In the International Women's Day season, let’s not judge working mothers for the choices they make while juggling between responsibilities at home and workplace. After all, we do not apply the same standards to ‘working fathers’, writes MEGHA BAID
Dear Ma: let me start by saying that you were right about that vegetable-dyed shirt being hand-washed; my brushes getting spoiled with the dried, chipped paint on it; and petunias not surviving the Bombay heat.
Ma, I’ve been in awe of you for as long as I can remember, and not just for these life hacks that you keep giving, but for the interest you take in the small, little things that I do, despite all these years of having to juggle between an overwhelming amount of work, home and us.
It has been incredibly inspiring to see you put yourself through a double Masters, all the while maintaining a full-time job, and grooming me to be independent and self-driven.
But Ma, does it ever bother you that probably you did not juggle well, that your decision to work compromised on our achievements or that your time at the office somehow cut into your quality time with PapaIJ
You never admitted any such guilt, you have always seemed secured and confident. But this thought has left me unsettled. I was spitting watermelon seeds in a napkin when one of my colleagues at the packed lunch table spoke about her career while being a mother of two.
She detailed the childcare decisions she had to make, the choices her family “has to make” for dinner, and some of her choices for her own sanity. She repeatedly kept using the words “guilt” and “sacrifice” while I quietly finished my fruit bowl.
In the same week, a colleague questioned my choice of career as he was of the opinion that the rigour of work would affect my “personal” life, my family and children going forward. At 22, I felt the burden of the inane expectations that are associated with women at workplace, but I kept quiet.
These discussions about women at workplace are now becoming stimuli to my lampooning of the expectations imposed on us.
I want to tell them that I graduated from the best colleges, and I am building my big and small success stories at work every day.
I am neither an alcoholic nor a drug addict, and don’t have a criminal record. If children from working parent homes were destined to be screw-ups and deadbeats, I have certainly missed the memo.
There is an endless amount of advice given to working women, at the salon, in magazines, over coffee in office on “how to have it all” successful careers and a pristine house, healthy diet and the perfect beach body, happy kids and a supportive husband, great hair and immaculate wardrobes.
I see women being judgemental of one another’s work life integration they do not offer a hand, a glass of wine or an understanding look when they should have.
The antiquated idea of the ideal being an attentive mother and the norm being intensive parenting seems to be dictating women at work to be apologetic about their career decisions.
Being a working mother in the 1990s must have meant a lot more grief from people around you, from those who criticised your passion for work, your schedule for “acting like you wore the pants in the family”.
But to tell you the truth, I was always so proud of you, and how accomplished you were. As I grow older, I become all the more grateful for how you modeled loving your work and loving your family. There was always enough for all of us and it has been perfect.
I did not have aunts or grandmothers who would take care of us children; while all our friends went home to their mothers after completing school, we waited at the footsteps for you to come back from work and when you came, both of us beamed with happiness.
My past memories do not include being greeted with piping hot food after a long day at school or your feeding me little mouthfuls when I was sleepy.
But I remember your staying up with me on examination nights with hourly coffee and hot chocolate.
We’d spend the start of every academic year wrapping my books in brown cover. You’d write me speeches for the school assembly and spend hours teaching me how to deliver them. You shaped my academics and my personality. You listened to all my stories from school, and told me everything about your work. Your passion to learn and grow rubbed onto me.
I realise there is no such thing as a perfect parent, just as there is no such thing as a perfect child, and that the stay-at-home mom versus working mom debate is fundamentally flawed.
Ma, if ever you felt guilty to have made your choices, you should know that it is time you quit feeling bad.