The Mother, A Magical Baker

Childhood is the original and primary sculpture of any living being as to how one’s whole life would be shaped. The memories of it is not only physical or mental but also spiritual.

Childhood is the original and primary sculpture of any living being as to how one’s whole life would be shaped. The memories of it is not only physical or mental but also spiritual.

The manifold experiences of this childhood either makes your life an amazing place or leaves to be a dark passage. Sometimes, a dwelling of mixed experiences and my life is one of that.

Each memory cropped in the primitive years of my life has helped me in some way. Not necessarily all those brought only pleasantness but surely enriched my learning. The description of childhood remains pointless till a mother is mentioned in it. The reason for my existence was her decision. So, my story and memory will always revolve around my mother in some way. 

Well, the early age allergies and sickness played a significant role in my life too. There was a small accumulation in my nose when I was probably six or seven years old. This always hindered my smooth breathing process. I consistently sighed while speaking. So, parents had to take me to a couple of pediatricians to find out the right reason. The diagnosis from everywhere ended up in a prescription of a small bottle of nasal drops. It was needed to be continued for coming few months. 

As a kid, even if the medicine tasted like honey; psychologically it was always unpleasant. So the drama continued here too. Parents had to go through a lot of uphill tasks to land those two drops into my little nose, that too twice a day. 

That’s where logic and magic of a mother cames to the rescue. My mother was known to bake the tastiest of cakes. These were always baked on special occasions. Whenever she baked them the magical aroma filled the home and all the complaints were melted into the heat of that cake. So this instance was no different. She baked it once again now without any occasion. 

Before the nasal drop reached its destination, a piece of that freshly baked cake was tossed into my mouth by my mother. The aroma of the cake reached my nose later the taste of it was felt. 

Hang on! The story doesn’t end here. The little mind couldn’t comprehend that it’s the cake which tastes great not the drops. The child started requesting for the nasal drops on an unscheduled time. The worry of a mother is still on…

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Dedicated to all the mothers including me.

Image Source – Pexels

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