The Banality of Motherhood

I love my kids—truly, I do.

Typing that title was hard. I was raised to believe a woman’s highest calling is motherhood. I must give my children everything I have—and want to. It never needed saying—it was the kind of truth too sacred to name. Speaking about motherhood reduces its sanctity. I was born in Seattle on September 30, 1975—fifty and proud. My parents had just immigrated from India. My dad was a PhD student in aeronautical engineering at the University of Washington. My mom had a law degree in India but never practiced in the US.

Before I go on, know this: I love my children with my whole heart. There’s no sacrifice I wouldn’t make—even my life.

Here’s the truth: the daily logistics of motherhood are incredibly challenging for me. Stifling even. I wake before my body wants to. Going to bed earlier helps—until it doesn’t. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, punished for trying.

Most mornings, my kids wake me before the alarm, reminding me we’re late. They know I’ll hit snooze and sleep through the morning if they don’t.

Then I slap on some slightly “elevated” sweats—the kind made for women like me. I’ll probably spend all day in them, even though I aspire to dress cuter. So I pay a little more—to at least look elevated. Definitely not anything too expensive, I’m pretty careful about money and I’ve never seen the value in the designer stuff - the labels don’t matter to me, and the core product just isn’t that different. Actually, I dislike the labels, I like being my own brand. I probably spend more than the average mom would. I buy more pieces for more variety even though fewer pieces would be better for my inner peace. My heart wants to spend more time on beauty; hair, makeup, clothes, nails but somehow I can’t make that simple stuff happen.

Sanjay wakes me on weekdays; Raj takes weekends. I make them something hot—because that’s what good Indian moms do. Then I ask Raj what he wants— how many mini-croissants with cheese and plant-based pastrami, or maybe a quesadilla? They prefer three mini-croissants to one normal-sized one. No fruits or vegetables, unfortunately. I feel guilty about that—I’ll make it up at dinner. I leave Raj’s breakfast on the cast-iron griddle while I drive Sanjay to school.

Sanjay could walk, but daylight shrinks by the week here in the Pacific Northwest during Autumn, and I don’t want him walking in the dark. I navigate to the Queen playlist on Spotify—British rock that feels American—and it feels like good wake-up music. Freddie Mercury is South Asian. I call others that, but I still think of myself as Indian. I didn’t even know he was South Asian until that biopic on Hulu a few years ago. He’s Parsi and I’m Tamil; given the difference in cultures, the South Asian (or Indian) umbrella feels overly broad.

I’m back within ten minutes of dropping Sanjay off.

Raj walks to the bus stop while I leash Sage and follow halfway. I speed-walk through the parking lot so he doesn’t pee before we’re off-property—HOA rules.

I can’t go all the way—Sage slows me down, and Raj has to hustle to make the bus.

Raj hasn’t missed a bus, nor Sanjay a class. Both have good grades and active social lives. Sanjay rejects screens, preferring his bass. Raj has an online life, and I police his hours online. I wish he’d leave his phone at home, but confiscating it feels draconian. Sanjay and I both talk about how screens are destroying humanity. Raj feels left out because Sanjay and I sometimes complete each other’s thoughts on the subject.

This is the banality of motherhood—and the sun hasn’t risen yet.