I am dashing along the street to meet Meera, her mother and Rohit for dinner. I am leaving for Minnesota on Saturday and Meera’s due date is coming up. I am rather hoping this kid makes his appearance before I leave, I’d like to meet my nephew before I go, but he seems rather content where he is.
Once inside the restaurant I find them seated at their table. “Hello Auntie, Meera, Rohit,” I say and sit down after the requisite hugs. I glance at Meera for a moment and think she looks about the same as when I saw her over the weekend. I am no expert at kids – clearly I don’t have any kids and I'm not a obgyn doctor – but I have friends who have sons and they all say boys drop, and nothing about Meera looks to be dropping.
This isn’t the first time I have wondered if they are having boy. While I was throwing Meera's bluest baby shower know to man, woman and child – it felt off. All the blue – it didn’t seem right. But I didn’t say anything. It is no secret that I have a GINORMOUS preference for little girls. Not that I don’t like little boys. They are equally sweet and kissable. But I cannot go all turbo-pink on boys like I can on girls. And the dresses and the little shoes and the little handbags and the hairclips and the princess costumes and the little girl manicures at Dashing Diva nail salon. Sigh.
“So how do you feel? Because you look great!" I ask Meera and dip bread into olive oil. “I am uncomfortable. And ready,” she says. “Well I am ready too,” Auntie says. “And this baby better come while I am here. No being late,” she scolds lightly and sweetly. It is very cute.
“How is your dad doing?” Auntie asks. “He’s okay. He’s been home for about four months and they’ve handicapped the house. He has a long way to go – but he slowly gains strength. Mom says there are care givers coming to the house to PT and OT each. Thank GOD, they live in a blue state and have excellent insurance," I say.“I cannot even imagine what your mother is going through,” Auntie says.
I nod, but say nothing. My mother is truly amazing. This woman camped out at the hospital for two and a half months. She was exhausted, tired, but everyday she made Dad dinner and tea because he did not like the hospital food. It is so simple to say that women of Mom’s generation are just made this way – self-sacrificing, loving and dutiful.
Sometimes I don’t think I am made of the same fiber and character as my mother. She is Sita in every shape, fashion and manner. Look at me - I am annoyed with a guy who called me eight times. I get sad when they don't call, I get mad when they do call. And why am I not flattered that someone wants to see me?
Maybe at some point a person becomes unmarriable – maybe this is my point and now there is no hope for me.