Thank God "I" am not my mother!

Rains have different effects of different people. While some crib about the muddy roads, traffic jams and humidity, there are some who wish they could shed all the worldly inhibitions and run out in the rain to get all soaked (Some actually do). I belong to the second lot. When I see the rains, I reminisce about my childhood where I would run out and play in the rains as long I as wanted. And when I would come home, my mother would give me a cup of hot milk with turmeric. I remember she used to give me an extra pair of socks to change in school so that I could splash in the pot holes while I bicycled my way to school. Monsoons were times to enjoy in those days and not worry about the communicable diseases it brought with it.

            Now that I am a mom to a super-active son, I still can't resist the feeling. I secretly go out sometimes to feel those drops of rain on my face. Secretly because I don’t want my son to see that as I always forbid him to go out in the rains. He hates rains because it interrupts his playtime, he cannot ride his bicycle and cannot walk his way down from the school bus stop (which he likes so much). And all because of me. I belong to that newer generation of over-protective parents who run to the doctor even if my kid sneezes once and prohibit all (good) things lest he would fall sick or hurt himself. But I guess I realize now that I am robbing him of all the lovely memories which he would have of his childhood. I realize today, will he think of his childhood as fondly as I do of my childhood. And that’s why I realize Thank God “I” am not my mother !!!

            I am glad my mother was not like me. She let me enjoy every small pleasure of world; she let me play in the rains, she let me play the colorful holi (unlike me who fears that the colors would react harshly on my son's skin), she let me run around in the sun (unlike me who fears the sunstroke) and she did not let me skip meals for junk food even if it meant hours of crying and wailing (unlike me who gives in to almost every tantrum of my son). If “I” myself had been my mother, I am sure I would not have written this. All I could do was throw curses at the beautiful drops of rain falling on my feet as I sit in the balcony writing this and thinking of the golden childhood I had.

            Thank God “I” was not my mother. “You” were.


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