbye to by parents at the gate, feeling bad for the kids and the mothers alike, thanking my stars you weren't one of them. But my respite wasn't to last, just like in the previous crib story (Yes, you promptly came back to the bed and mummy's tummy the next day. Now the tummy can't go to sleep without your touch, it seems. Some strange primal connection this is).

Last Thursday you cried when you were taken away by a teacher. I had been waiting with you in the play area for 20mins already because you didn't let me go, when they finally lured you inside with tricoloured balloons. They shut the glass door once you were in. You turned and realized what was happening and let out a cry. In your tears I at once saw distress mingled with what I perceived to be accusation – 'How could you do this to me?! Leaving me behind with strangers' Sigh. Am I imagining too much? Maybe. I'll never know. When you grow up we'll be the ones telling these stories to you, bereft of the tiny details time will take away from our memories. Hence, this blog, in all its irregularity. Hence this post.

Over the weekend you told me, 'Mamma, I don't want to go to school on Monday. I will miss you.' My heart sank. Eager that you build a positive association with going to school, I accompanied you inside on Monday, then yesterday and again today. Monday, you went in glumly (thank god no tears) after half an hour of my hanging around in the lawn with you.

Yesterday, you rushed into my arms and said, 'Mamma, I'm hugging you tight so no one takes me away from you'. How can one not melt at that? Your small, fragile body in the my big arms. Like a sparrow rushing into a mountain, in search of home. I didn't want anyone to take you away from me either, sweetie. But you had to go to school. And I had to pick up my work. While one teacher (aunty, as you all call them) patiently gave you your '5mins mamma...mamma 3mins more please wait. Mamma, 6mins!', another one came a short while later and carried you away. You cried again. I anxiously peered in through the curtains on the side and tried listening, but I couldn't hear any cries. Someone told me you were sulkily playing in a corner. Haha...my darling.

Today, your crying brought on your cough so I waited around until you had calmed down a bit. You said, after a good deal of playing together, 'Mamma, I prrromise you (yes, that's how you say it) I won't ask you to stay after this. Just 1min more' How do you calculate these things? When the teacher carried you inside, you threw your arms and legs around, screaming at her. 'Leave me alooone!' I wanted to laugh and cry both. I did neither and just quietly slipped out, dil par patthar rakh kar.

The moment you go inside though, your cries disappear. As if it's a switch. You observe, you sulk, you reluctantly, eventually, join in the play. But you don't cry. In those few moments of parting, however, my separation anxiety has washed over me and left a dull heartache behind. 'Bacche toh rote hi hain nursery mein', my mum said. 'I used to have tears in my eyes while dropping kids off to playschool', said my mother-in-law. Another mother whose child is also new at this playschool, and about the same age as Zara, sits on a couch in the cafe next door, casually checking her phone while teachers try and settle in her sobbing child. I look at her calm, smiling face greeting me with a sort of dazed look. How does one do this? How do I do this?!

This really does seem like my settling period, much more than yours.

Love,
The Mamma-who-never-quite-wants-to-leave-or-let-go

P.S. - Last night, while putting you to sleep, you asked why I was still on my phone. I explained to you how one of my closest friends was upset, so I was listening and trying to make him feel better. You thought for a few seconds and then said, 'Mamma, you should call him. He will be happy'. I smiled, taken by your response, and said 'How sweet are you, Zara?!' 'Very', you quipped, and snuggled into me. Wise and cheeky. Quite a combo.

Baby Steps

Last evening, dear Zara, I read in the Babycentre newsletter an article on toddlers and sleep. It said that the way you're put to sleep is exactly what you'd look for when you'd wake up in the middle of the night. I remember reading this in the context of nursing you at night and how I'd have to resort to it should you wake up mid-sleep.

Over the last couple of weeks, you have been going to sleep on my tummy. Not sure if it's the warmth of my flesh that you find comforting or the low rumbling sound within...or maybe you find it to be a cosy cushion to sink into (note to self: belly flab seems to have some utility after all) But it is tummy you seek and tummy you get. You know how to demand it too, and chant 'tummy, tummy, tummyyyyy' if I try to put you on your tiny pillow instead ('pi-yo no no!'). Obviously then, every time you wake up you've been wanting to lie on my stomach again to go back to sleep. But tonight was different.

Inspired by that article, I began my attempts at transitioning you away from the tummy and into the pi-yo, so that you'd go back to sleep without needing me to lift you out of the crib and bringing you to sleep next to me (Usually, a daily 4am ritual). So tonight I sang to you while stroking your hair and rubbing your belly, as you like it (such a cat!). And you in turn let me put you on your chhotu pillow next to me. But somewhere in the middle of the third song, you raised a sleepy head and demanded 'tummy!' I gave up with a sigh, resolving to revive efforts the following night.  So on my tummy your head went, tossing this way and that in the no man's land between sleep and wakefulness. Some 10mins into this, as I was drifting off myself, you raised a tiny finger and said 'Cwib', pointing in the dark towards the side of the bed. 'Crib?', I asked, with a tinge of incredulity. 'Cwib', you repeated in a soft voice. I wordlessly lifted you from my tummy and lowered you in your crib. You turned to your side and curled up into deep slumber.

Tonight, you took a precious few steps towards claiming your own space. My baby, you're growing up. And apart, literally.

01 March, 2017
11:30pm

Today

Today, Zara, I got a glimpse into what it might be like once you've grown-up.

This afternoon, as I announced your bath, you went and sat on the ledge in our room, the one adjoining the window, and urged me to 'Besi' (pronounced 'bey-see', a word your nani keeps using with you, comes from the Gujarati 'Besi jaa', sit) You urgently slapped the warm floor next to you until I relented. Just a while back, I'd lustily read out to you, 'What is this life so full of care...' How could I refuse?

You looked rather pleased at having me next to you on this sun-bathed low seating. The late afternoon rays filtered through your hair, making it look brown, just like mine. I put my arm around little you, smiled, and said 'Hi!' You responded cheerfully with the same 'Hii!' In a flash I saw us at a lazy cafe, two decades from now, swapping stories over steaming cups of coffee ('Kokkee' is what you call it right now). You seemed like such a friend, one I'd love to hang out with. You already are.

You spotted my purple hairbrush next to your tiny white one. While I asked for the latter, you promptly got up and fetched both. A moment later you were insisting on combing my hair. As I let warm sunlight filter through mine, I glanced sideways to see your face intent, trying to brush my unruly hair. I smiled to myself. Will we be braiding each other's hair a decade from now? How lovely it would be to have a gal-pal in the house.

I kept trying to get up to take you to your bath, and you kept pulling me back with your 'Mamma! Beysiiii!' Everything is an exclamation in your world. You exclaim, I pause.

In that one pause this afternoon, I saw an eternity.

A Trip Around the Sun...and Zara Turns One

Earlier this week, on 30 May, 2016, my daughter Zara (Zara Akanksha Srikrishnan) turned one year old. Friends went 'Wow! It's been a year already?!' I echoed their wonder. Can scarcely believe it myself. It was only yesterday that I could feel her playfully kicking me from the inside, and now she's doing that on the outside!

Along with the usual jhing-bang festivities and customary visit to a temple, this has also been a time for quiet contemplation and celebration unto myself. And while this celebration is personal, there is also something universal in it that I share with all mothers. Not for nothing is a baby's first birthday so special.

So what all am I celebrating? I'm celebrating the miracle of creation, which leaves me awestruck everyday. Every new thing Zara does, every new sound she utters, every new expression her face wears is fascinating. The year has been full of firsts, and will continue to be as she grows. The ones we're used to - gestures, sounds, mannerisms, expressions - are thrilling still; I don't think Srikrishnan and I will ever tire of them. It amazes me to see nature unfold right here in our living room, bit by bit, one smile at a time. I'm celebrating having brought this delightful creature into the world and seeing her bloom; of being a channel to the Universe's desire to manifest itself. I'm celebrating the divinity that has become energy and matter and spirit, in this form that we so dearly love.

I'm celebrating the many blessings that have made this happen; the ceaseless support from family, in-laws, and closest friends. The love that Zara gets everyday from people who haven't even met her yet, but just know of her, let alone from those who have. The nurturing she receives everyday from people at home. Surely there was wisdom in the tribes of Africa (India even?) that treated child-rearing as a community activity - for where would we mothers be without the unconditional love and support of our family and friends, both seen and unseen? The care that starts from when a woman is expecting, and continues when she becomes a mother and slowly inches back towards resuming normal life (the definition of 'normal', however, having been permanently altered)

I'm celebrating having grown up and into this role. Unlike what one might expect, a woman doesn't automatically feel like a 'mother' the moment the baby is placed into her arms after birth. For some it begins before, for some it takes a while. So while I was not a born mother, I gradually grew into becoming one - learning to put someone above all else and look out for a tiny being that needed all that I had to give, and then some more. In fact, the boundaries of how much of myself I am able to give to another person have been irrevocably pushed, and I'm rather proud of myself there. I think every mother ought to be. Perhaps it comes from the fact that this 'other person' was once a part of you, and looking after her meant looking after yourself ('Watch that step!' 'Don't exert yourself.' 'Eat Properly.' 'Take good rest') I'm still coming to terms with the fact that she's separate from me. BabyCentre tells me it has taken her a while too. The umbilical cord tugs both ways.

I want to take a moment here to celebrate that oft-ignored gift, the other miracle that one lives with (and in) - the human body. A woman's body, rather, since we're talking of motherhood here. While I knew I had a high threshold for pain, I surprised myself (and the doctor, it seems) by just how much I could put up with. Every labour story is different, every mother has a tough first few months (and many, tough first few years). But the real stories come out when you begin sharing your own; and you're left wondering at the amazing resilience God has given mothers - physical, mental, emotional. 'Mothers are tough nuts', said my cousin Sweta didi one day, as I was sharing some achy-tale with her. I agree. In moments of sudden realization, I've seen myself on the toughest days - some part of the body or the other affected, chronically sleep-deprived, achy, exhausted, on the verge of collapsing even - jumping to answer Zara's helpless cries in the middle of the night with the reflex of a recoiled spring. Of course, there have been times when I've just given up and nudged the husband to take over. An experience I'm certain every new mother will relate to. And while we all go through such times, we all do have different stories to share. It's almost like no matter how broken down you are, when your baby needs you, this machinery called 'body' swings into action, pulls itself together with a smart salute, 'Yes, Ma'am! How may I assist you?' and proceeds to do what's needed in the moment. So yes, I want to acknowledge all that my body has demonstrated, experienced, created, and survived, becoming stronger in the process. (While also acknowledging every new mother's own personal struggle, told and untold). May we pamper ourselves with many a spa treatment in the years to come!

Coming to the people this is about - I'm celebrating the journey Srikrishnan and I have undertaken together, and how far we have come over the years. From the starry-eyed moment we first met to this solemn time when we are celebrating our child's first birthday. At the triumph of love and commitment above all else. God has been kind. (touchwood). This shall never be taken for granted.

Lastly, and above all, I'm celebrating what Zara is about. Amongst the many meanings of her name are 'Princess' in Hebrew, 'Eastern Splendour', 'Blossoming Flower', and 'Dawn' in Arabic, and my favourite - 'Light', in French. She is all of these to us.

I'm celebrating what she is to me, and what we share. From a tiny bundle-in-my-arms sharing 3am yawns while the world slept, she's turning into my comrade-in-arms sharing mischievous grins and laughter. But there's much more. I often tell people - Zara is my prism and my magnifying glass. Through her all things acquire new light, every moment bursts into a million colours. While she expands my world, she also contracts my core - focusing my energy on what's most important and fundamental, allowing all else to just crumble and fall away - any residual negativity from the past, conflicts in the present, energy-sapping ties or decayed relationships, stresses of all kinds...one look at her and I just know all these are not worthwhile; she is, and that's where my 'Chitta', as they say in meditation, my attention and energy belong. My life has been neatly divided into BZ-AZ, before and after her arrival, much like our BC-AD. It does not mean I have no people, interests, activities, life outside of her. But with her as my Light, life is in the present moment, in the Now, and hence happier, healthier, more mindful than ever before. She makes me want to be a better person, and create a better world around.

So here's a cheerful toast to the year that was - mostly joyful and playful, often overwhelming and confusing, but altogether memorable. Here's to experiencing emotions with an intensity I have never before (Hail hormones! As if I wasn't enough of a Feeling Machine already), love of the kind I have never felt before, and an attachment that can only be explained as evolutionary on the driest of days and mystical on the poetic ones. Here's to a glorious trip around the sun, and many more to come. Here's to Zara, my light.

P.S. - The next one is a guest post, by none other than the husband himself. Daddies rejoice, you have a voice too. :P

When the Stars Met

Today is the day
The stars were arranged just so
Looking at each other, they nodded
Sagaciously
'So Be It', they said
And so she was
Born
This day, last year
The stars decided to pause
Shine on us with blinding light
And decided to give us some of our own

Starlight you are, Zara
And we orbit around you
Hoping to catch some of it