We all know having kids is a luxury these days. The money we have to make to bring them up, clothe them, entertain them, educate them and make them "settle" in life has to be begged, borrowed and stolen. Which is why we have only one or two, compared to our grandparents, who happily had a dozen and neglected them all equally.
Thank god someone discovered post-partum depression along the way so we have a medical reason to pull a long face. In the beginning you spend all your time praying your baby will be perfect, thinking, that’s it, once it is out of your belly, you never have to worry about it ever. Ten toes, ten fingers, that’s all you ask. Then you realise you have signed up for life. First the small little things won’t crawl, talk or shift to solids on time; then they travel, text and dine only with others.
Now a new study casually says childbirth ages us by two years per child. Nine months is all it takes to go from dudette to dinosaur. You are no longer the dewy young girl wondering if she should quit her job, hmmm, and take up dancing; you are busy squandering your life savings on diapers. Suddenly there’s a new government and it rules from a crib. Under this new regime, if you can sleep for two hours straight you sob with gratitude.
The moment we announce the ‘good news’ we are expected to morph into mature beings. From calling everyone else uncle and aunty, we now become uncle and aunty. Uncle and aunty who must learn everything though freely dispensed advice, which comes gushing out of the state and strangers, parents and neighbours. This ages us overnight.
We are expected to be morally upright model citizens and this takes its toll – we cannot play loud music at midnight or hang out at bars with friends. Our wardrobes must reflect our newfound sobriety and what’s with the tattoo?
The kids themselves take up the job of parenting at some point, telling us how to talk, dress, breathe... In capital letters we are told how to behave in their schools and where to hide when their friends drop in. We are the only parents ever since the Big Bang to not allow their kids to go on a trek to Timbuktu. We don’t ‘get’ anything, okay?
Declared senile at the ripe old age of thirty, we go about being elderly while the childless grow younger right before our eyes. Snow White’s own mom died giving birth while step-mother had all the time to go about asking sundry mirrors, ‘how do I look?’
Muffin tops, love handles, thunder thighs are on the house. Eyes gather dark circles and crow’s feet, not to mention long sight and bifocals. And what they call laugh lines are just wrinkles around the mouth from repeating yourself. Birthdays are on fast-forward mode and what’s this song everyone’s humming?
I became an old, old woman the day I multiplied and no face cream has brought the young me back. There’s a reason no woman wears red lipstick during labour pains.
First Published: Aug 4, 2018 12:02 AM IST
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