Whoa, ladies. If you think this blog is all about the oh-so special moments of motherhood, stop reaching out for the tissue box just yet. Whatever crap existed in my Limbic system (Google it!) for years in the name of emotions flew right out of the window Like Noah’s raven; never to return again. A movie which showcases a set of smart-looking, sturdy heroes dying for their country, no big deal. The neighbour’s cat got Alektorophobia, bad for the cat. A friend’s car gets a massive dent- you’ll be fine. Instead of being soft and lovable post motherhood, I think I have become concrete headed with a serving of sarcasm on the side.
Yeah, I know – Motherhood is a soul stirring experience; never will your child hold your finger again or sigh in your arms. Aah, the bliss of reading to them while they are busy drooling over your favourite bedsheet. The joy of talking to them nineteen to a dozen to develop their conversational skills while they dazedly stare at you thinking “Lord Murugan, Aiyyo,When will she stop speaking?
But, it also means, that you finally get to sleep 6 hours straight and thus, you are aware of what and where you are. You read books while you are still awake; you meet people and don’t jump for joy when you find that they have a fisher price stroller lying idle in their attic; you go on treks and hikes and you don’t have biobreaks every 25 minutes.
I mean, motherhood was always made out to be so glamorous. The mother with beautiful glowing skin, pearl white teeth, dressed in a lacy nightgown giggling with an ever smiling, half giggling cutie, in a diaper that’s absolutely not heavy and clean. They are on a bed with satin sheets and the mother, an epitome of grace and patience plays gently with the toys. The baby coos and grins back.
In my 5 years of experience with my two daughters, this has never EVER happened. For one, I can’t remember the last time I wore something as inconvenient as a sari or a lacy, satin nightgown .God made pajamas for a reason. Let them serve their life purpose. If your MIL frowns on you, give her a pair. It’s never too late to start.
My skin glows; all because of eating those left over papeetas and apples.(Try it :Rub a orange slice on a tiled floor with great intensity, stomp once and then twice for better results and eat it meditatively) Hopefully, people will be too magnetized by your skin to check out the pathetic state of your house.
On a given day, (and this requires courage to admit), the chances of all the four of us having brushed our teeth is low (read impossible).Early in the morning, you can either brush your teeth, or let the children brush their teeth or you can save the paper roll or you can save the toothpaste tube or you could save ….well whatever. Everyone wants to do everything together. So cute , ha?
There is so much happening all around you- I feel like I am in Chandni Chowk at rush hour with a blank slip of paper in my hand saying – “Mujhe idhar jaana hai. Raasata bata do.”So now if you meet us and find a couple of yellow teeth, smile and shift your focus elsewhere. We know, you know and it’s our little secret.
Our bed is perpetually messy. Oh no, we have help, and we really like really love a clean bed, but those teddy bears need their space. I have literally woken up in the middle of the night and sent these cute little monsters flying across the room- with the thought in my head- Burn in hell, damn you!
When you become a parent, your nocturnal hours are limited. As if the days were not enough to drive us crazy. You cough, the baby gets up. One cries, the other gets up. One mumbles incoherently in her dreams, the other starts telling a story. I tell you, our nights are what bonds us as a family. We kick and hit with 100% precision and intensity. And yet, the next day we forgive and forget. Actually, we are too foggy to remember and if you forget, what’s there to forgive?
I actually celebrated when my elder one bid adieu to her diapers. She often wonders aloud as to why her mother never kept a souvenir. She has no idea that this is a part of her life I would rather forget. My younger one started speaking early and now can clearly instruct me to change her diaper at her command. I officially feel like a slave. Solomon Northup was freed in 12 years; I might just take a wee bit longer.
Finally, let’s talk about Patience. I don’t have any. Seriously. I am good with noisy neighbors, ruminating relatives, salivating sleepwalkers but give me a bawling baby anytime and I’ll bawl right back at you.
And this is what my ma didn’t tell me. The sad, the bitter and the ugly truth. With or without help, motherhood is a very tough job. Even being emotionally available to you child all the time is overwhelming. I will defend my kid, love her and make gurgling noises on her tummy but I am looking really looking forward to the next phase J
Wishing you all a splendid weekend,
Loads of love,