Conversations with my daughter

They all predicted it with a peculiar mix of relish and terror. The grannies, with iron-clad opinions on everything from thumb-sucking to mashed banana. The mothers of older children, who'd been there, survived that and graduated from the nursing-bra stage of motherhood. The pediatricians, maalishwalis and self-appointed childcare experts who snuck into my life uninvited, while I was preoccupied with burping the baby or singing "Incy Wincy Spider". "You'll miss these days," they said in a mournful, finger-wagging chorus. "This is the best stage. Make the most of it. Before the Terrible Twos. Before school admission and homework. BEFORE THE TEENAGE YEARS." The last bit was always delivered with a sharp intake of breath and involuntary shudder—and I got the distinct impression that clumps of garlic and crucifixes were perfect props for the occasion. The subtext was clear: tackling six-hour-long colic-athons were pure joy compared to six minutes with the average 13-year-old.

I heard the advice, and even tried to heed it. But when your day is devoted to examining the precise hue of the baby's potty, and comparing the merits of teething rings, it's difficult to rejoice in the curdled-milk-scented present. And so, like so many other mummies in the garden and outside the school gate, I muddled through molars and Help-Mr-Rabbit-Find-His-Carrot mazes.

Then along came two more babies with their own sets of molars and views on mashed carrot. And suddenly, here I am -- teetering at the dreaded precipice. In less than a month I'm going to be the mother of a teenager. The realization struck a few days ago, during dinner. I was busy checking on homework and music practice, when my eldest daughter demanded, "Guess what's in a month."I gazed blankly, my mind still on Hindi verbs and uneaten vegetables. "What?" I asked. "Some social science project, right?"

Disgusted looks all around. "Mummy, how could you?" from Aaliya. "Mummy, her birthdaaaay," from her scandalized little sisters. "And not just any birthday! My 13th birthday," Aaliya announced portentously. "I am going to be a teenager." Nisha and Naima nodded. "A very important birthday," they chimed in, eager to set a precedent so that, two years later, they could claim their own Very Important Birthday. "Wow," I said weakly, recalling those dire warnings. "That's amazing. A teenager."

I was wondering if I should dart into the kitchen for a fat pod of garlic, when it occurred to me that it really was quite wonderful. Being the mother of a teenager is a scary, weighty business – and the signs and symptoms have been creeping upon us for some time now. For example, the sudden switch from adorable candy-coloured dresses to sullen grey t-shirts. The ghastly tendency to roll eyes, shrug shoulders and spend ages on that dratted mobile phone. And, to attribute every episode of rudeness or naughtiness to "the mads, sads and glads that our school counselor told us about." Aaargh!

On the flip side, there are serious compensations. That inarticulate, bawling baby is now somebody to gossip and giggle with. Somebody who has views rather than just vocal chords. Who can fill me in on pop songs, lingo and the questionable world of teenage fashion. Who downloads Uber apps and uploads pictures, and performs all those techno-chores at which I'm such a bumpkin. So I'm holding off on the garlic pods for the moment, and will keep you posted about how the Terrifying teens progress.

(Shabnam Minwalla is an author of children's books, a journalist, and mother of three daughters.)