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Official Opportunity to say; I Love You - Shubhra Krishan Shubhra Krishan is a writer and has been working with Femina. She has also been into production of TV serials on Health and Nutrition in India.

That first cry. That made it so stunningly real. Till the moment he was born, it hadn't fully hit me that the tossing, turning, writhing, kicking, hiccuping thing I had been carrying inside me all these days was a fully formed, intensely alive, hundred-percent- dependent-on-me baby boy. And he was mine.

How much he was bawling. "Come on, don't cry-don't be such a baby," I chided him-(boy, how immediately I had slid into the role of Mom). They cleaned him up and placed him on my chest. Immediately, the crying stopped. I stared at him in wonder, and he stared back with his big, unblinking eyes.

Everyone else found him thin, scrawny, wrinkly, ugly. I thought he was the heart-meltingest, soul-movingest, beautifullest creature in the whole world. Love came pouring out of me like the yolk from a freshly-cracked egg.

Does anyone in the world but a first-time Mom ever understand how it feels to bring a child into this world? How unique this universal experience is. Ask any mother on earth what her most special moment was, and see what she says-even if she is now 80.

Bonding with my baby made me feel closer to my mother than I ever had. It made me understand, for the first time, how much I mattered, how special I was. Not that I hadn't felt cared for before, but never before had it really sunk in with this intensity. Simply because one misunderstands Mom so much, takes her so much for granted.

I slowly forgave her everything: fussing over me (you want to go to the park-Raju (the boy servant I couldn't stand) has to go with you-he won't say a word, he'll just stand there.why don't you understand? Hey Mom, at sixteen, you don't understand), blackmailing me (you don't finish your egg, you don't go for the movie-I hate eggs), standing in my way (how can you marry him-he has no bank balance), occasionally creating minor trouble between me and him (Oh but Baby you have never cooked before.when did I even let you go to the kitchen even to take a glass of water: this when he had just said how good a cook I was).never giving up.never being able to give up. It had never been interference. It had been love. Totally pure, totally unselfish, totally helpless.

Today, my baby boy is ten. A few minutes ago, we had this now familiar, not-so-friendly conversation:
Mom, can I go to Bobby's house?
Certainly not.
But why?
Because he plays in the street.
So what?
It's not safe.
Ufff, Mom, this is not fair. Nothing is safe.

Yes, nothing is safe...safe enough, where my child is concerned. But at ten, I don't expect him to understand. Not until he has a child of his own.

Whatever our differences, I know that on the morning of mother's day, my little son will pull out his crayons and draw me a card. And I'll have it framed. Just like the one I did last year-- "I like you, Mom", it said, inside a yellow-coloured heart: the best love-letter I have ever received.

The one I have made for my mother says, "Being a Mom is a 24-hour, 365-day, lifelong assignment-no shifts, no weekends, no off-seasons, no holidays, no bonuses, no raises, no promotions. So of course every day is Mother's Day, but this one is an official opportunity to say what I've so seldom been able to say; I love you.

Thank you, Son.
Thank you, Mom.

Until we connect again....

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