In the midst of stir-frying a melange of vegetables for my children’s’ lunchbox, I reach out for my phone. I
My iWatch shows 6:46 AM. The king size bed I am in is curiously populated. I am on one side
An essay I wrote earlier this year reflecting on how my mothering my children feels cleaved is now online on
It was 1:30 PM, that time of the day when I prioritize napping over everything else when the phone rang.
I wear my clothes, my mind on other things, frowning at the mirror as I do. I notice Ammu behind
Ammu nuzzles my cheek with her nose, throws her arms around my neck, kisses me and flits off to do
My hand shakes a bit as I shape the batter on the sizzling tawa resulting in an imperfect heart. I
I stand by the kitchen picture window, furiously chopping the cabbage. Laddu clings to my feet, crying piteously. Snot runs
Mothering is not just rainbows and unicorns. It is the not so fine moments that do not get vocalized.