Moms wear many hats, the first one being a person.

I was deep in the throes of a severe viral infection when the milestone moment happened. My six year old, also infected with the same virus, said he hated me.

What did this little human, barely three years into semi-control of his consciousness, know about me to hate me?

And in true Indian mom fashion, I thought back to the hours of labour, the 8 stitches I got to bring my perineum back into existence, and the months of general ill-health that produced this child of mine.

See, my usual reaction to this would be to gentle parent him into normalcy. I would agree with his feelings, ask him to scream it out and cuddle him to sleep. But struggling with less sleep, a second pregnancy at age 33 (that came with its own numerous complications, AND a fever that refused to die down, I felt sad and depressed and lost. All the mom things that I promised myself I’d never feel. Because I’m smarter than my mom and all the moms that have come before.

But life has a way of shocking you out of your complacency, doesn’t it? That smug feeling that begins to percolate into your life in your 30s. That you have it better than everyone else!

Probably what hurts most is that this reality check comes in the form of a barely 3 foot tall being, who is technically supposed to love you more than most. Adore you from top to bottom as befits a boy mom.

In the real-life baby stakes of 2017 (when baby N was born), however, it seemed to me that I’d been blessed with an autocratic child who treated my love and affection as his due, and my extended family as acolytes worshipping at his altar.

Once I’d calmed down from the progesterone-fuelled lows, I figured that what my son was, was secure. Confident of our unwavering support and love, in a way that probably I never was. Raised as I was by the grandmas and great-grandmas from a completely different generation.

So N was free from the stifling dictates, the tilted world views, and ‘keep silent’ type childrearing ‘techniques’ that effectively made me into a severely repressed person. N is independent, bold, outspoken - all the things that I desperately hoped he would be, when he was in my womb.

Wanting those things for my son in 2017, means that in 2024, I must gird my loins and face the flip side of the same qualities.

If N needs to be outspoken and bold, then I cannot place a caveat and ask him to do so except with his parents. I need to be able to set respectful limits to his behaviour.

If N needs to be bold, then he cannot be bold at school or his ‘outside’ life alone. He needs to be encouraged to hold those same beliefs and values at home too.

And more importantly, if N needs to accomplish everything we want him to, and evolve into his highest self (lulz), he needs parents who don’t operate on outdated ideas and thoughts.

While this late-night episode didn’t end with a cuddle with my son as I hoped, it did bring to mind that I had gone into auto-pilot mode while rearing my son.

Auto-pilot is a dangerous place to be, especially if you’re struggling to outpace the different voices in your head. My son saying he hated me, stung, definitely. But it brought to life, in a way that nothing ever has, that being a boy mom is not just those sepia-toned Insta videos where boys adore their moms wholeheartedly.

It’s also those dark nights where sons hate you and don’t appreciate your existence.