February 07, 2008

She knows I am an abysmal cook and turns down any food that is less than perfect, and in an effort to show just how disgruntled she is, she disdainfully spits a mouthful of my sincere culinary endeavours right across the room.

She is vicious, and the only thing missing in her repertoire of weapons is a pair of fangs. I wait on her hand and foot, day and night, and cook, clean and wash after her and never complain, offering her niceties instead. She is a sworn enemy of my sleep and it agitates her so much when I sleep that she begins to sob pitifully.

Tell me, is it mere coincidence, or she’s just rotten within, because whenever I want to eat, she requires my free-of-cost service, thereby all possibilities of me feeding myself vanishes? I want to curl up in bed with a steamy mug of hot chocolate and a good book on a cold night and she decides that she needs more attention, and so naturally the novel and the hot chocolate become mere notions which people like me might as well give up on.

She has decided I’m not quick enough for my young age and has vowed to make me run around on errands until I rival Maria Sharapova in speed and alacrity. What’s more, she feels I never had a lot of respect for the powder-room attendants and has made up her mind to teach me a lesson by making me clean poop all the time.

She realises I am an abysmal cook and turns down food that is less than perfect, and in an effort to show just how disgruntled she is, she disdainfully spits a mouthful of my sincere culinary endeavour right across the room, which I, of course, humbly clean up later. Even if I am feeling totally under the weather on a particular day, I can forget about a sick-leave!

And yet, I love her. Scratch that, I adore her with a zealous passion. And I wouldn’t give her up for anything. After all, my faith tells me I have paradise under my feet because of her!

I am talking of course of my little monarch who rules my heart. My girl is a year and a half old. I would barely realise all that I am giving up, or going through, if I hadn’t actually jotted it down. For there is something about her trusting and innocent smile which makes me as fresh as a daisy after a virtually sleepless night. She speaks one word, I can barely make sense of but it sounds like ‘mamma’. My heart melts into rivers of love and I enthusiastically come up with new recipes for what generally seems like the joint effort of the cow, the hen and the fertile earth. By some strange twist of fate, it always falls into the category of unidentifiable glop, at times accented with a pungent smell. However, judging by the fact that the last time she spat out her food, it didn’t go farther than the edge of her bib. Ahh… she seems to have enjoyed my latest attempt.

A part of me can’t wait to pack her off to school when she is of age, while another side desperately wants to hold on to the little girl who has been my companion everyday as I go through the motions of housework. I treat her like a major nuisance when she flits about the vacuum cleaner like she was the one who made it all possible, but I dread the day when I will actually be missing the botheration. I do need to learn to let go, I know that, but please, not just yet.

Many years ago I played her role exactly. However, I was most certainly blessed with tastier food. I was fussed over, cuddled tenderly to sleep, when I got hurt I was hugged sympathetically in a warm loving embrace, the smell of which is still fresh in my mind... the deep contentment that dispelled each doubt, qualm and worry. Suddenly, I realise who really is the queen of hearts.

You would be relieved to learn that this editorial has finally come to an end, for there is very important phone call I need to make back home.

Mom, I miss you.