Letter to Daughter VIII

C,

It is wondrous how an alphabet begins to comprise the entire world that you are -- the mad world that you and I live in. Momsie is a little upset in general, darlingplum, and hence doing madder stuff with you. Sometimes, not just events, the hours themselves are so cruel that it becomes a task to outlive them. Worries of an indefinite, indistinct tomorrow often keeps me so egged that I forget to make you your favourite hard-boiled egg and give you a sunny side up instead. Sorry! 

Momsie generally loves you fiddling with the car-radio, but cannot give you an excuse for why she put you on the car-top, angry at your excessive channel-changing. You must have been scared, right love? Momsie cannot begin to figure what makes her talk too much about an Inside Out and then not take you for a show. Forgive her, little one. She is at her exposed best. Vulnerable and injury-prone. Yes, like when you are at your evening rounds in the park with your undependable skateboard. 

People say momsie cannot stick to a thing for too long. May be. Maybe not. How about she were never meant to do all those things ever? Even once? People call her fickle-minded and restless and obsessed, and I look at these letters to You and I wonder. No. Yes. I-dunno. Have you ever felt so about momie, C? Am I not allowed more mistakes? What is it that brings upon us that we cannot commit, or repeat a mistake? Age? How awfully ridiculous! A mistake is done by mistake after all. Even with the world's caution, and the universe's prudence. 

That jar which comes with this letter -- yes, that precarious, delicate glass jar, complete with the red ribbon and the thick, happy, gold C stuck in the knot -- is for you. I want you to put pieces of your mistakes in it, in written, sticky scribbled notes, of course. And once in a while, let's say, in two months, or in six, take them all out and read them through. Things like, Sat on Tucker's Tail, or, Ate Five Spoons of Nutella, or the more serious Hid Momie's Specks in the Shoe-rack. In fact we shall read them together, and I promise you child, have a nice time over them. Mistakes like Tore a Page out of Chhuti's Exercise-Book or Painted Eyes on the Computer Mouse will beget a line or two more.

In short, we will go through our mistakes and move on. Unapologetically. Something, Momsie wishes to do all the time, but fails. I wish she would sometimes, scream, like you do at people on the road who try and shoo away a stray dog, or at me when I ask to draw on your chubby ankles an anklet. Goodness, the "MOMIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, NOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUU!!!!!! Not in pink colour!" feels like I am in a stadium. Share with me some of your under-thinking, and just-doing. Momie needs it.

I am so glad I could write a letter to you in one of my direst wobbly state. I can almost feel your tiny healing hands going through my soul with a, "Yes Momie, do it!"

In and out of jars,

Momsie.