I headed upstairs to retrieve the laundry basket, trying to get one more task done before losing the day to the endless emails and Zoom meetings of my remote job. As I was picking up discarded clothes (which is why my husband is a software engineer and not a basketball player), I noticed my phone
I headed upstairs to retrieve the laundry basket, trying to get one more task done before losing the day to the endless emails and Zoom meetings of my remote job.
As I was picking up discarded clothes (which is why my husband is a software engineer and not a basketball player), I noticed my phone screen light up. It was mom. She will be away visiting my sister for a few weeks.
“Are you okay? Message me if you’re okay,” his 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 is a symbol of his new reality, a universe where I, his firstborn, unwittingly find myself center stage.
My mom used to be independent.
When Dad died in India almost a decade ago, I no longer wanted to deal with the agony of having an elderly parent thousands of miles away and insisted that Mom move in with us.
The author sometimes gets annoyed by her mother’s text messages. Courtesy of the author
The last time I lived with my parents was at age 17, when I headed off to college 1,400 miles away, after which life took me around the world and eventually to California and having my own family.
As Mom and I began to reunite, I was faced with watching my mother, once strong and independent, become vulnerable and dependent, a result of biological aging exacerbated by geographic and cultural upheaval.
However, she apparently saw me no differently, peppering me with questions that would have made sense 30 years ago: “Where are you going?” “Why don’t you eat enough?” “When did you get home last night?” They come from a place of caring. Although sometimes my anger is evident.
I realized that I do to my daughter what my mother does to me.
“I’m fine. I went for a walk when you called yesterday. I’ll call later,” I texted Mom back.
“I spoke to you yesterday afternoon,” I said out loud into the phone. Only Siri listened.
While I was waiting for my work computer to turn on, having lost the laundry room battle, I grabbed my phone and texted my daughter at college in New York.
“Good morning, my daughter. I miss you. How are you? Call today.”
My modus operandi these days is to blame everything on my hormones, a midlife gift that keeps on giving. Misplaced keys, names that escape you when the person is in front of you, nouns that fade away when you desperately try to explain something, all collateral damage thanks to hormones.
The author realized she was becoming her mother while texting her daughter. Courtesy of the author
Two hours later, in the middle of a meeting to discuss metrics about 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 becoming my mom
My daughter jokes about it all the time. When my husband and I visited her a few weeks ago, I felt the edges of exasperation in her face and voice as she grabbed the phone from my hand and took control of a family selfie, a skill I will never master. “I don’t miss paati (grandma) now,” he said, handing the phone back to me.
Already endowed with tall genes, she has further increased her stride length by living in the city. I almost run to keep up with her as she turns around and smiles, “Keep up the good work, marathoner!” Was it just 10 years ago when she would cling to my leg when seeing strangers?
Over spring break, when she was home, I went for a run at Costco. Mom reminded me, for the fourth time, to buy Pepto Bismol. When I asked my daughter what she needed, she told me she would go shopping alone.
At dinner, when I made roti and dal, My daughter stood by my side in the kitchen, finely chopping scallions to garnish her protein-rich salad, while she gave a TED Talk on macros and nutrition.
I looked at her spellbound, the same way mom looks at me when I explain digital scams and that not every WhatsApp message that starts with PLEASE READ CAREFULLY needs to be read.
As I put away the dirty clothes, I begin to become aware. I recognize all of my mom’s clothes, but I couldn’t distinguish my daughter’s clothes in a laundromat. Some days I wish I could pause 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 out her clothes when we went out to dinner. When Mira let me go shopping with her. But those moments pass. Thanks, hormones.
At night, I text my daughter again: “Hioooooo.” Without irony. It is the law of the universe. A mother needs her daughter. Who am I to question it?