He's kinda cute and angelic. Cherubic, cuddly, with an endearing smile and warm eyes which tear right through your heart, ingratiating him immediately. You swear to love him all your life and protect him from the big, bad world. He needs your care, guidance, and support. You resolve not to fail him ever. You are his mother after all, and he is your flesh n blood.
From the feeding and burping days to nappy changing and lullaby rituals, he is the centre of your universe as you are his. You adore him and he idolises you. Everyone else takes a backseat. You see him through his toddling stage, adolescence, the rebellious teenage years and the excruciating slog years when he is at the threshold of starting a career. He blooms into a fine young man in no time. From Noddy to Friends, from Gajar Halwa to Panacotas, from nursery rhymes to Bruno Mars, his tastes evolve, mature and diversify. You come to terms with this gruelling phenomenon rather reluctantly. You are unwilling to untie the apron strings but let him loose just a little so that he learns to stand on his own feet. He makes your heart swell with unbridled pride and love. You want to make choices for him; he indulges you occasionally. You relish your special relationship with your son till its time for him leave school and in most cases, leave the town too.
A shooting pain tears right through your heart! Despondency and helplessness engulf you like a black venomous cloud as you see your child (that little bundle of joy you held close to yourself for 18 odd years) take a stride into an adult world and join a college. No matter how much you mentally prepare yourself for it and esp in the last phase of school education, the reality hits harder than you had imagined.
You go in flashbacks... his buckteeth, curly hair, chocolate smeared hands which you dreaded on your speck free bedsheets beckon you tantalizingly. You stare at your uncreased linen lying in their glory, daring you to spoil them.
You look at the well-organized room, with no wet towels or soiled clothes to mar its perfection!..And the sight of the sanitised, 'too beautiful to be real' look of your home is an eyesore now. It has no vivacity, no stamp of your offspring's shenanigans.
The messy kitchen is so quiet now. The mayhem ensuing after the marathon baking and cooking sessions of exotic dishes is scary by its absence. The innumerable 'farmaish' of eating different cuisines had coaxed you to don an amateur MasterChef hat. Now the pasta and sauces lie on a snooze mode on shelves. Shake it all you will, when the birdie flies back into the nest.
As I sent off my elder one to another city and another world, my mind went numb as if to shut out any mulling over the upcoming scenario. I do have a younger one to keep me company and to still be a hands-on mother. But can anything compensate for the vacuum created in the home when your first born moves out?
The sound of his guitar, conspicuous by its absence, plays in my head nonstop! 'Mummy, sing along as I play,' his insistence to give my words to his acoustics, rivalled my reluctance to croon on demand. The tussle carried on till either of us gave in. The innumerable fights and fracas between the siblings gave the house a ravaged look. I fretted and fumed over the constant head-on collisions for no rhyme or reason. 'Mummy you will miss this commotion later', the wiser of the 2 enlightened me. 'Oh really', I snorted, "I love the peace and tranquillity when both of you are in school!"
How astonishingly wrong was I! The silence in the home is eerie. The younger one misses his partner-in-crime. He is lost and become so well-behaved by default that it's upsetting to watch.
I miss my powerful role as a referee, possessing veto power, giving out fouls and match points. Both kids vying for my attention and scoring brownie points over the other. 'Mummy, who do you love more?' asked by the 2 Musketeers, often put me in a spot. And I never had any credible answer. How can a parent choose? The 'theory of a favourite child', once brought to my notice to rub a point, I think, has been propagated by a mischief monger to flummox your parenting instincts which act on their own, reflexively and intuitively.
In pursuit of excellence, the good wears out, leaving a bad aftertaste. So I let him go, where his passion lay. Geographical distance may run a thousand miles, but I just need a stroll inside my heart and mind to see him and to feel him. Loving him is of course as natural as breathing.
So, let go, dear parents, esp mothers. Unclip their wings. Let them soar high. Cut the umbilical cord. There may be a little pain, but a much greater joy of delivering!
