I remember one of the very first P.T.A. meetings I had with his L.K.G. class teacher. She asked me, "Oh, almost eight years of marriage and only one child?" I wish I could catch hold of her now and say, "My one and only is wearing me down. So yes, I truly am done in the baby-making department for this life. Perhaps in the next life, when I have a husband who doesn't abruptly die on me, I can be Queen Gandhari, reproducing 100 miniatures of me and calling them Kauravas. I don't see a King Dhritarashtra in sight right now."
His baby ego takes a hit each time I give him a shelling, and he knows very well why he is at the receiving end. But he must rebel anyway, because that is exactly what I did with my parents as a teenager. It looks like his teenage genes kicked in a whole decade early. God bless my soul at this point and send reinforcements. Throwing hot chocolate at my front door would be a good idea to begin with, and if I need anything else, I will let you know.
At present, he is grunting and groaning next to me in bed, ordering me to stop writing: "Mumma, you can do all this in the morning, not at night." Well, technically 5:20 AM is still night for a little person, so his current request is valid.
Where do the years go, really? While I am glad he is no longer the electricity socket explorer and plant destroyer, this new human who has replaced the older version is a challenge. Each year is a challenge. I can almost hear a narrator in the background—similar to the Jumanji narrator's voice—saying, "Congratulations! You have officially crossed the toddler years. Welcome to Level 3: the school-going years. More homework, more tantrums, and more strange food requests. What joy!"
Ready to collapse now. Goodnight and good morning, everybody.
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