As an infant, I gave sleepless nights to Mommy and Daddy as I was always hungry, my appetite just couldn’t be satiated. The more Mommy fed me her milk, the more hungry I would get and refused to sleep. One night I cried my lungs out and turned tomato red by 5 am. A panicky Daddy and Mommy rushed me to the hospital. That’s when Mommy and Dad discovered that due to low supply of milk, my hunger pangs remained and hence the difficulty in going to sleep. I had to be put on formula milk.
I saw my Mom shed copious amounts of tears as she held me close to her bosom and I suckled from the bottle. I quite enjoyed the formula milk, I did not have to struggle much and I could have my fill. Did I love my Mommy any less? Hell no. But people all around including some near and dear ones tormented her for the sin she was committing. She was labelled a “bad mom”. For me she was always my most precious Angel. Its funny no one said a word about Dad though, I never quite got the logic to that.
I was a bit slow in picking up things as compared to my peers. While many started walking by age one, I only started walking by the time I was 1 year 2 months. People attributed my slowness to formula milk, having been deprived of my mother’s milk. I don’t get how does it matter if I started doing things late. I did them perfectly anyway, I never knew there is a race here at every stage – right from eating to farting. When will people stop judging? I wonder and I close my eyes as I can’t really find an answer to this ever eluding question.
Linking up with #BlogchatterA2Z
My theme for the challenge is
“A slice of life through Myra’s eyes” – a fictional tale of growing up and learning some vital lessons about self love, feminism, sisterhood, a working woman and the essence of being a woman in urban India.
(Image courtesy- Similac)