And the brat will turn six this month.

Time, it flies. It really does. It just seems like a few days ago that I was up on the operation table, attached to the damn catheter, and having a needle stuck in my spine making me suddenly feel as if my body ended at my chest. And then the doctors talking to each other about random hospital gossip as they fiddled around with my insides, and then one hard yank, and my gynaec, as sweet and maternal as you could ever wish one should be, telling me sweetly, to hold on, "He's almost out!" and then the startled surprised and very irate bawl that the grandmother heard on the ground floor of the hospital, (the OT being on the first floor), which made her charge at top speed to the first floor, arthritic knee notwithstanding. And me yelling for someone to get me my spectacles to examine the red wriggling parcel being held out for my perusal. "Ganapati Bappa ala re," said the jovial anaesthesist. "I cant see," I protested, before I slid into a happy delirium. I slept. Till evening. I opened my eyes, feeling a sudden emptiness, a sudden disconnect within me. My baby, where's my baby. He was brought in from the nursery for me to marvel at. Perfect. From his curled up fingers to his wizened face. Red scrunched up face, eyes that looked sharply at me as if to say, so you're the one with the really bad acidity issues. Staring into my eyes like a wise old soul, almost as if he had so much to say but no language with which to say it. And then the temper. God the temper. Head shaking roaring bring the house down wails if Mamma was a minute late to shove the feeding appendage in his mouth. And once fed, contented burp and smile and off to the land of nod. He was a good baby. No trouble at all. I saw other kids give their mammas hell and thank the stars mine was so well behaved. Well, if I only knew. He sure made up for all that good behaviour as he grew.
His toddler hood was the most difficult. The delayed development. The PDD/NOS diagnosis. The seizures. The hospitalisations. The terrible behavioural issues. The therapy sessions. The constant struggle. The taking him to malls and parks every single day and struggling with himand fending off questions from well meaning folk who asked if there was something wrong with him. The wondering how this child would cope as he grew. The cruelty of other children who left him out of their play, leaving him in tears as he ran behind them yearning to be accepted. The jokes they played on him. Their teasing him "Buddhu, buddhu," when he couldnt grasp the rules of a game, or make himself understood, having no speech till he was around three. All that was validated when last week, the doctor told us that the brat was fine. He has no issues. He is like any other six year old. He is the child other children fight with to have on their team. On a holiday, the intercom is buzzing with kids wanting to either come home to play with him or to have me drop him off to play with them at their homes. Returning from the park every evening generally involves a tug of war with opposing friends wanting him to stay on and play with them. Sometimes, I remember days when he longed to play with other children and had the doors shut on his face and feel my eyes well up.
The schooling. The miracle with which he grasped information and assimilated it, his fascination for music and dance. His dandy nature, his obsession with jackets (which he has thankfully outgrown now, only to replace it with hideous superhero synthetic costumes). He has changed too. His face has changed for one. He was this chubby baby with rolls of fat spilling over from every limb and torso. Now I would be lucky if a fat caliper got a grip on any part of his body, including his bum. His eyes were lighter when he was born, an indeterminate shade of grey. They're deep dark brown now, like his fathers, but look exactly like mine. He's taken the best of both of his parents along with the worst and blended them into a completely adorable mix that is uniquely him. People struggle to come to a consensus on whom he resembles. The truth is that he is a mix. We catch glimpses of each other in him.
His teeth have started falling out now. He is at the age where he is still cute but starting to become an insufferable know it all.Where he still needs me around, but would rather I stayed on the periphery. Where he is openly defiant, but clingy and demanding the very next moment. Where he is still my baby, but slowly morphing into that very strange creature, namely, a big boy.
I hold him and cuddle him and kiss him as much as I can. I wish I could freeze him to be my baby forever. But I know that like sand through my fingers, my son's childhood is quickly passing through, and I'd better enjoy every moment I get of it, before he sneaks off and grows up on me while I wasnt looking.