The third of my four children just reached the half-century milestone; a momentous landmark; an excuse for her to take a break from her hectic, daily grind; a perfect time to throw celebratory parties and catch up with friends. Nonetheless, since 50 is (allegedly) the new 30, technically, all that happened was a page flipped from the last entries of an eventful and fruitful, half-a-century; with the pen, now poised over clean white pages, to start a new chapter, which will be inscribed with exciting challenges and experiences fated in her destiny.
The revelries are now behind us, but inadvertently, the number on the cake brought to fore my proportionately advancing years; I’m now certified, a relic. The wrinkled face; the sagging body, and the wiry, white hair sticking out of the skull–all signs I’ve accepted. However, something was stirring deep inside of me, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It definitely wasn't empty nest syndrome, naaa! It’s too long in the past for those sentiments; even my youngest flew the coop a million years ago, and they’ve all comfortably settled into nests of their own. Besides, my nest isn’t even empty. I’m cosily nestled with my son and his family. It could be that I’m over analyzing…as I’m prone to. Rather, I should be basking in the bounced-off attention I’m receiving from the do’s I’ve hosted for her and even more, to be in a deep gratitude for a child who still wraps herself in the love and the warmth of her family; especially in this day and age.
It then dawned on me, that it’s the speed with which life sped by, in a blur, that’s making me teary-eyed and fuzzy. Just ‘the other day’, these four were helpless, babes-in-diapers; needing unlimited and fulltime attention and care. Today, they’re lecturing me on how to sit, stand, dress, and talk, for which there’s an apt Punjabi saying, ‘maeree bilee, maenoo meow’. Loosely translated as, ‘teaching the teacher that taught you’. However, the punch is in its literal translation, ‘my cat, and now (having the nerve) to meow back at me!’
It’s strange recalling how my two older kiddos made utter fools of themselves when they first joined St. Michael’s International School for elementary in Yamamoto-Dori, two lanes from our then, Kobe home. The elder one bawled, shrieked, and wouldn’t let go of my husband when he’d drop her off, and being the ‘nice guy’ that he is, he kept bringing her back home. This continued for weeks, till, against the doctors’ advice, as I was expecting her brother, I forced her into the car. Upon reaching the school, I dragged her out, then literally plied myself free from her clutches and left her crying at the door of the classroom. My son did one better (worse); he kicked and abused the teacher, Miss Sakuma, whose name I cannot forget for her patience and tolerance, and under whose wings three of my kids started their life of learning. My youngest was safely cocooned in her baby-cot and missed out on most of the early antics of her much older sibling.
In contrast, when it came time for the birthday girl to join school, she got into the car without a murmur, and quietly let go of my finger at the doorway of the classroom; though nervous, tromped in without a backward glance and has ever since, spent her educational years focused and committed. Whether it was then or the later years in Canadian Academy; just up the hill, from the house we’d made up in Shinohara, right behind the Gokoku-jinja; a shrine that boasted of the best Sakura blooms in town, second to the NONOBIKI avenue along the stream; or her later years in Brandeis, Boston. Her determination and commitment have earned her the well-deserved doctorate in education, with more waiting to be achieved.
As a parent, we do our best to ensure a fulfilling future for our child. But guess what? There’s no guarantee; it’s literally, ‘Que sera sera’!