Letter to my kid

Dearest darling, My sweet child

As I jot down these lines, I am looking at your angelic and adorable face, watching the slow-motion of beautiful dreams on your droopy eyelashes, as you prettily smile in sleep. The little fingers are moving in the air as if creating a delightful symphony. Your expression of bopping with fairies while hopping over diverse dreamscape is gratifying my being. Your charming serenity attracts me to kiss your forehead and just whisper—I am sorry!

Sorry, my child, for so many things. I hope you will forgive me as you grow and realize my predicament. This is a valued hope sustaining me, as of now.

However, don’t think I am trying to blink the realities and influence your judgment. I will always respect your self-determining perception and understanding. Your mom will be proud of it.

I confess snatching the best time of you away, leaving you alone when you need me most. Every day brings up the daily distressing distance. The cycle of anxious pulse starts. The routine of my work takes away your childhood pleasures. I struggle to get small ways of connecting with you. A short warm hug, a caring talk, a little word-play, and a minute giggle…It is so less, miserably inadequate and insufficient.

My child, I am an educated criminal. Life is rushing past me and I have surrendered my control over it.  I have handed it over to my shredded self, to my work, to the cost of living, to the temporal race, and undoubtedly, to the breaking of traditional family roles. The maternal time use is slinked away by fears and qualms of worldly affairs, too engrossing, too overbearing, and too torturous.

You know, my child, it is said that mother’s have heaven right under their feet. However honestly, I don’t think I qualify for this honour. I may have endured the pangs and pains of your birth, but I have not lived up to the role of a nice mother. Of course, motherhood has helped me to explore the strengths I did not know I had, but I am yet struggling to deal with the fears which I did not know existed.

My maternal sensitivity longs to give you a legacy to carry forever: dreams and values, hopes and principles. But my self-story spurns me. Material involvement handicaps me. My only treasure, the fleeting Time, makes it difficult and challenging. I know my Ideal Role calls for a woman with a lot of emotional strength and steely determination. There are examples of successful mothers who have demonstrated that the idea of a working mother and its effect on a child is not that scary.

Nonetheless, my child, I am skeptical about working moms working wonders, all the time! The love-deprivation, the non-availability of psychological prop up, the absolved neglect, the callous care, the mechanical concern, and what not….it has an import on the nascent personality.

Someone has aptly remarked that ‘being a full-time mother is one of the highest salaried jobs since the payment is pure love’. To create a stimulating home wherein only love comforts the child, remains a genuine job.

My dear child, the bug of “empowerment” has bitten all mothers. We do procreate but we do not perform motherhood. We cradle in haste, and thus waste the posterity. God did not create us because, as they say, He could not be everywhere. He created us for patience, support and sacrifice; and we, the most of working moms, formed mess out of our own.

My cherished child, I always pine to prolong my loving touch with you. But before actually bonding strongly with you and feeling composed in my role as a mother, I just step back to work. Again and again. I have no other choice. I feel guilty. I feel I am holding on to you something very precious, at this vital juncture of your budding—the time to shower immense love on you.

I realize working moms have a harsh and demanding role to deliver. I know it entails a taxing soul. When I am not around, you are perhaps missing me out on some milestones of your life; some minor but significant moments of your childhood. But during those moments and afterwards, when I am and am not around, I wish my child, you remember me and feel glad to have me as your mom, the one who is expected to do her bit in some small way. But just through you. Only you.

Last word. Don’t forget I am a mother. A usual MoujYour Mother, my child!

With lots and lots of warm and tender love,

Your Working Mom