It’s the same feeling I get when I stumble out of a roller coaster – relieved, dizzy, brave, proud, wondering why the fuck I got on it, wondering why the hell I don’t have the balls to get in line again and a lingering wave of nausea. Yes, it’s the same feeling I’ve had since I’ve quit.

I’d like to be able to qualify that better: Since I quit to be a SAHM. Since I quit to find my purpose in this universe. Since I quit to be a nude flying trapeze artist. But no, nothing would capture everything. I’ve been doing what I’ve been told in highly structured environments since way back when Madonna was like a virgin, so I’m not quite sure how to be the boss of me and even less sure how to know what I want. (yes, yes I hear the world’s smallest violin playing for me…)

I figured growing roots on the couch while acting as a trampoline for the boys is most likely not my (sole) purpose. I figured there’s no point dodging my worst fear, so armed with/deluded by the swarm of internet blogs, I ventured forth – into the kitchen, deep inside cabinets that were like secret passages with exotic treasures waiting to be discovered. Or rats.

It’s been a week since I took a dip into the culinary pool. Given that being at home implies that one does not get performance reviews or any form of validation, I’ll slap that pat on my back myself. Hell yeah! This cooking thing ain’t no map-reading on the interstate when the GPS conks out microseconds before the exit. This stuff is simple. And since I hate following recipes, it’s been quite the creative release: a lil’ bit of grains, a chunk of daal, rainbow of masalas, steam/fry/bake. How wonderful for the kids to be exposed to such nutrient-dense, new experiences everyday!

I do miss the validation though, sometimes more than the paycheck. So I fished for some at the dinner table last night. “So Nibbles…what d’ya think?”, I asked, beaming at the almost cooked ameboid oats dosa before him. “Mamma,” he paused for a while. “Yes?” I egged on, “Pretty awesome, eh?” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Mamma, can you not make anything special anymore?”

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