Help Is On the Way

by Mindy Kaling

her attitude made zero sense to me. “Didn’t you just want to scream, ‘I CAN DO THIS ALREADY!’?” I asked, incredulous.

the thought of redoing years of schooling you already did seemed as unfathomable as if I were trapped in a sock-folding loop in some undiscovered circle of hell.

“Never complain, never explain” is the old saying, and my mother completely embodied it. Me, on the other hand? I love complaining. Almost as much as I love explaining! If I could just kvetch and give disclaimers all day, I would be so happy.

What was a baby nurse anyway? Wasn’t she just a brown-skinned woman who lived in your house, woke up in the middle of the night, and helped you nurse the baby? There’s already a brown-skinned woman who lives in my house who is supposed to do all those things: me!

I was definitely expecting pregnancy to make me bounce-house size.

I had always thought I’d sooner die than eat kale, and yet there I was, munching on it like some kind of Instagram salad influencer.

I hadn’t overachieved this much since high school, and I was loving this vibe for myself.

You know your friend who simply goes through life paying better attention?

I had never met my baby. How would I be able to pick a person to care for my child and somehow know they were inherently better than someone else?

I wore my Dartmouth sweatshirt to show her that sixteen years ago, I had been considered smart enough to graduate from college.

I had none of these things in my home, and I started to wonder why not.

I had read the baby books, of course, but could remember literally nothing but one fact: “babies are born without kneecaps.” What the hell was I supposed to do with that information? Invite some gangster to take retribution against me by kneecapping my baby and then laugh when he realizes it’s physically impossible?

First she introduced herself and hugged me. She smelled terrific, wearing Beautiful by Estée Lauder, the same perfume my mother had worn. Between that and her scrubs, I was totally triggered, the association to my mother hitting me like a truck.

It was an insane little gathering on an outrageous schedule, and I mean outrageous in the sense that I was completely outraged by it.

She had the kind of work ethic that reminded me of my mother, for whom nothing was more important than being professional and showing dedication.

In Los Angeles, if you tell people you give your baby formula, they look at you like you just said you force-feed her Sprite through a beer bong.

According to Rose, there was no problem apple cider vinegar couldn’t solve.

It was maddening to be home all day with no one except an infant who was mostly sleepy and whose eyes could only discern me as a blob, especially since being perceived as a blob has long been one of my biggest fears.

“She’s worked hard her whole life. It’s good she has such nice things.” It was the most Indian thing I’d ever heard.

I was surprised by how calming it was to be around people who looked like me and who reminded me of where I was from.