Help Is On the Way

by Mindy Kaling

“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.

I chose to have this little baby on my own—wasn’t

if only to remind myself I was born and raised like a normal person, not like the ultra-chic celebrity I grew up to be.

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

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

I think it can be chalked up to the scrubs, the clean-but-fruity bouquet of the Estée Lauder, and the fact she was Indian. These were my “safe scents,” or whatever those things are that click in dogs’ minds to make them feel at home and secure.

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.

I just didn’t make a ton of milk. I learned quickly that my dream to nurse my daughter until she was three years old like a smug Northern California hippie mom was not going to come true.

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.

Another valuable thing about Rose was that she was someone to talk to who wasn’t my baby.

“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.

She was my mom when I needed a mom, and that wasn’t even her job.

one time she asked if I would ever need her again. I told her I don’t know if I’ll have another baby, but if it meant she would come and live with me, I may just go ahead and do it.