Sweet Sixteen Darlings

“Can I pretty please get a picture of the two of you?” I run behind Ammu as she dodges me and disappears into the neighboring room. I look at my phone camera app and see the other twin bending over to tie her shoelaces. I click and she looks up. I click again.

“Mom!” the exasperation in her voice gives me life. I click again. She shakes her head and bends down to avoid the lens.

I switch to the phone app and review the blurred, hazy pictures I managed to take. I find two that are usable. I promptly send the pictures to their other mom.

The bus slows to a stop by our driveway and the two of them walk, rather amble towards it. I wave bye as the cold, windy air blasts my face.

It’s their birthday.

I look at these tall girls who are nothing like me and feel so much pride that I will burst. I return to the kitchen to get my third child ready for school. It is only after the house is empty that I return to the thoughts in my head. When Ammu and Pattu were new to my life, veteran moms told me that the days were long and the years short. I didn’t quite get it then. The days felt super long and the years longer. I drowned in the minutiae of life. My parenting style was hands on. I fed, cleaned and hovered around them like it was my only identity. And, it was until recently.

Magically, once they hit high school, time seems to have sped up. One minute it is a Monday morning and I am scrambling assembling lunches and putting MacBook(s) in their school bag. Another minute it is Summer and they are home all day in pj’s refusing to shower. Another blink and they are already sophomores attending fan expos and twitch streaming with friends. I am scared to blink again for fear they will be out of the house and returning only for the holidays.

Ammu is goofy, making a beeline to the study each night for her quota of kisses. She presses her lips to my cheeks, my forehead with a tenderness that bowls me over every single time. She waits patiently as I do the same to her face. It is our ritual. Our very own mom-daughter thing. A tradition I will savor and take to my grave. She is a rebel firmly carving the path not taken. She is the sand in the palm of the hand, not to be held tightly for she will slip away faster. My touch is light and my grip even lighter. I hold her as if she is fragile, this slip of a child who has inveigled her way into the pores of my bones. I call her my favorite child. Maybe she is.

Pattu is the wild child. She colors her hair red, reads tarot cards and journals religiously. She makes plans. She has to-do lists. She loves her Lego. She hugs me when she is ready and will not hesitate to push me away if I as much dare to touch her when she is unwilling. She sips on her coffee and scrolls through her phone. Her laugh is unaffected and loud. She lives life big. She has social anxiety yet, will take the lead without hesitation. She is loyal to a fault and is my hype girl. She is the one who will sit with me at weddings, remember to compliment me when I least expect it and come searching for me when she needs to sit on my lap and let her tears out. She is my favorite child.

In the lead up to their teens, I often imagined their sweet sixteen in pink and, in tiaras. I wanted a cake and the crowd. Instead what we have is a small envelope containing cash, a mom made cake and just family for dinner. Mothering my children has taught me that the only constant is change, the only way to parent is lightly and the best mother is the one who has no expectations.

As the day wears on, I will be looking at old photos, ugly crying and, sending wishes into the Universe that these sweet children of mine have a life worth cherishing.

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