Dear Penguin,
You are ten.
And somehow, that number reminded me to sit down and try to remember. Not the photographs or the videos. Nor the milestones neatly recorded in vaccination cards, school files and my phone gallery. I mean the days themselves. About how they felt, tiring or sad or happy. And I have realised something that nobody tells you about parenting.
You spend years thinking you will remember everything. But then one day, you try to remember exactly how it felt and the details have disappeared.
I have forgotten so many of your hard days. And, strangely enough, I have forgotten many of the happy ones too. I remember that your baby years were tough. Very tough. My day started before you woke up.
I would rush through the bathroom, finish whatever needed to be done, grab breakfast if I could. Otherwise, I knew I might not eat until after you were fed.
For the initial four or five months, I stayed with my parents. You were so tiny. You were an IUGR baby, and we were both just trying to get through those early days. Actually, I wasn’t doing much of the baby care then. I was mostly the food machine. Your mama and dada (maternal grandparents) did everything else. Your malish, clothes, diapers, medicines. Your baths. Everything.
And I don’t know what we would have done without them.
You woke up every morning at exactly 4 a.m. for a feed. I had hyperlactation, and those were terrible days for me. I was constantly in pain. Your mama would wake up ten minutes before you, prepare the iced cabbage peels, get the hot water ready, and make sure everything was in place before you latched. There was so much preparation for something that looked so simple from the outside. Feed the baby.
People don’t always understand how hard something so ordinary can be. For those first months, I was hurting, exhausted and frightened. There were no breastfeeding consultants available in Odisha then. I eventually found one in Pune, and slowly, finally, things began to get better.
My recovery took more than six months.
And looking back now, I think that was when I truly began to enjoy being your mother.
Because sometimes we mothers don’t dislike motherhood. We are simply in pain. There is a difference.
Once you became stronger and chubbier, and I started feeling like myself again, something changed. You became this beautiful, cuddly little baby. I was still tired all the time.
I was never one of those naturally energetic mothers. I don’t think I suddenly became one just because I had a baby. But I secretly loved those cuddles, your babbles, your toothless grins. Those walks with you. The feeling of holding you while you slowly fell asleep.
There is something almost impossible to describe about holding a sleeping baby. Maybe there isn’t a word for it. Maybe mothers simply know.
I used to spend ridiculous amounts of time googling your milestones. At 2 a.m., I would search what a baby of your age should be doing. I wrote notes about your food, your nutrition, things we should try, things we should avoid. I worried when you missed a nap. I worried when you refused a vegetable. I tracked your vaccinations like they were a military operation. I was always thinking about what came next.
And yet, I think I was really living moment to moment.
Because while I was busy worrying about the next milestone, you were growing leaps and bounds. The days were long. But somehow, the weeks were short.
I hated one thing more than almost anything else in those early years. Using the bathroom felt like a privilege. A genuine privilege. When you are a new mother in a nuclear family, even going to the washroom alone can feel like an event. I learned quickly that no mother can do this alone. You need a village. And I was lucky. We found neighbours, friends and good people who became part of that village.
Then came the diaper bag. Every time we left the house, I packed as though we were moving countries – diapers, wipes, extra clothes, water, food, toys and books, medicine. More clothes. Wait, do you remember yourself wrapped in cloth diapers? Yeah, i was so much into sustainability then.
Something I was certain I would need. And then something else. It was endless.
Today, you are ten, Penguin, and let me confess something.
Your father and I still haven’t had an uninterrupted night’s sleep till date. You still wake up at least once every night. But those breastfeeding days? You woke up every two hours. Every two hours.
For the first two or three years, I used to beg your father for some me-time. I wasn’t even asking for a holiday. I wanted to sit alone. To drink my tea hot without interruption. To speak to another adult who talked like a normal adult. And the strangest part? I felt guilty for wanting that. That is the absurdity of motherhood. You can love your child with every part of yourself and still want to be alone. Both things can be true.
Then you started growing. And discovered that you were not just curious. You were funny. You were a comedian hiding inside a child. You made ordinary days entertaining.
We tried Montessori. Then Waldorf. Then homeschooling. We changed paths so many times that I often wondered what I was doing. There was a whole week of homeschooling when we both cried. I cried because I was overwhelmed. You cried because I was being too pushy about maths.
We even tried “yes parenting.” Sometimes it worked beautifully. Sometimes it created complete chaos.
There were days I missed your milestones because I was chasing client calls. Motherhood came with so many tiny failures. And perhaps that is what nobody tells you either.
You don’t become a perfect mother just because you love your child. You become a mother who keeps learning. I learned to slow down. To laugh more. To stop trying to get everything right. To understand that some lessons take years.
Because now, Penguin, you are ten. You are somewhere between my little boy and the person you are becoming. You have your own playlist, your own opinions and your own ideas about everything. And boy, you’re assertive. Honestly, you still drive me up the wall.
You and I are both on an ever-learning journey. Not a perfect journey or a straight one. It’s an ever-learning one. And perhaps the best parts of our lives together happened because we kept exploring. Like those temple trips, treks, the beaches, unfamiliar roads and new places.
Living in a city, you have grown up seeing public parks, crowded roads and shiny malls. But travel gave us something different. It gave you space to wonder. Sometimes I think children may not remember the exact trip. They may not remember what they ate or where they slept. But they remember how they felt while discovering something new.
I remember your fascination during our Hong Kong trip. You were especially captivated by places like Tian Tan Buddha. You looked at the world with that same curious expression you had as a toddler. That reminds me, we need a vacation soon.
Maybe that is what I hope never changes. Your curiosity. Your ability to look at something unfamiliar and say, “What is that?”
Guess what, I have realised something else too. Memory is not a perfect archive. Some of our happiest moments are going to disappear from both our minds. There will be days you don’t remember. There are already days I don’t remember. And yet, somehow, those days built us.
Perhaps that is the strange beauty of parenting. You spend years believing you will never forget. And then time quietly takes away the details.
The smell of your baby hair. The exact sound of your laugh at three. (Thanks to Google Photos, I have some videos :)). The way you curled your fingers around mine. The number of times you woke up at night. The little things you said that once seemed so important.
They fade.
What stays is something less precise. A feeling, a tenderness. A collection of invisible memories that somehow become part of who we are.
So today, on your tenth birthday, I don’t want to promise that I will remember everything. I won’t. I know that now.
But I do promise this. While we are living these years, I will try to be present for them.
I will try to listen when you say, “Maa, are you listening?” I will try to laugh when the floor becomes your canvas. I will try to let you explore before I rush to teach. I will try to remember that childhood is not a project to be perfected.
It is a life to be lived. And Penguin, you have given me ten years of living. Ten years of learning.
Ten years of exhaustion, laughter, doubt, worry, travel, mistakes, cuddles and love. Ten years of becoming your mother. And ten years of you quietly teaching me how to become myself again.
Happy 10th birthday, my Penguin.
I may forget some of these days. But I don’t think I will ever forget what it felt like to be your mother.
With all my love,
Maa
