Two

An ode to working moms.

Three twenty-eight AM. I didn’t need the alarm that was to start ringing two minutes later. My body is clearly way too tuned to waking up when I need to: Whether it’s for a 4 am feed for the baby or for boarding a taxi on time so I don’t miss my crack-of-dawn flight for a meeting out of town.

Yet another sleepless night for yet another work trip. These flights are always at the crack of dawn, so as to maximize work time and minimize time away from home. Time away from the baby. Time away from watching her grow all too fast. Time spent stealing glances at the CCTV cameras in the house, opening views of different rooms to find her eating her snack, or taking a nap. I wonder if she daydreams about me.

I get ready, my hair still wet from the late-night shower after putting the baby to bed. I pick up my bag – an overnighter. Just enough for one night and two days.

“One day, very soon, she’ll protest,” my mother had said to me the night before, when I told her I was leaving for a work trip the next day. This isn't my first trip, nor would it be my last. But it is due to this comment that, though I have packed so light, something feels heavy as I walk out the door, the lock clicking automatically to secure a house full of sleeping people. Most significantly, a sleeping baby girl, blissfully unaware that when she wakes up, there would be a bunch of heavy pillows on her side where her mother should be.

Would she protest, I wonder, surprise tears rolling down my cheek. I start scrolling through my phone gallery to distract my mind. You'd know I'm a working mom from my phone gallery. If I filter the photos by geography, all destinations have more screenshots of video calls with Malhaar than of landscapes, however scenic they might be. And I'm talking Maldives scenic.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, nothing changes in a day,” I say to myself to soothe that all-too-familiar ache in my heart, gulping that heavy lump back down my throat. Nothing changes in a day, says a mom to herself knowing it took one such day for her to miss the moment her daughter stood up on her own for the very first time. That was, incidentally, my first work trip after maternity leave. Ironically the first time I landed back on my working-parent feet, I missed seeing my daughter standing on her own.

But why did my mother say that? My mother, a working mom. A mom who missed many firsts herself. Many festivals, many milestones. Was this just a casual remark or was there more to it? Was this her own mom guilt? Should it invoke mine?

This question isn’t alien to any mother who works outside the home. It’s rare for women, regardless of ambition, to not have that doubt as she is returning to work. Maternity leave is not just time away from work. It is a time when it hits you just how responsible you are for this new human. This tiny being wholly dependent on you for survival. Soon into this seemingly long break you realize three things: One, that it was absolutely delusional how you thought you’d do all that reading, self-care and binge-watching during this time off work, two, that this isn't time off work, and three, that the break is, in reality, not long at all.

I was extremely nervous when it was time to return to work. It wasn't easy and I second-guessed my decision several times. It took many conversations with my husband, who assured me that this was aligned with the principles we want to model for Malhaar; some conversations with my manager (more friend than boss), who assured me that my work was significant, that I had a place at work and that it was waiting for me.

The truth is, maternity leave ends too soon for every mother. Even if, like me, you had extended it and, post return, have the privilege to continue working from home on most days. And with it, the questions and doubts arise. Will the baby be alright? Won’t she need her mother? What if she gets more attached to her nanny than to me? Is this abandonment? Is this how the infamously damaged mother-daughter relationship is born?

I don’t have answers to these questions yet. But here’s what I do know. The meeting I travelled for went very well. My presence there made a difference. While I was away, I was able to squeeze in a couple of video calls with Malhaar just before her father put her to bed very successfully, despite all my fears. Malhaar was laughing, blowing me kisses, and singing me songs. When I returned the next day, I bumped into a three-year old from the neighborhood just as I got out of the elevator. She looked at my laptop bag and grinned. “My mama goes to office too,” she said, with nothing but pride lighting up her entire face. There was no sign of protest here, only a little girl beaming about her mother’s wings as she grows her own.

Ask Malhaar, my suddenly chatty 1.5 year old, where her father goes, and she’ll say, “office”, but ask her where Mamma goes, and the response is “Ga-go”. That’s Malhaar-speak for Gangtok. Her takeaway from a 4-day work trip, my longest yet. Note to self: On a journey so meaningful, one missed milestone does not a failure make.

Tonight, as I write this from a plane that’s just about to touch tarmac, I say a silent prayer. I might have missed seeing Malhaar standing up, but may I always see her rise.