I bounded upstairs to retrieve the laundry basket, trying to tack on one more chore before losing the day to my remote job’s endless emails and Zoom meetings.
As I picked up the strewn-out clothes — this is why my husband’s a software engineer rather than a basketball player — I noticed my phone screen light up. It was Mom. She’s away visiting my sister for a few weeks.
“Are you OK. Send me a message you are OK,” her WhatsApp text read.
The lack of punctuation in her text is not just a reflection of her not being a native English speaker, but an echo of her anxious personality. Above all, it’s a symbol of her new reality, a universe where I, her firstborn, unwittingly find myself center stage.
My mom used to be independent
When Dad died in India almost a decade ago, I didn’t want to deal again with the agony of having an aging parent thousands of miles away, and I insisted Mom move in with us.
Courtesy of the author
The last time I’d lived with my parents was at 17, when I headed to college 1400 miles away, after which life took me around the world and eventually to California and a family of my own.
As Mom and I started to reacquaint ourselves, I grappled with watching my once-strong, independent mother become vulnerable and dependent, a result of biological aging exacerbated by geographical and cultural upheaval.
Ostensibly, she didn’t see me differently, though, peppering me with questions that would have made sense 30 years ago: “Where are you going?” “Why aren’t you eating enough?” “When did you get home last night?” They come from a place of caring. Although sometimes my annoyance is obvious.
I realized I do to my daughter what my mom does to me
“I’m fine. I was out for a walk when you called yesterday. I’ll call later,” I texted Mom back.
“I just talked to you yesterday afternoon,” I said out loud to the phone. Only Siri heard.
As I waited for my work computer to power up, having lost the laundry battle, I picked up my phone and texted my daughter away at college in New York.
“Good morning, my child. I miss you. How are you? Call today.”
My modus operandi these days is to blame everything on my hormones, a middle-aged gift that keeps on giving. Misplaced keys, names that elude you when the person is in front of you, vanishing nouns when you’re desperately trying to explain something, all collateral damage thanks to hormones.
Courtesy of the author
Two hours later, in the middle of a meeting to discuss metrics on how many code defects were resolved, the irony hit me. I did to my daughter what Mom had done to me. I laughed out loud, and I’m sure my coworkers must have also thought, “Hormones!”
I’m turning into my mom
My daughter jokes about it all the time. When my husband and I visited her a few weeks ago, I sensed the edges of exasperation on her face and voice, as she grabbed the phone from my hand and took control of a family selfie, a skill I’ll never master. “I don’t miss Paati (grandma) now,” she said, as she handed me the phone back.
Already gifted with tall genes, she has further increased her stride length living in the city. I almost jog to keep pace with her as she turns around and smiles, “Keep up, marathoner!” Was it only 10 years ago when she’d cling to my leg at the sight of strangers?
During spring break, when she was at home, I headed out for a Costco run. Mom reminded me, for the fourth time, to pick up Pepto Bismol. When I asked my daughter what she needed, she told me she’d go shopping on her own.
At dinner, when I made roti and dal, my daughter stood by me in the kitchen, finely slicing scallions to garnish her high-protein salad, as she delivered a TED Talk on macros and nutrition.
I watched her, spellbound, the same way Mom watches me when I explain digital scams and that not all WhatsApp messages that begin with PLEASE READ CAREFULLY need to actually be read.
As I put away laundry, I have a dawning awareness. I recognize all of my mom’s clothes, but I wouldn’t be able to pick out my daughter’s clothes in a laundromat. Some days, I wish I could press pause on the universe. To a time when my mother needs me less, and my daughter needs me more. When Mom wouldn’t need me to pick her outfit when we go out to dinner. When Mira would let me go shopping with her. But those moments pass. Thank you, hormones.
At night, I text my daughter again, “Hellooooooo.” Unironically. It’s the law of the universe. A mother needs her daughter. Who am I to question it?
