The strain of bringing up children, especially boys, has taken half my life. Yes, I am in my late 50s. I became a mother at 21, and from then on it was a struggle. I have three sons. When the eldest was eight the youngest was born and the middle one was three years old. Imagine my plight.
The eldest was always up to pranks, as eight-year-olds often are. He would be under a table, the next minute upon it, in a few minutes perched upon a tree making faces at me. While I went out to bring him down, the second one pinched the newborn, pulling the little one's hair and running out in fear when the baby started crying. I had to lift the baby from the cot to console him, had to bring my second one to my fold lest he would feel unwanted, and had to pull the first one forcefully down from the tree and make him do his homework. It was a yoga.
While they were growing I had to undergo a different kind of exercise. I had to conduct coaching at home. I had to teach algebra to one, addition to the second, and counting to the youngest. I helped in writing essays, taught spelling, and identified the alphabets. Preparing food, supervising the laundry, and keeping the house clean were the other chores I had to attend to. I did all these with splendid vigour. Turning back, I see my efforts were amazing. How did I do all these things? Now I take hours to cook the meals. I grumble. I begrudge. I curse. My legs ache, my fingers get numb. I throw tantrums. Why do I feel so?