Lessons 101: How to stop being an Anxious Mommy

This morning, I dropped Aaliya, Nisha and Naima at the Mumbai airport. 

The girls cheerfully headed off for their Edutours. I equally cheerfully headed home for my first real holiday in 13 years. 

Of course, I’ve been away from my daughters for short periods before. There was the time when I went to Ahmedabad to write a food piece, only to get a panicky call saying that all three girls were burning with fever and puking the house down. Then there was the time I was in New Delhi for a children’s lit fest, and Aaliya got bitten by a dog of dubious reputation. And, of course, the time I went to Oman to write a travel article, only to be confronted with a costume crisis the moment I stepped into my opulent hotel room in Muscat. (That was one wasted sea view!) 

Long-distance mummying, I’ve realised, is much more stressful than the on-the-spot thing. Not at all the relaxing, spa-for-the-soul break it’s cracked up to be. 

This time, though, things are different. I’m at home. It’s the girls who’ve gone. Nisha and Naima to Hyderabad for four days. Aaliya to Rajasthan for five days.  Their school has organised the trips and ruled that phones and messages are not allowed. We’re getting regular updates from the teachers with reassuring stuff like, “They had a good lunch” and “Settling in at the hotel”. All the rest is left to the imagination.

In short, it’s up to the teachers — and the hapless tour operators — to introduce the children to the Golconda Fort and Jantar Mantar. And, of course, it’s up to the children themselves to take care of their precious Converse shoes and comb their hair and sort out their inevitable squabbles and scraped knees.

This time, I really can’t do anything, so I might as well enjoy the break. I’m planning to sleep late, relax with a bad chick-lit novel, and work without interruptions. In short, flashback to the life I led 14 years ago.

That’s the line that the other mums and dads at the airport seem to be taking as well. Some are planning to travel, others to party. But there are the occasional cracks in the jollity – and the words “empty nest” keep popping up here and there.

Anyway, feeling a bit like a truant schoolgirl, I visit a friend on my way home from the airport. Then dilly-dally at a shop. After all, today there are no deadlines (barring the one my DNA editor has imposed). No need to finish my article before three grubby schoolgirls storm into the house at 3.37 pm with bulging schoolbags and tales of bus battles. No need to jog into NCPA, carrying a violin, a cello and a frown. No need to follow up on homework, music practice or fruit-and-veg intake.

I should be bouncing and twirling, but the truth is I’m just a tiny bit uneasy. “I’ll feel better once the flights land,” I tell myself. Then the flights land and the perky messages arrive from Hyderabad and Jaipur. But I’m still a little lost.

Part of the problem is that there’s suddenly too much time and space, and too few interruptions. All this ‘My Time’ is flopping around me like a baggy sweatshirt.

I finish more chores than I usually manage in a month. Then I curl up with a mug of green tea and a book, determined to revel in the peace. No fighting, no whining, no YouTube videos in the background.

I read a page before the silence is broken by a scuffle in my head. Three girls are trying to elbow their way in. I try to shove them away and return to my tennis-star-with-drug-and-boyfriend-problems. But it’s no good.

All three girls tumble in, bringing with them a bag-load of worries. Nisha was scared that she would feel homesick. Naima was panicked that she would not be able to sleep. Aaliya was anxious about a host of things — ranging from whether her shoes would make her feet feel hot, to whether her friendships would survive so much time together. Are all three fine?

For a few minutes I fret, and then I feel furious with myself. Instead of making the most of this holiday, I’m wasting my time being a virtual helicopter mum. “The girls will be fine,” I tell myself. And I know they will. They’re probably giggling and binging on brownies and whispering in bed till midnight.

It’s around then that I arrive at my grand realisation. Once you are a mother, it’s impossible to stop being one for even 30 seconds. But it is possible to stop being an Anxious Mummy. So I’ve decided. The girls are welcome in my head any time, but not their woes and worries.