Exactly a year back, my mother called me up around 9 am. Even before she could get a word in, I burst out crying. I could not help it.
My older one had been running very high temperature for the past three days and there seemed no cure in sight. My younger one had just started Nursery and showed no signs of wanting to settle in. I had deadlines to meet, and neither the time nor the inclination to work. I needed medicines, but had no way of getting them without dragging a sick child to the pharmacy.
I’d reached the end of my tether, and I knew that unless I got a hug from the only person who knew how to right all wrongs, I would not last the day.
I sobbed into the phone. Incoherent words expressing all the pent-up anguish. I am sure she had no idea what had brought me to the state I was in, but she knew exactly what to do. She let me cry till my tears were exhausted. She had advice on how to deal with the younger one. She did not have any other answers. But she was there, when I needed her. And that is all that mattered.
I turn 38 today. I am seven and a half years older than my mother was when she had me. And yet, I am still her baby.
For all our differences, she is the only person who I trust to kiss my wounds better. I suppose that is what being a mother is all about.
And when my kids are my age, would they need me as much as I need my mother?