The sunlight streams in from the mullioned window in the foyer. I pass the room where your toys lie scattered. A momentary annoyance creases my face. I stand debating if I should clear it up or have the two of you do it when you are back from school. I pass your bedrooms. The crumpled comforters and the impression of your sleeping forms bring a smile. I shake off the bad mood that has plagued me since morning and set your bed. As I shake the bed covers, a tiny notebook with cut out numbers adorned with shiny stars falls at my feet.
A rush of emotions envelop me. I sit at the edge of your bed, holding the book. It is time for me to take pause. To go back to the morning and rewind through the pressure filled interaction.
I remember shooing you away as I rolled out chappatis. All you wanted was a piece of the dough so you could do what I was doing. All I could see was the hot stove and the mess I would have to clean up if by chance you upset the plate full of flour. All you wanted was for me to comb your doll’s hair. All I could see was the ticking clock and the glass of milk cooling on the side counter.
I wish I had slowed down. Slowed down enough to acknowledge the disappointment that writ large across your face as I prioritized getting ready over the everyday moments. I tell myself each day that I will be a better mother. The one who will view the world through her child’s eyes. Yet. I fail. Every single day.
In the silent echoes of the walls mid day when only I remain, is when the realization hits. I sigh and make a promise to myself that tomorrow will be a new day.