Parenting during this pandemic is starting to feel like mindful living, for me.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a planner. I like things in my life to be fairly neat and tidy, and laid out in a manner that has been thought through well in advance. I make endless lists on my phone; mark every little thing that I can think of on my calendar; own way too many notebooks, pens, and highlighters in various shapes, types, and colours, which I use to try and keep track of the various strands of my life. I even label and sort my online shopping wishlists (yes, in the plural), one of which is devoted entirely to organisational products.

And yet, one of the most important experiences of my life was something that was marked on none of those lists or calendars or journal pages… on October 5th 2019, I discovered that I was going to become a mother.

This news, despite the surprise of it, was something that my husband and I received with great joy and excitement. We did not wait the usual three months, either, to share it with friends and family, who were all similarly thrilled. Indeed, there were many times during my pregnancy where I was struck by the almost-universal joy and love that the news of a baby’s arrival seems to bring—kind and concerned enquiries about my health; thoughtfully prepared packages of homemade food; well-meaning suggestions and helpful bits of advice…all of these, and more, flowed our way endlessly, the whole time. My husband and I live in Bangalore, and at the time, I was teaching at The Valley School; my parents live abroad, and though some of my husband’s family live in Bangalore, none of them were in close proximity of where we were staying then. Nevertheless, I felt so thoroughly pampered and looked after throughout this time, courtesy the attention and affection of our friends and colleagues, and was eagerly awaiting the arrival of our little one, to introduce her to all of these people who already loved her, even before she was here!

And then came March 2020. 

From almost the beginning of the year, news of the coronavirus began to filter into our daily conversations, as national health infrastructures around the world began to crumble underneath the onslaught of the virus. Even as we dismissed the idea of a lockdown here in India—More than a billion of us caged inside our homes? It would never happen!—things began to slow down, then screech to a heart-wrenching halt, around us. Finally the school year, too, came to an abrupt and unceremonious end, as government orders to shut all educational institutions came in on a Friday evening. Ten days later, India had entered what would eventually come to be the world’s longest—and some would call harshest—lockdown.

The time between March and June 2020 on my various lists and calendars had initially had a whole lot of things marked on them—a baby shower; a move to a new apartment; a visit from my parents; the birth of our baby. Instead, we spent most of our time just waiting. Waiting for a delivery slot to open, so we could get our groceries. Waiting to hear back from the hospital, so we could go in to meet my gynaecologist. Waiting for the evening news to turn hopeful, as the days stretched out endlessly before us, one long, indistinguishable, monotonous stretch of grey. Waiting to move houses. Waiting for my parents to be able to fly in. Waiting to set up things for the baby. Waiting for the baby.

That last wait ended on the 8th of June—our daughter was born a little before noon on a Monday morning, even as the cases in India were beginning to creep up, the first wave steadily mounting. By that time, we had managed to move in with my mother-in-law—however, my parents were still abroad, and there was no way for even friends or family in the city to visit us, with the risk of infection presenting a real threat. My husband and mother-in-law both took some time off right after the birth, but were back to work by the end of the month. And I suddenly realised that my world had shrunk even more—there was now just enough room to accommodate all of this tiny, tiny new person, with the littlest of space left over for me.

Even under the most ordinary of circumstances—the staidest, the most predictable —early parenthood can be exhausting; what the world was witnessing in 2020 was absolutely unprecedented. Caring for a tiny human is physically, mentally, and emotionally challenging, and that I was having to do so in such a different manner than what I had envisioned—without the full strength of my family, my village, my community—made the work seem all the more daunting. I would not be exaggerating if I were to say that, looking back, the early months of my daughter’s life were probably some of the hardest ones of mine. I was, no doubt, still better off than so many new mothers around the world—my husband and mother-in-law were both working from home, we were lucky enough to have fairly uninterrupted domestic help, and I had an incredible group of mamma friends who kept me sane and buoyed with their wise and affectionate messages and phone calls… and yet, there were times where I felt incredibly lost, frustrated, disappointed, and alone. 

I can’t quite put my finger on when things began to change. If you asked me to point to a date on the calendar, I wouldn’t be able to. I don’t have a list that documents all of the things that happened to make everything better, and in what order. All I know is that it did. Perhaps it began when my daughter first laughed out loud; or was it when she first tried to swat at the fuzzy monkey hanging above her head? Perhaps it was helped along by the many hours I watched her examine her own fingers and coo at them curiously, or try to grab her chubby toes, and miss. As she began to reach out for things. As she began to roll over. As she began to open her arms out to me, when someone else was carrying her. As she began to reveal herself to me, her slowly growing personality unfolding bit by bit by tiny, snuggly, sloppy-kissed bit. 

Or perhaps, it was when I finally began to actually pay attention enough to begin to make sense of it all.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a planner; I am also, simultaneously, a ‘prepare-er’. In addition to the endless lists and the overlapping calendars that I maintain, I also like to read and highlight, colour code and make notes. These things that I do, they’re how I make sense of the world. They’re my ways of making sure that I’m able to move through it comfortably. Of making sure that some degree of familiarity and predictability exists within my universe. Of making sure that I am able to exert some semblance (or some illusion) of control over the different aspects of my life.

But all of these things—comfort, familiarity, predictability, control—go flying out the window, when there is a baby in the equation. Or a global health disaster. Or, in our case, both. 

Somewhere along the way, it began to seem to me that the state of flux that the planet seemed to exist in right then was eerily echoing the complete disarray that had now become status quo within my own personal universe, that now revolved around this constantly changing, rapidly growing, remarkable little person. The only way for me to keep pace with it all, was to let go of my insistence to dictate it at all. To let go of any expectation of things feeling comfortable or familiar based on what I knew pre-pandemic and pre-parenthood, or on things being controllable and predictable in a still un-envisionable future. To let go of any hope that I could relive what I had yesterday, or control what I would have tomorrow. To pay attention, instead, to what exists now. To just be.

Even as I write this piece, the pandemic continues to wreak havoc across the globe; even as I write this piece, my daughter lies asleep in the bed next to me, tired out from an evening spent trying to take her first steps. My days are spent trying to process the overwhelming amounts of news and data about the world, attempting to calculate when perhaps things will feel ‘normal’ again; my days are spent trying to process the overwhelming number of changes I notice in my daughter each day – a new word, expression, gesture – attempting to calculate how long it will be before she’s already moved on to the next thing. And when it all gets too much for me, I hold her close, grateful for her tiny head snuggled against my shoulder, my world now moving at the pace of her fairy-light breath.

Last month, a good friend of mine had a baby—a little boy—and his wife and I have been in touch, messaging back and forth about all manner of motherly things. Even as we chat about cloth diapers and changing mats, breastfeeding and baby sleep—even as I try to help her feel as prepared as she possibly can for the kind of paradigm shift that the existence of this little one in her life is going to mean—I sense that I will fall short. Because the things that I have learnt this past year—what I wish I had known, and yet could possibly never have, before I became a mother—are lessons learned solely through their living. 

Parenting during this pandemic is starting to feel like mindful living, for me. There is no room here for comfort; the demand is that of empathy. Where once I sought familiarity, I must now be willing to flow. All that was predictable has ceased to exist, and all of my resilience is continually called to the forefront. With the same energy that I once insisted on control, I must now persevere to surrender. My worlds have changed in unrecognisable ways, and my everyday existence now spells an ever-shifting, balancing act—of looking both inwards, and towards. How difficult it is to be present in the moment, but also to keep sight of the larger picture; and yet, how necessary it is, to thrive.  

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