1
She couldn’t find her strawberry crocs.
Her banana was too soft and
crackers, too crunchy.
Her doll, Soupsy, refused to dance with her,
and she could not swim with penguins at the zoo.
Every moment became a breaking point for her, and, honestly, me.
I tried to practice what I’d been preaching –
patience, calm, easy.
But by late-afternoon, I’d lashed out at her thrice,
and the guilt hit harder than the anger had.
That night when I tucked her in,
I read an extra story to her,
partly out of guilt, and partly because I realized that one day she will go to bed on her own, shut the door and turn off the lights,
and I’ll be waiting in the hallway,
reminiscing about the nights I was needed so desperately.
2
Sticky fingers reaching for my face,
tiny arms tightly wrapped around my neck,
following me from room to room,
my Vika’s love is the purest of all.
Tiny feet racing towards me at school pick-up
is the highlight of my day.
The way her face lights up and she tumbles
into my arms, and inevitably says,
“Mama will pick you up.”
Curling into my lap in the middle of the night,
hugging me a hundred times in the middle of the day.
I don’t need her to tell me that she loves me;
I feel it in every glance, giggle, hug and hush.
I marvel at her extraordinary cognitive skills,
her infectious energy levels,
how she remembers a distant relative’s name,
how she recognizes a song within a couple of beats,
how impeccably she identifies and pronounces
chrysanthemum and excavator,
how passionately and independently she drinks buttermilk out of a tall steel glass,
and how merrily she digs her bunny teeth into a slice of watermelon.
In class,
she doesn’t eat,
doesn’t even drink a sip of water,
she doesn’t dance like other children,
neither does she sing along to nursery rhymes.
She will not respond to a hug from a classmate
and flinches at the sound of her name.
And answers, oh boy, she will definitely not say it out loud.
Slowly and steadily, she’s opening up.
Unfurling.
My little buttercup is blooming at her own pace.
Observant. Sharp. Witty. Child prodigy.
My Vika,
I understand you better than anyone.
Giving wings to your strengths and
cradling your weaknesses with love,
a mother’s heart is both fragile and fierce.
3
I am interested in what my Vika is interested in.
Play-Doh. Crayons. Paint. Books. Hop Ball. Music. Trampoline, and more.
I delight in being with her. I try my best to relate. To connect. I let the love flow before I tell her to wash hands or put away crocs in the cabinet.
Love plus boundaries – to show her what is and what isn’t appropriate. I avoid giving her what she wants if it’s not right for her but sympathize with her in her disappointment. I validate what she’s feeling and put that into words for her.
“Crayons are for paper, Vika. I know it’s hard for you to return them to me, but I cannot allow you to stain the walls anymore. I’ll give you a whole box of crayons if you promise to use them on paper, and paper only.”
I consciously look up from my phone. I show interest. I get involved. I invest in her. I feed her. I play with her. I sleep with her. I try to see things from her perspective.
Because I can’t just live my separate life and then barge into hers and say, “I want you to do this.” It would be a bit like a stranger walking into my house and telling me what to do.
I praise effort, effusively. “I like how hard you were concentrating when you were shelling pistachios. Great job.”
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About the Author
Swati Moheet Agrawal is a mother who loves giving depth to the banal, and writing makes her world more navigable. Her work has appeared in The Alipore Post, Sledgehammer Lit, Mad Swirl, The Dribble Drabble Review, Muse India, Active Muse, Setu, and The Criterion among other literary magazines and journals.
