I’m ready for it.
I’m no longer batting it away.
I’m an Amma with a capital “a.” I am. I may not fully understand the weight of that word right now. But, I am here to embrace that word, that title, and walk around with my new bags which will soon become dented, tattered, borrowed-to-never-return, zippers broken, handle held with duct tape. Just like the India bags that sit in my parents garage.
Yesterday, at a social gathering, some other person was looking after Toor Dal (the affectionate nickname for my child) while I quickly scarfed down the Indian food, keeping tabs on what I could eat and what I shouldn’t eat (Fried pakoras is a “no no”? Come on!). At the same time, I kept an eye on TD while she lay in the arms of another woman, on the sofa across the room. The woman was gazing in TD’s eyes, moving her lips as if conversing with my 2month old. I felt satisfied with her level of caretaking for TD that I went back to eating and chatting with the various Aunties and Uncles and their off-spring.
I look up again, and the woman and TD are no longer on the sofa. I scan the room and can’t see them. I look at my mom who is in a deep conversation. Not trying to freak out, I calmly put my styrofoam plate down when a hand massages my back. Continue reading