Letter to Shreya on your eight birthday

 My mush machine,

You learned the F word this year. While you obviously don’t understand the meaning, you definitely know it shouldn’t be spoken.

Happy Birthday, my sugar ball.

Lately, there's been a role reversal in the snuggling department as you pull my cheeks, hug often, and give frequent pecks as though I were your child.

Was it a decade back that I wholeheartedly prayed for babies, and isn’t that what I prepared for? I didn’t prepare for the arsenal shot at me these days dressed as a barrage of whys in response to the most minor requests. Despite the several parenting reels that I consume every single day, why is it that when a pre-teen attacks you with a tantrum or a retort, I convulse into the monstrous mom?

I find myself torn in opposite directions as one version struggles to keep you in babydom while the other wishes you were more independent and self-reliant. The baby mom cuddles you so tight, hoping you never go away, so close that you wouldn’t even think about it. And yes, I will eat your lil’ edible nosey one day.

You are a smart missy who loves to sleep and hates to eat. Not the typical girl but it seems you exist with the sole ambition of controlling how your brother walks, sleeps, writes, and responds. Both of your personalities are so codependent that I can’t imagine what you would both be when apart.

Sorry for putting you under academic pressure. I give in. I must work harder this year to help you find something that you absolutely love to do. I’d like to believe you savor the language, but I don’t want to imagine things or force them on you.  

Let’s make it right this year since time is passing quickly. Enjoy this day, which is the most special one for me. 

Love beyond love from your petrified mom who detests you grow so quickly,

Shilpa