Dear Aru, 

You’re not far from two now. 

And you’re in that zone. That place, so many parents dread and weave tales upon. 

Suddenly you’re up at 5am for a bottle. 

But when you grab a stool and land upon my bed, to straddle me and say “shek-see” AKA sexy, you’re worth it. 

When you kick my legs so your velcro shreds my Woolford stockings, I’m so sad inside. 

But then, you follow me around the house and within moments of me sitting cross legged, you find a way into my nest, waiting for a story to be read. And those stockings can go get shredded. 

You eat an apple and I can trace your steps all over the house because there are apple peel bits everywhere. But then you offer me a bite and I can’t explain. Only a parent would know. How this feels. A two year old, unable to put on his own socks, can affectionately give me a bite of his apple. I am enamoured. 

Darling Aru. 

You drenched the kitchen mat, put writing upon your Maa’s white walls and wouldn’t stop at her lime washed flooring.

Where do I begin with the ways you drive me insane? 

I clean your shit, the food you spray and spit from your mouth, I am up at midnight when you wake up from bad dreams, so much need they never know it defined being a mother. 

In some dark moments, I feel like an awfully kept maid. 

But darling Aru. 

Then you fall asleep in my arms, drinking every last drop of your milk. You won’t let the bottle go. Your eye lids are heavy, your face always goes round and chubby from that angle. 

And you look like. 


And I know, I learn all over again. 

That it is worth it. 

Those moments of something close to hell. 

To give me this.