Project Mom Casting: The Dirty & Noisy Version

I never wanted to be a mother. While other little girls were playing with baby dolls I was ripping up Barbie’s clothes and sewing them back together into my own Frankenfashion. I was all about crafting Barbie furniture out of found objects (the plastic thingee that keeps cheese from sticking to the pizza box makes for a perfect mod end table). In my dream house Ken was Barbie’s minion and Barbie had no children.

I  spent an inordinate amount of time wondering why I didn’t have any dolls that looked like me. All my Barbies had blond locks and skin that was the color of the inside of  seashell. I did have a Cher doll, but it’s as close as I got. I used to try to convince girls at school that my hair was actually dark brown, not black. I pretended that I tanned on my deck to account for my brown skin. I stopped speaking my native Bengali.

30 years later.

I found myself helplessly in love with Mac Daddy, with one mistake marriage behind me already. We had our first son, and my life was forever changed. Son number two sealed the deal.

However, I was transported back to my school days of aching to fit in. I couldn’t find like-minded moms who shared my story. I still hadn’t found anyone who shared my ethnic DNA. I wish I had discovered blogging then. It took me five more years to realize I could find, and share, my voice. I laughed at other people’s toilet-paper-on-their-shoes kind of stories. I discovered a community of women who made me laugh til I peed, tear up til I was breathless, and scream til I was limp.

What I didn’t find are moms who look like me. Moms who share my story. Moms who walk a tightrope between Old Glory and the chakra of India’s flag. Surely there are moms out there who have one foot in India, struggling to maintain a heritage she doesn’t quite grasp, and one foot in full-fledged American culture, with her liberal heart whipstitched on her Trina Turk sleeve. I can’t possibly be the only Indian-born woman married to a Wisconsin man from a town of 500 people.

Can I?

We struggle to keep my heritage alive in our sons’ lives. I trip over my tongue when I talk to my sons about valuing people’s differences, whether they’re cultural, racial, social, economic, or simply their taste in crunchy versus creamy peanut butter. I’ve never talked about my struggles growing up and how I felt so ashamed to be different. Perhaps now is my chance to revisit those years and tell my story along the way.

For now, I’m cruising on my double lane highway, two co-pilots wiping snot on my sleeves along the way. While I never imagined myself as a mother, I’m glad the powers that be (God, Shiva, or simply the stars), gave me the privilege.

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Tagged as: blog, family, fear, growing up, kids, love, motherhood, parenting