“Babies are necessary to grown-ups. A new baby is like the beginning of all things–wonder, hope, a dream of possibilities. In a world that is cutting down its trees to build highways, losing its earth to concrete … babies are almost the only remaining link with nature, with the natural world of living things from which we spring.”
The pristine joy, inexplicable pleasure to be among plants in my garden, is something I live for. Similar to cuddling up with little babies, fresh from their bath, smelling of powder and cream,and listening to their happy gurgling. All woes of the world then seem far away and unreal.
At a time when my kids were still capable of driving me up the wall, one of them sneaked into the kitchen and when the servant wasnt watching, bathed himself with flour, or the time when jam was rubbed diligently over the silk cushions to help match his shirt, with ‘mama, same same, red color’, I used to moan sympathetically on seeing a pregnant woman and pass on loving glances to her, inwardly thinking ‘she has no idea what she is in for’.
Now that they are grown, and the pangs of their pranks have magically metamorphed into sweet, adorable mischief, remembered with nostalgia, the sight of a little one, no matter the location, sends me into raptures, much to the consternation of hubby and son, highly embarassed at the funny noises emanating from me in the hope of drawing the kiddos attention.
I just simply love kids..this is in case the above utterances failed to convey the said emotion vociferously enough. The littler the cuter. Shape, size, color no bar. Just cuties capable of gurgling, putting their fists into their mouths, tugging at their own hair tightly in anger or frustration and then crying louder since the pain in question seems unrelated to their tightly clutched lock of hair. It seems so adorable. My son was a great one at this. I was forced to don mittens on his hands to avoid the recurring event, at regular three hour intervals, when hungry.
The sight of young mothers in their new avatar, all flustered and bothered, running around in circles, endeavouring to get the morsel into the quick as silver kid darting around in amazing tangents, to avoid getting that morsel in. Oh! that is so saddeningly cute. My daughter was responsible for me staying a trim 52 kgs, even after her birth. With all the running around, I felt fit for the races, considering the practise I had put in , on a continuous basis 24/7. I seriously advise mothers who need to get rid of post pregnancy weight, a single remedy. No ayahs anywhere close,to be delegated household jobs only, they are wicked. No grand parents, they need the rest. Bask in the glory of rearing your kids with your own two hands. (This relates specifically to us in India, those abroad do it in any case) Believe me, there is no way, gym will beckon or jeans will need to be replaced.
Like someone said’ the tragedy of children is you don’t get them back’.
All the years when their messiness and indiscipline got to you, now that is what you miss the most. The books lying all over, the littered confused wardrobe, outrageous clothes, addiction to loud music, except to wake up in the mornings, penchant for the latest in designer wear, totally funky birthday bashes. one sees videos of it and realises it is over.. That was to do with the daughter.
Today when my 17 yr old whips up a perfect spanish omelette for me on those special days when the PTA (Parents teachers Association) meeting has been scheduled and he is in trepidation of its outcome, it is hard to juxtapose the same kid with his antics in the kitchen. I guess the only thing common is the glint of mischief in his eye as visible even today. Soon he will be a strapping lad, off to college.Foreign lands will then attract, and my omelette will have to wait .
The need to nurture remains unchanged. I yet have to chase my daughter with a glass of juice on her visits from the U.S. and cannot stop myself from the nag I have become about her dietary intake, even on long distance calls. She laughs it off now, but stubbornly refuses to have her muesli , I am told. When it gets a bit much, I complain endlesly to my own dear mom. I have to shut up when she reminds me that I have been delaying breakfast too, despite her several reminders.She even calls hubby up at the shoots to complain of me.Seems a generation thing. Mothers are the same in all generations. Children will remain children too as long as there are mothers to nag.
And lullabies will sound magical from the memory of having been either heard or sung.