Mommy. Maami.

photo (31)

I am elbow deep in rice batter when the word pattu crosses my mind. I mix the dosa batter enjoying the tactile sensation of batter against the skin when it hits me that I actually enjoy this stuff.

I care about the texture of the maavu.

I care about how I cook the eggplant.

I care about how I fold my laundry.

I actually care about all of this &*%#

I am mommy. I am maami.

As I stood in small groups at the wedding I was at recently, I introduced myself as Saathi’s wife, as my father in law’s daughter in law. I exchanged notes with people my age. We talked about children. We talked about children who are of marriageable age.

I came back home and for the past couple of days, I have been at the back of my mind scouring my network to see if I can matchmake.

I look in the mirror and see throwbacks to the weddings in the 80s when I was a child. I remember my Amma standing with a similar clutch of women trading gossip and laughing at inside jokes. I vividly remember the casual drape of her saree, how absolutely beautiful she looked sans makeup or any artful hairdo. My hands subconsciously touch my forehead and the untouched roots of my quickly thinning hair.

I wear no makeup. I make half-assed attempts at grooming. I am content to put in the bare minimum effort to blend in. I no longer react when the man serving food addresses me as maami.

I have safety pins in my purse. I carry bandaids in my bag. I have a plastic bag within reach at all times. I feed my kids before we leave home. I am always aware of when my child last ate, what she ate and how much she ate. I am intimately aware of every quirk, every mood, every change in my child.

I laugh out loud at the absurdity that I thought I could be anything but this. I actually love being maami.

I am mommy. I am maami.

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