You come home from work and an exhausting gym session and find your baby alone in the house with the nanny and the cook (so far you're ok, you knew that)... with the front door wide open.
Yawning into a cruel stairwell, not to mention the unnamable horrors of life in Delhi.
Everyone is safe. Everyone is happy. Your baby jumps into your arms and as you inhale baby smell and feel podgy arms around your neck, you can't decide whether to wring the nanny and the cook's neck, or cuddle baby forever, or quit working.
Or simply thank a god you suddenly start believing in at such moments, for keeping baby safe.
This 'coming home to things' is the lot of working moms. The joys of it, the fears of it, the horrors of it, the delights of it, the wonders of it, the panic of it, the surprises of it, the shocks of it...
The utter unpredictable pallette of it.
The Coming Home to Things. And the realisation that for a mom, this is just the beginning.
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