On the eve of Mother’s day, I want to tell my mom, “Thank You”.
- Thank you for loving me every second, whether I did right or wrong. You were there to pat me on my back and hug me when I did the right thing and teach me a lesson when I was wrong. Yet, you never stopped loving me.
- Thank you for making us, your daughters, your priority no matter what. You always took the backseat and we never thanked you for making us the stars in your life.
- Thank you for teaching us the value of family, respect, faith and culture. We realize the meaning of the “lectures” now! 🙂
- Thank you for being the rock in our lives…always.
- Thank you for the millions of hugs and kisses.
- Thank you for still treating me as your baby ( I am 30 and a mother of one…going on my second!).
- Thank you for knowing what I want to say, even before I say it.
- And thank you for the many things that I have selfishly forgotten.
As I find out that I am going to me a mom for the second time, I realize more than ever that being a mom is not just about raising a child, it is about raising a healthy and happy family and you, mama, have done just that. So thank you for being my mama.
Happy Mother’s Day! Love you! 🙂
Yes, during the week that is exactly what I do…ignore, shove stuff under the bed, wrestle clothes and toys into the closets or simply toss things in the recycling bin. Saturday mornings the good girl my mom raised me to be, takes over; laundry gets put away, floors get scrubbed, linen is changed and tidying up happens. Anyone who comes in my way while I do my weekly clean-over is in danger of getting run over.
This Saturday was no different, and with extra inspiration from HGTV, I hit my chore list with a vengeance. After spending hours cleaning and scrubbing, I wandered into the kitchen to find my son eating a cookie. He had grabbed one from the packet off of the counter and there were crumbs everywhere! I suppressed the monster inside me who was ready to scream and quietly cleaned up the floor. What could I have done? A few minutes later, I notice the pencil marks all over my kitchen cabinets.What the….? Where did he get the pencil from? Deep breaths in and out…”calm down, its okay”, I tell myself, “easy to wipe off”. Just as I finish wiping off my son’s artwork from the cabinets, I see K out of the corner of my eye reaching for the, baking soda that I had been using to clean. NOOooooo! There it was on the floor, in all its whiteness, calling out my son’s name. As my shocked self moved in slow motion to get to him, he raised his foot and stomped in the powdery mess. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghhh!!! Stupid me to leave it within his reach and even more so to turn my back on him knowing he was around me in the kitchen.
“That’s it there is no point at all in cleaning up!”, I shout. My dear husband, who was drawing up a financial analysis for his work, looked up briefly, raised an eyebrow in sympathy and went back to his computer. “I am not going to clean ever again.” I ranted on for a few minutes on how I have to do everything and that I am just tired of it all. My 20 month old had cranked me up real good. Finally, I went back into the kitchen and mopped the floor AGAIN.
Note to self: Cleanliness will have to wait until we stop having kids and they all grow up. Until then, we’ll have to live with it!
Yesterday, I had an opportunity to sit with a 94 year old engineer who had, against all odds, saved his family from the massacre during the partition of India in 1947, resulting in the present day India and Pakistan. He was able to save himself and his family from being counted in the 500,000 or so people that perished during this time.
The partition of India caused a mass migration of people from one country to the other; the largest movement of people in recorded history.
Bauji (means father or grandfather), as I will call him now, was a young 29 year old with a wife, 4 year old son and a newborn daughter. He lived in the province of Jhang, which now falls in Pakistan. His young family and he were forced to flee from their home to India with nothing but the clothes on their back and some jewelry that they hid under their clothes. His newborn daughter was 4 days old when they started their journey, during which they cheated death twice, got separated and then reunited. He vividly remembers seeing bodies of people lying in trucks and the panic, fear and mistrust among people.
His story made me realize that there must have been thousands of such heart-wrenching stories. Of the millions of people that migrated from one country to the other, many must have lost loved ones, left behind family members who didn’t want to leave their homes and others became homeless. Their stories have gotten lost in trying to make a life for themselves in their new homes.
Bauji and Mataji (grandmother) went on to raise a family of well-educated and successful children. They now live here in Canada and are respected members of the South Asian community. I feel blessed that they shared their story with me.