Eight

Sometimes, we need to wait.

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Once you become a parent, you cry differently. Your sadness is now much more loaded because you don’t always cry for yourself. I’ll speak for most moms when I say: Moms cry when their babies are in pain. Moms cry when their babies don’t sleep. Moms cry over spilled milk, especially when it’s breastmilk. Moms could read the news and cry for moms they have never met in their lives, even those halfway across the world.

But most of all, I have learned in three years: Moms cry because they are constantly yearning to be better moms. And so, there is no worse insult, no crime more unforgivable than to pass judgement on a mom trying to do just that: to be the best mom for her kid.

There have been four times in my very short life as a mother when I have cried this new cry. Not including all the cries over (the lack of) milk and (the lack of) sleep. These instances, tough as they are to talk about (each for a different reason), have something in common. And each one of these eventually made my path a lot clearer. 

The first was when, as a new mom, I broke down after hearing many unpleasant labels to describe my parenting choices. This came from people very close to me, and the words used weren't kind. It took me a while to realise that most of this was never about me at all. 

Another time was when my mother called my daughter unfriendly. Again, she chose the wrong word, and she has since realised it.

The third time was many weeks after I called Malhaar a stupid, bad child. I was dysregulated and triggered, and this was not her fault. And while I apologised and attempted to repair this with my best effort, for many weeks after this, whenever she made the slightest mistake (spilled something, tripped and fell, stepped on a book, etc) she would look at me and say: “I’m very bad, na?” I callously labelled her, and she swiftly wore that label, no questions asked. Imagine thinking you broke your kid at age 2.

You’re probably wondering how these instances are linked. They are all cases of people pleasing other people. Thoughtless, casual attempts to fit in. 

None of us are villains. When people were judging me for my choices as a mother, it was because these choices offended them in some way or the other. I wasn't parenting the way they wanted, or, in some cases, this was inconvenient for them. 

When my mother called my daughter unfriendly, it was part of an embarrassed apology to a stranger at a restaurant who was greeting Malhaar, who refused to say hello.

We’ve all been there. Going about life apologising for being ourselves, apologising on behalf of people being themselves. No wonder none of us actually know who we are.

But the labels, as story number 3 proves, are way too sticky to be thrown around like that. 

Some of you may have noticed I said there were four instances. The fourth was when I was observing my daughter at a party one day and I cried upon realising that our little baby is truly the sum of our parts – mine and my husband’s. There is something so inevitable about that. You can run, you can hide but you can’t escape my genes. So help you god.

Life has taught my husband to be unapologetically himself. He has graciously accepted the infrequent joys of a small, scattered circle of friends. His friendships are like the sun. It’s always there, even if you can’t always feel the warmth. 

As for me, I still go about feigning comfort in social settings. I am often checked for my casual use of the word ‘friend’. My friendships are like that old cotton quilt that is no longer evenly padded under the cover. It looks like the perfect shield, but underneath, it’s rather cold, save for a few spots here and there. You could trade the few bunched up balls of cotton for a new one, but it’ll be smaller, and you think you’re too grown.

So here she was, this perfect mix of Arjun and I, at the party, after telling me repeatedly that she would not say hi to anyone, she would not sing Happy Birthday, she would not smile for photographs, she would only talk to me, and she would eat cake. That day, she greeted most people with a neutral expression. She only laughed if something was funny. She mostly played alone. When she spoke, it was to request for more cake. 

My husband was, unsurprisingly, not at this party. If he was, he would have been the very picture of solidarity she needed. And so, I stepped up. I resisted every urge that day to label her as ‘shy’ or ‘reserved’, to apologise on her behalf, to force hugs or birthday traditions. Much as I am wont to do, I didn’t thank everyone for the space they were giving my child. Instead, I told her to hold space for herself. I repeatedly said, “You don’t have to say hello if you don’t want to.” I said, “Cake is my favourite part of a party too!” When people said different versions of, “At least give me a high five”, I looked at her and said, “It’s okay. You do what you want when you feel comfortable. Take your time.” 

Since that day, I ensure she gets a few minutes of grounding time with just me every time we enter a social situation that I know might unnerve her. I hold her, and feel her body recoil into me, as if saying, "This world is overrated, let me go back inside." I usually whisper into her ear to reassure her she's safe, she doesn't have to talk to anyone she doesn't want to, and she can stay with me the whole time. It's usually a few minutes before she begins to find comfort in where she is.

Slowly, I started to see the power of what I was saying to and around Malhaar and how quickly she was parroting it all. Now, every time she drops something or makes a mistake, the first words out of her mouth are a casual-toned “It’s okay! Next time I’ll be more careful!”. It’s only funny and cute, until you realise how much better it sounds than, “I’m very bad, na?” 

Yesterday, I came close to my fifth big parenting cry. Only this time, it was a happy one. We were at someone’s house for lunch and this was Malhaar’s first time meeting everyone there. At some point, she was approached by an older boy who said, “Will you please talk to me?” She looked him in the eye and said, “I take some time.”

Someone brought this to my attention. She was looking at me for a reaction. In that moment, I felt like we should be ready to receive our parenting award. I called it out with pride. I was beaming, and now her face lit up. Later in the day, she said the same thing again. This time to someone her grandparents’ age.   

I’ll admit it. Almost everything I do as a parent finds its roots on Instagram. I say almost, because there are times when my parenting approach is born either out of unparenting (“I will do everything they did not”), or you know, when I take a break from scrolling to allow my gut to let in a word. But I have silenced my gut far too long, so sometimes, I rely on scripts to try and get it right. Today, this Instagram mom had a big win. My daughter’s inner voice emerges from her gut and resonates in her words. 

This is not the story of a child who turned into a social butterfly. This is the story of the mother butterfly that is learning to teach her caterpillar kid that all butterflies are beautiful. That it’s okay to listen to your gut, for the gut is where all the butterflies in your stomach, social or not, find space to play.