A Small Joke, A Big Shift: a Mom's perspective

It takes less than 10 seconds for a child to decide if they feel safe with you.

Back when my daughter was a toddler, there was a pattern I began to notice almost everywhere I took her. It usually started simply enough—with someone asking her name, making a bit of small talk, and trying to engage her in conversation. She is naturally warm and talkative, and usually responds without hesitation.

But then, almost inevitably, came a certain kind of statement:
“Okay, I’ll take your mom with me—she’ll come to my house,” or “Your grandma is mine now,” or even “I’ll take this toy home.”

Often, with a playful smile. Just to “test” her reaction.

And yet, in that very moment, I saw something shift in her.

Her expression would change—subtly, but unmistakably. She would pause, look unsure, and instinctively respond, “No, I want my mom/ajji.” After that, she would withdraw, uncertain about this person who had just claimed they could take away the people she loved most. Sometimes, she would avoid any further interaction altogether.

As adults, we often dismiss such interactions as harmless teasing. But I came to realise that for children, these statements do not feel harmless at all. To them, their parents and grandparents are not just people—they are their entire sense of safety and stability. Even their small belongings are part of what makes their world predictable and secure.

So when someone—even jokingly—talks about taking those away, it does not register as humor. It introduces uncertainty.

This became even more evident during a visit to my hometown. Being back in the house where I grew up, surrounded by familiar people and memories, was comforting. But experiencing those same interactions through the lens of a parent gave me a completely new perspective.

One day, our house-help was chatting with my daughter. She was delighted to see her, and my daughter, though initially hesitant, slowly began to warm up. The interaction was going well—until the familiar pattern emerged.

“Whose toy is this? I’ll take it home.”
“Your grandma left you here.”

The change was immediate. My daughter grew uneasy. Sensing this, my mother intervened and firmly told her that this was not the right way to speak to a child. The lady, even though not formally educated, understood and never repeated it.

However, the impact of that first interaction lingered. For the rest of our stay, my daughter remained uncomfortable around her. She would repeatedly say, “Jayalakshmi ajji will take my things,” even though we reassured her otherwise.

It struck me then—children may be quick to react, but they are even quicker to form lasting associations. It took several warmer interactions for her to begin trusting her again.

A similar situation occurred with a neighbour—someone kind, dependable, and deeply trusted by our family. Yet, when she made remarks like, “Your grandma will stay at our place,” my daughter responded the same way: with discomfort and distance.

It made me pause and reflect. If a stranger were to tell me, even jokingly, that they would take away someone I love, I would not find it amusing. My first instinct would be confusion, perhaps even defensiveness.

Why, then, do we expect children to interpret such statements differently?

Interestingly, I also saw the complete opposite play out. There were homes we visited where no such teasing occurred. The conversations were simple, respectful, and grounded in genuine curiosity about the child herself. These people asked her about her interests, engaged her thoughtfully, and responded with warmth and humor.

In those spaces, my daughter thrived. She spoke freely, played for hours, and connected effortlessly with people she had just met.

The difference was not in her personality. It was in how safe she felt.

Most of these teasing remarks, I’ve noticed, come from people who genuinely love children—often elders who have raised children themselves. Perhaps it is a habit, or a style of interaction that has been carried forward over generations.

But maybe it is time to pause and reconsider.

There are far better ways to engage with a child—ways that build trust rather than momentary amusement. Listening to them, asking about their world, and allowing them to feel seen and secure go much further than any clever remark ever could.

So the next time we meet a child, perhaps we can hold back from saying, “I’ll take your mom with me.”

Because what feels like a joke to us might be the very moment a child decides they do not feel safe with us.

And the moment a child stops feeling safe with you, they also stop letting you in.

It all began here - The Birthing Story.

 Nope, no one will tell you what childbirth involves. For starters, losing your dignity, your patience, and occasionally your mind — all within the same day! I walked into pregnancy thinking yoga, positivity, and good intentions would do the trick. What I didn’t realize was that at some point, I’d seriously suggest delivering a baby standing up because, you know… gravity.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My pregnancy was relatively smooth. Apart from the usual morning sickness, tiredness, and swollen feet (my feet deserve a separate mention), I didn’t face any major issues. Daily walks and yoga helped me stay fairly fit, and having a super supportive husband, mom and in-laws made everything else easier.

All my scans were normal. During my 30-week scan, the doctor noticed that my amniotic fluid levels were slightly on the lower side and prescribed medication to correct it. She said this would be monitored in subsequent scans. Around my eighth month, however, we had to shift houses. The move meant switching hospitals and doctors — a decision that felt risky at the time but later turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

At my first appointment with the new doctor, I fully expected another scan. Instead, she gently examined my tummy, smiled, and said everything looked good and that I could expect a normal delivery. No scan. No panic. No drama. I never really found out what happened to those amniotic fluid levels, but somehow, peace prevailed.

The new hospital was less than a kilometer from our home, so I walked to every checkup — feeling extremely virtuous and convinced this alone would guarantee an easy delivery. The doctor was calm, confident, and endlessly reassuring. She spoke about labor pains like they were an inconvenient but manageable guest. I believed her. (This belief would later be tested.)

My due date was February 14th. On January 31st, during a routine checkup, the doctor examined me and casually asked, “Aren’t you admitted yet?”

Excuse me, what?

She did an internal check and asked me to come back in three days. I went right back to her on the 3rd of Feb and she genuinely seemed surprised I was still walking around and asked if I wanted to get admitted. I told her I wanted things to be as natural as possible. She checked again and sent me home — once more — asking me to come back in a few days.

As a first-time mom, I had absolutely no idea how I’d know when the baby was ready to arrive. In my head, it would start with mild cramps, followed by calm breathing, a few well-timed yoga poses, and then a dramatic entry into the hospital. My mom had added that she delivered me within few hours of being in labour. I had read endlessly about “water breaking” and always wondered what that actually felt like. I’d also read that it wasn’t very common — which, of course, meant it was destined to happen to me. Because when has pregnancy ever followed statistics?

My niece had been born on the 5th, (yes the cousins are just 2 days apart!) and we were to visit my SIL on the Saturday, the 7th of Feb. But as usual, life had other plans. On the 7th at 1:30 a.m., I woke up to use the bathroom and instantly sensed something was off. Within seconds, it hit me — my water had broken. I went back, woke my mom, and with a big smile said, “Shall we go to the hospital?”

No panic. No screaming. Just excitement.
I was ready. Or was I?

My in-laws were with us, hospital bags were packed, and everyone moved into action. I was so calm that I even posed for a “one last picture before the baby” at home — because priorities.

The hospital was a two-minute drive away. After the initial formalities, I was taken to the ward and labor was induced. The on-call doctor checked me and said I had a long way to go. Parents were expecting a baby by early morning. My baby however had other plans!

Hours passed. Pain came and went — strangely bearable at first. Around 10 a.m., my doctor came in and said I was only 4 cm dilated and this could easily go on till evening. She kindly arranged idlis for me because I was starving. I had just had watermelon juice before enema and hadn't eaten in ages. Idlis were never a favorite of mine, but I gobbled them up like they were the last food on earth.

Eventually, after what felt like ages, the pain leveled up. I opted for an epidural and promptly forgot all my breathing techniques. I cried. A lot. The nurses held my hands, hugged me, and reassured me like professional emotional support humans.

By 1:30 p.m., my doctor announced I was almost there. All I needed to do was push.

Simple instructions. Terrifying execution.

I had never been hospitalized before. Now I was hooked up to IVs, monitors, wires everywhere, bright lights overhead, and a room full of people chanting “Push, push!” like it was a motivational anthem. I thought I was pushing with all my might. Apparently, I was not.

I was sweating, irritated, exhausted, and completely done being brave. Somewhere in the chaos, I lost my cool and yelled at my husband and doctor for telling me to push. I even suggested delivering the baby standing up so gravity could assist. The look on my doctor’s face was unforgettable.

At 3 p.m., she said the baby’s head was visible and warned me that if I didn’t push now, we’d have to go for a C-section. That was the motivation I needed. I had come too far to quit.

With every ounce of strength I had left — and a lot of assistance — our baby arrived at 3:33 p.m.

My first emotion wasn’t joy or tears.
It was pure relief.

I was so relieved that I didn’t even notice the baby hadn’t cried at all (a different blog post on this one later). I didn’t even ask for the gender! I was too busy celebrating the fact that the pushing chapter of my life was officially over.

It was only later, while being stitched up, that I suddenly realized — I had no idea if I had a boy or a girl. I was probably the last person in the room to find out.

The doctor asked me if I knew the gender, and that is when I realized it. I was probably the last person to know! When she told me it was a girl, I was ecstatic. This was exactly what we both had always hoped for. As the medication kicked in and reality slowly settled, I couldn’t quite believe it. I had become a mom.

As I drifted off to sleep, unsure of what the days ahead would bring, one thought stayed with me:

Miracles really do happen, prayers are answered 💗