Let me begin today by saying, I have found maternal gratification at the bottom of a bowl of Daal Chawal. I’m sure that is a most confusing statement, but that is more the conclusion than the beginning. So let me start right at the beginning then.
I am a mom. I have been one for the last nine years and a very proud one at that. For some people motherhood comes very naturally, I thought it would for me too, after all I knew more nursery rhymes than anyone else I knew. But that was not the case, my early days at this business of motherhood was filled with mind numbing pain. Third degree lacerations as a result of childbirth can do that to a person. The baby diapers we loaded up on served both my new born son and also as an icepack for me. But pain not withstanding, I was both overjoyed and scared at the birth of our first baby.
Back when I was a Sergeant in the NCC (Army wing) in Vizag, I was asked how much a new born baby weighs as part of the C certification exam. I failed to see how serving as the sixth line of defence (after the babies) for India and knowing how much a new born baby weighed were even remotely connected. But who was I to question “army intelligence”. Mine was not to question why, mine was but to do and die. And so I scratched my head a few times, scrambled to imagine how much a kg of onions felt like and took a wild guess. “Sir, a new born baby probably weighs 10 kgs or so”, I replied. (10 KGs equate approximately to about 22 pounds)
In my defence, I had not held a new born baby in my arms till then. I also abhorred biology and hence practically ignored all things biological except the few things that I couldn’t manage to ignore. I still passed the C certification, amazingly. The officer who had asked me the question (I think he was a Major so and so), just smiled and told me I was way off. I didn’t know how off till I had a baby of my own a little later in life. My new born baby was 9 pounds and 14 ounces – two ounces shy of 10 pounds. Every where I went in the hospital, all the nurses recognized me – “oh you’re the one who gave birth to the kindergartner”. Who knew, I was a mini celebrity!
Now, can you imagine a 10 kg baby – oh my God, it’s a good thing Mother Nature was not as clueless as I was or at least had been. After going through childbirth twice, I am now all caught up to speed.
The first two weeks after my first child was born, I had my husband to help me and then he was scheduled to go back to work. I panicked, what am I supposed to do with a two week old living breathing baby who equated me to a milk machine. So the first day that I spent alone with my son was a very silent one at least from my end. Gooing and gahing to my baby – making nonsensical baby talk was as foreign to me as speaking Greek. I could not if my life depended on it say something silly to my baby. My husband spoke to him constantly where as I just held him close and hoped he understood my silence. A couple of days later I got into the groove and was talking utter nonsense – I could go on for hours together. My baby didn’t care – he just listened and smiled every time he passed gas.
It’s a constant challenge for working mothers to spend quality time with their children. I am a working mother. I plan to rectify that someday, but short of winning the lottery I think the status quo will remain in place for a few years at least. Oh well, who am I kidding, it will be couple of decades before I quit working. Between my husband and I we try our best to stay close (very close) to the kids. But it still is tough, between all the extra curricular activities, Kumon, homework and cleaning up their room (this one is an tough – kind of like climbing the Everest), there really is no time left over.
I live with three pack rats – all three men in my family detest throwing away anything, no matter how useless the thing in question may be. I on the other hand have a very healthy relationship with my Garbage can. I purposefully bought a really large dustbin and it now proudly sits in my kitchen. All the paperwork my sons bring home goes promptly in to the dustbin. I have to wait till my kids are not watching to throw their notes, artwork, etc into the dustbin. There have been times when the dustbin cover comes off and my son will spot the little red heart he made at school the previous day. “Mommy, you threw away my heart. I made it in school yesterday”.
Yeah! Yeah! Yeah, go tell it to Oprah!
And the little heart that was so unceremoniously discarded, will now again be placed on the kitchen counter. And there it will sit till I abolish it once again, when my sons are not watching. I told you, this motherhood business does not come naturally to me. De-cluttering on the other hand is a most natural skill.
There are times though, when even I cannot throw away some of my sons artwork. One such instance is the still life painting that my three year old labored over for Valentine. It is a drawing of a bud vase on which my son put some real colorful touches. Most artistic and very green. And the picture is appropriately titled “The single rose; A Valentine Still-life”. This specific picture is still floating somewhere in my living room. Well, Da Vinci my son ain’t but even my heart swells with pride when I see Green paint smothered on a bud vase drawing. Such is motherhood!!!
They say that a Mango never falls too far from the tree. This is because as a parent we like to instill our values and our ethics in our children. Mealtimes at our home are sacred. We sit around the dinner table as a family and finally spend some quality time together. Every weekend, I make dal chawal – something I excel at even with my limited culinary skills. I then mix the dal chaawal exactly as my mom had when I was young – lots of ghee and lots of salt. And down we sit on the floor, two bowls of dal chaawal, two glasses of water, two steel spoons, two very excited children and one “very-close-to-being-demented” Mom. And the three of us spend the next hour talking and chatting and just plain goofing off.
As a mother, I find this time that I spend with my kids extremely satisfying. I tell them how lying is bad and how telling the truth is courageous. I put on my Solomon hat and settle minor spats. I talk about my elder son’s school and gaze admiringly at my younger sons’s matcbox car(s). I guess one could say, I have finally found maternal gratification at the bottom of a bowl of Dal Chaawal. Who would have thought!
