Truly blessed , it’s always a happy Mother’s Day
This Mother’s Day, I woke up to numerous forwards celebrating the all-pious ma. There were pictures of handmade cards and gifts proudly showcased on Instagram by my mommy peers.
I shot a look at my girls. One was fast asleep with her mouth wide open, on the thick Harry Potter book for a pillow, and the younger one lay curled with her enormous teddy bear. “Let them sleep in late, it’s Mother’s Day but also a Sunday,” I told myself. After I’d showered and sat down with a cup of tea, I heard groggy good mornings. With a bright smile, I went to give them a bear hug. But there was no trace of a wish or a flower or a card! Another silent self-consolation session later, I dragged them in for their baths and got them ready.
“I wished both your grandmothers a Happy Mother’s Day, by the way,” I said indirectly, conveying my resentment directly. “Oh mom! Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve made you a card,” said my older daughter, who is known to make cards even for neighbours’ pet dogs when they fall sick. She promised to get down to business right after a session of pancakes. The little one parrots her older sister, but she is unfairly excused of all expectations by the force of parenthood. We expect it all from our first-borns and whatever the next in line do is only bonus.
Anyhow, the day carried on. The girls busied themselves with games after breakfast. We read books, painted, and then some more. They even massaged my feet with their chubby hands, our usual Sunday routine. However, the resentful mommy in me would awaken with every refreshing of the Instagram algorithm. “Even her kid drew her a card,” I wondered as I scrolled picture after picture. “Look at Aryan’s card for his mother. I want one too.” This time my daughters let out a longer “Oh” followed by “we totally forgot mom”.
They scurried to their room and came back an hour later with two cards. They were made on the blank side of our wasteful printouts. Sweet messages were scribbled in illegible handwriting. Of course, there was an illustration of me with a large bouffant and thick glasses, claiming that I was the best mom. “Thank you, girls, but it was quite a forced endeavour, wasn’t it?” I said. The younger one simply squealed in delight, which is her usual reaction on hearing big words. But the older one’s face fell. “But mama even if I didn’t remember to make a card, I always love you,” she said in the way only she can. I hugged her even tighter.
We all know that cards and gifts are tokens of love, but we cannot let symbolism take over the real deal. I see love when she makes me a heartshaped parantha, although minuscule, with water in her favourite minions’ glass on a random Wednesday. I see love when she asks me about stories about my now-deceased grandmother, because that’ll cheer me up on bad days. I see it when the younger one will suddenly bolt towards me in the middle of a football game and plant a big kiss on my cheek. I see it when they make handmade bookmarks for me each time, I get a new book. I see it when they choose to snuggle with the tattered stuffed toy their mom gave them years ago or treasure a book mommy passed down to them.
So, I might have one card less to put on Instagram this time, but I have the gift of being a mom, which I share with all my mommy peers. We are blessed in different ways. We express love in different ways. And it’s okay if we do it on different days. Happy Mother’s Day everyone!
I MIGHT HAVE HAD ONE CARD LESS TO PUT ON INSTAGRAM THIS TIME, BUT I HAVE THE GIFT OF BEING A MOM THAT I SHARE WITH ALL MY MOMMY PEERS