Neither Heaven Nor the World Under My Feet

The day is etched in my memory as an indelible mark. 7’O clock in the morning. My 8-month-old demon was inconsolable after keeping us awake the larger part of the night. My maasi hadn’t been turning up since two days. Laundry was piled high; no more clean nappies to use. At the college, the first day of the degree session. Above all this, the constant angry screaming. As my son threw up on the bed sheets, I gave up. With the little nightmare squirming in my arms I called up my boss to inform her that I will not be showing up for the day. She blew up on me, reprimanding me on my inefficency and slackness. I banged the phone on her. As if that wasn’t enough, my husband came in to say his byes for the day. His shining morning face, starched white shirt and more so the fact that he could afford to leave this mess behind, filled me up to my throat with resentment. Heaven under my feet. Fat lot of good that’ll do to me now.

When Shakespeare said “there was method in this madness” he must be mad! There was no method in this madness. But the time the great bard spoke of the “sea-change” he was right. My life did suffer a sea change. With Rayan my first born (and only, I silently swear) born.

This was my day. These were my thoughts. As a working mother the tedium of my life has increased hundred folds. Before Rayan was born, my days were perfect, my nights were…well, nights full of sleep.

My life was made more miserable because I happen to be a person you may call a perfectionist: I do things my way. I break down if I see a speck of dust on the sideboard. I freak out when I see a magazine lying on the sofa (magazines should be on the rack always). I get up in the middle of the night to straighten a cushion I forgot about during the day. For my Maasi I am a terror.

But hey, all that is a thing of the past. As I look around to decide where to begin, first things first; gritting my teeth to put my terror to sleep, I grab him in my arms and lo and behold! Something in me melts. His bright black eyes lure me to love him. O what a wily creature a child is! Even if he takes a good hour and a half to finally let the lids fall on those black pools of enticement. Staring at him in disbelief as he sleeps sweetly in his cot waves of relief pass over me…”Is this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?” Marlowe whispers tome from Dr. Faustus. How far away it sounds! Art, Literature, painting, music…all pursuits of free time gone out of the window!

Since Rayan invaded my life, he became a cruel conqueror, destroying my privacy, defeating me with his charming ways.

Who says children are helpless? It is us mothers who are helpless against them. They are a relentless lot – loving you and maddening you at the same time.

Look at me; never was there a more willing, more ecstatic a captive than me. I go weak at the knees when he smiles at me. I actually understood the idiom music to my ears when he gurgled at me. I am nuts over him.

And yet at least five times a day I have to curb the urge of running away from it all and hiding under the bed for the rest of my life. Or at least hibernating until he grows up!

He is both an angel and a devil. But what am I? A lunatic, a paradox or simply a working mother. Believe me I’ve never been the one that’s a child doter, definitely not a baby person. And yet when Rayan was born I could neither understand not handle my new feelings for him. Even now I am not one of those mothers who don’t forgive people for not gushing over their children. I have never gushed over anybody’s! Still great tides of pride wash over me whenever somebody exclaims “what a beautiful boy!” Its so embarrassing this motherhood. Umm you know what I mean; one feels quite unbearably like a show off.

My husband thinks my tastes have deteriorated. I enjoy cartoons, my vocab. is full of baby talk, I am a compulsive nursery rhyme singer and my adult conversation revolves around nappy changes and weaning foods. Even shopping means jumping in and out of baby shops. The saving grace is that despite all this he thinks I’ve become more beautiful after Rayan. Now that’s where I respect his views.

Frankly, no self-respecting individual should let this happen to her. This maternal instinct destroys her personality. I used to detest mothers and housewives who couldn’t stop talking about how angelic their children and how devilish their husbands were. That is why I want to hang on to my career (or my sanity). Even if it means a trifle more fatigue, juggling jobs and home, and a lot more worry. But that’s my prerogative. It gives me a great feeling to know that I have an option. I can, too, like my husband go out and forget about it for a while. And when I return I can enjoy my Rayan more. This way we both value each other more, too.

It is not easy to be a working mother. There are so many people to thank for. My god, my parents – who made it possible for me to continue my job by babysitting in for Rayan- my husband for being so supportive, my doctor for always being there – when I was losing it in the labor and to all those people who prayed for us.

And most of all, my colleagues at my department, who stick it out with me when I fall short. And for compromising without me in times of crisis. I cherish them so much because I have come across people who refuse to understand the multiple demands on a working mother and who often have branded me as unprofessional. That is why I have always done my best for my understanding colleagues.

So thank you God for making me a mother. And thank you people for letting me be a working one!