After long months of bullying, my wife and mother to our 3-year old toddler son Advait, debuts on my parenting blog.
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My son, The Super Parent
My son is doing a near-perfect job of parenting. He gave birth to me, three years back on July 22nd. After a 16-hour painful and irritable labour, when my bloated belly was finally hacked, I shivered for 30 mins flat in excitement. Thereafter, there has been many moments of cheap thrills and shrills. During labour, my father stayed hidden behind The Financial Times, my mother communicated with God in gibberish, my sister denounced the world and went off to the Chicago zoo for comfort and my husband kept insisting that he is confident, I will be freed soon, though my vagina.
I have some real defining moments of being born as a Mother. That Sunday was special. The second day of Ramadan. Most in my town were waiting for the call of the maghrib prayers, to quench their 15-hour long thirst. The doctors stitching me up were chatting about food, firni to be precise and the elaborate Iftar feast, waiting at home. Amidst all the chatter, I was born to a sharp, dominating and temperamental son, who truly believed the sun shone from his bite-size bums. I didn’t cry. He did. I was just relieved.
He is a good parent though. He has strengthened my roots and untangled my wings, often caught in the junk of my childhood conditioning. He has taught me to extend myself beyond my skin. I have been toughened with sleepless nights, leaking breasts, brain-numbing hunger and a dislodged tail-bone. I have been softened with wise repartees, disarmed with a pair of fluttering eyelashes and caged with unconditional love, that I once believed I could find in a pot-smoking boy in suburban Kolkata.
He is my shining mirror. He holds himself up to me, couple of times a day. I see my wrinkles in him and the wisdom I have acquired in the last three years. He is my Heckler-Supremo, who kicks my wide ass, every time I slack. He is my zen master, who teaches me to bow in gratitude to the universe, each night as he dozes off to sleep on my pillow. He is my personal Franz Kafka, who has answered most of my existential questions, before I could really frame them in words. He is my angel-investor who believes in the power of me.
My son, the super-parent.
Me, the lucky bugger, who has endless entitlements, a room flooded with toys and a home buoyant on love, although the bank accounts often run dry.
Thank you, Advait.
Advaita is the oldest extant sub-school of Vedanta, which preaches the non-duality of the soul. The word refers to one’s recognition or discovery of his/her “True Self”.
Fatherhood 