I’m a fairly self made person.
Even though my parents have always (read: most of the times) stood along sidelines cheering me on, I’ve been the one who got myself into pickles and I’m the one who pulled myself out of them too.
Having said that, I’ve almost always been blessed with family and friends around me to spoil me to bits. Whether it was both my parents’ siblings who loved me to no end through my childhood, friends who cussed out teachers who were unfair to me, colleagues at my first job who would keep food for me to munch on BEFORE lunchtime, friends who would show up at the drop of a hat to help, family far from home who would lend a shoulder to cry on and hold me close, or just friends who loved to spoil me rotten no reasons stated. I just always always got extremely lucky with those around me.
Today over Iftar we discussed who made sehri for my dad and that’s when I realised how long it has been since I LEFT left home. I moved out in 2006. That’s thirteen years ago. I returned twice meanwhile, for a few months each time but for the most part, I moved out.
It’s only every time I am completely broken down and in utter pain that I returned home. To recharge myself. Despite my differences with my parents through life just because we are completely different people, I still go back to them to recharge.
Since Sassi was born, the only place I ever completely pass out (heavy sleep) is at my parents. I’m a very independent parent. I am raising my child all by myself so no concept of grandparents babysitting or anything exists in our system. Yet. The few times I go over to my parents in a while. I sleep like there’s no tomorrow. Or I’m still single and on my weekend melatonin trip after a week full of all nighters and crazy work routine where I forget to pee or eat. Or both. (Yes that was my single life).
My mother was about to die when I was born. Everything she made me endure as a child growing up and still subjects me to, pales in contrast. She has the I -can -be -forever -annoying ticket.
My Nani raised me through my entire lifetime and stuck around to wave all sorts of weird ass flags of mine until I was well into my thirties.
My dad filled in whenever I felt isolated and needed a mom my eccentric mom never was or is. Essentially my dad has always been more of a confidante to me than my mom ever was.
My dada laid the foundations of my value system and the infrastructure of my personality where i fear no one but God and love my solitude. He lives in my soul and I hear him and Ammi Guide me every time a question pops up in my head. I swear they’re still around. Don’t believe me if you won’t.
As Mother’s Day rolls in and I think of what I should ask my husband to get for me, it makes me wonder. Two reasons. Why?
a) I quite literally am just keeping this child alive. What have I achieved so far? She can not be disciplined she’s too tiny. She isn’t even potty trained yet despite her repeated attempts over the past year and a half. (I WILL NOT SIT ALL DAY LOOKING FOR POOP FACE. Kid’s gotta talk before them diapers come off. Period.)
So I celebrate all of those who chipped in a bit to keep me going and made me who I am.
That’s my Mother’s Day.
Dada jaan for most lovingly turning me into a toughie.
Ammi for everything she taught me by showing me how.
And Ammaan for bearing me. Through her Hyperemesis Gravidarum and an almost fatal delivery right up to my tantrum at Iftar today when she didn’t let me cook and I made faces at the dinner table reminding her how I could’ve done everything better.
b) Whenever my child has grown up to take care of her bladder and bowels, and has enough brain space to be grateful to me for who she is. That’s when I get a proper Mother’s Day. Frankly. My husband doesn’t owe me a Mother’s Day anything.
He has enough “days” to take care of already.
My irritable days. (Which are most days by the time he reaches home and I’m knackered).
Our wedding anniversary. Valentine’s Day that we both thumb our nose at but celebrate sometimes just for the heck of it. My birthday. And basically every day because. Well just because.
Mother’s Day is his day for his mother. It’s not about me. It’s about his Ammi.
So maybe I’ll try planning a trip to the graveyard tomorrow. If he’s too tired I’ll just pray for her. But no way in hell does he owe me anything for Mother’s Day.
If anything I am the mother I am because he loves me as much and keeps me sane when I’m about to break.
Happy Mother’s Day as I value everyone who has spoiled me to bits and left the world to bear my bratty self.
Nope. No remorse. I’m holding on to every bit of that sardonic self just because all my “mothers” left a bit of their own awesome self in me.
Dada jaan’s no mercy attitude, Ammi’s head held sky high, Amman’s wonky self, Lala (my dad)’s soft and mushy heart that stands rock solid for his girls and my husband’s unconditional love that gives me a reason to live. Every single day.
Yup. Y’all are stuck with me the way I am.
