The Little Things

The Significance of Everyday Moments

Does everything matter? I mean, do little things like: the way you stand in front of the mirror to comb your hair, the thoughts that cross your mind while you pick out what to wear, when you pick up your keys to leave for work, or simply looking at your watch to check the time reflect what is going on inside you? Just how complicated could simply picking up the house keys while leaving home be is what I am realising every day now. Yes, when you have experienced a loss that encompasses your existence, you realise what living actually means.

Not that you grieve losing yourself, but the significance a life, a child, gave to these little things is what grows on you with every passing moment.

Embracing Life's Little Moments After Loss

Since the unexpected and sudden loss of my younger daughter, I have come to notice how every little thing truly matters. When I refer to "little things," I’m not just talking about choosing a color to wear that reflects your mood or calling someone simply because you are thinking of them. I mean the everyday actions, literally little things like opening the drawer to get your daily meds, and pulling back the room curtains. Just how much weight the very regular actions hold might surprise you beyond imagination. I almost never gave these things a thought. But Aabi's leaving has added a perspective to basic things in a heavy way. Being a mum of two girls, one a pre-teen and the other a toddler, is super exciting. Witnessing the charm of watching a graceful young lady in the becoming, alongside a wild little person snatching away the crown at every opportunity, is the most fun life can get. Trust me, I never knew that being so exhausted between the all-time love-filled chaos was my bliss, my heaven.

Every morning, I woke up to the softest of cuddles that felt like a pet smothering your face. I remember lifting the curtains and saying 'WOW' together at the sunshine, with this little person in my arms. Walking over to the kitchen drawer for my morning meds and pulling out her bottle to prep morning milk for her. Settling the teapot on the stove while watching her finish her milk and run back into my arms, tugging me to wake up her elder sister. Cuddling in her sister's bed as this one now smotheringly wakes up the elder one. Rushing between rooms behind the toddler as she unpacked bags that were ready to go, had to poop at the same time the tea boiled, emptied the kitchen cupboard all over the floor amidst the rush hour, danced to hymns played by her father on the google assitant as they got ready, and getting into a fight with her sister in the shower that I had to resolve while packing lunch boxes. Mornings were busy, yet they never seemed to slog. They were swift. I used to quickly check on my look before leaving for school drop-offs, combed my hair always before leaving the house, even though I mostly didn't have to get out of the car, wanted to take the bus so many times, as Aabi loved the busy feel of the mornings, and maybe also simply to enjoy watching smartly dressed people walking to work. I used to quickly get into my active wear, change the baby's jammies, and tidy up her face with a cute clip to hold her hair back, as we left in a hurry for her sister's school.

I discreetly remember mornings when they both had to go to school. Feeling important that it was her day of getting ready with a bag too, getting dressed with hair made into a new style every time, she got to choose the clips or the band for one, two, or even three little pony tails sometimes. Competing over which sister got mum to make her hair first, who got to papa first to light the candle for the morning prayer, snatching resins, and who would rush out of the door to press the elevator call button first. My eyes were always on both of them in the back seat of the car, singing together their favorite songs aloud. My rear-view was a frame so complete, I could drive endlessly.

How common a scene this might be in so many households with school-going kids. Mornings that pass as routines, days that pass by, sometimes like a breeze, and sometimes with turbulence, but as quickly as sand passes through the narrow passage of an hourglass. I now see these details, and I actually see them as details that really, really mattered. Of course, I thought about them, and I acknowledged how fun the fatigue was. I used to discuss them over long phone calls with the family. I also imagined the chaos settling with passing time, as the little one grew to school-going age, gaining a little more sense every year, and following her composed sister to calmer behaviours. All of it was regular, very common, and precious in every sense.

What I did not realise was that a time would come when all this would change for the worse. I now wake up to a damp pillow, tired eyes, unwelcome mornings. I miss the smothering cuddles. I then drag myself to raise the curtains, alone, to a day I wished never came. My hands tremble every single day. The curtains are light yet hard to undo, I now realise. I walk to the kitchen, past a table with her little chair, undisturbed for many days, and a hall table full of framed pictures of the one I carried in my arms. I open the drawer for my morning med, milk bottles washed and untouched for days. The drawer is heavy, which I never noticed. I put on the teapot, and go on to wake up the elder one, I feel the walk to her room is scary. As I cuddle to give her some comfort, trying to utter the words I always did, "good morning, sunshine", the word 'good' seems to never come out of my mouth. One of the most common morning words now seems meaningless. I simply end up saying, "morning, sunshine". I wonder if she notices. I have almost stopped saying 'good' with any of the day greetings to anyone. My brain just doesn't put it there anymore. I also wonder if people notice. Mornings are mannered, controlled, yet awfully long. Lunches are prepped easily, soft talks around the house, no more hymns, no more fights, no more prayers, no more unpacking of packed bags. Everything gets done in time, and still, nothing actually feels done.

There is no rush. We all have time to say bye, but none of us feels like going. As I get closer to leaving for the school drop-off now, I just rush my fingers through my hair and put on my slippers. Looking at myself in the mirror is scary. When I look at myself, I see an incomplete, failed mother who does not have one of her children to tend to anymore. I see hands that crave the soft touch of the little one's hair, she clipped. I see cheeks that felt hers as she cuddled, I see hair that she tugged at, and eyes that are tired of missing looking at her child doing all the things all day long every day. I never want to look at this image. I avoid as much as I can. Walking to the door is non-chaotic. No one snatches resins anymore. No one races through the door to the elevator. But it is one of the most difficult few steps I take every day. Thoughts through my mind are at a crossroad, is she going with me in the car, or do I say bye to her picture at home? This is the reason getting ready for work is so tough. Driving is lonely with a rear-view so painfully incomplete. Songs are now played with a feeling of guilt. Smiling is work, a lot of work. Now, days don't pass, weeks drag, and months barely move. Time is excruciatingly slow, and every little moment is realised as if constantly looking through a magnifying glass, at details you crave for, and details that are now a past.

So, the little things play and replay in the mind, giving you a sense of reality check with every move you make. Child loss lands your brain at a pace no slow-motion setting can match. The daily chores keep happening out of the muscle memory. I cannot help notice that the loss is also of the meaning behind these little things. How directly proportional is our efficiency, to the people in our lives? The little things we do around and with these people are the fuel to our brains, giving quality to our lives. We need to be aware of the benefits of multitasking while raising children. All the minute tasks/actions we keep doing simply to run through the day are the very things that define life holistically. I never knew that without the simple effort of making a toddler aware of the beauty of the rising sun, raising the curtains is just an unwelcome piece of work, without having to prepare a milk bottle in the morning, even making tea is a heavy load now, and with no little clips to manage toddler hair and brush little teeth, casualy looking into the mirror gives the most gut-wrenching of feelings, be it in the car's rear-view or simply while brushing teeth.

These little things have played a role much significant than any of the major events in our lives. We live remembering moments of beautiful mis-pronunciations of words for the first time, twinkling eyes, while holding two ice-cream cones, the run into our arms as we reached for school pick-up, the crying on TV switching off, the meltdowns when we ran out of band-aids because they had to be put all over the little body, and we didn't have enough, and the fights between sisters to hold the phone over family video calls. We miss our little bundle of joy.

I will forever thrive on these little moments. I now look at my watch to check the time, and this simple act brings memories flooding back of the same time on a day in a past so recent and close, I wish I could turn around and grab with both my hands, to never let go.

I wish I knew that they would only last as little as they are. Those little things!