Crap, Mom. You (and The Aunties) really did know best.

It's hard for me to admit that my Mom was right. But, I'm sort of cheating here. She's in India right now with limited Internet access. So, chances are slim that she'll see this post and be able to call me up and say, "I told you so." Actually, she'd say something more like this (with an Indian accent), "See? You never listen, bhut*, but I was right. It has only taken you 40 years to learn. Hopefully, Kaila will not be as slow as you, you pain in my butt."

Each time I braved home from college, I'd meet up with "The Aunties" -- my Mom's arsenal of Indian friends who have known me since inception. For some reason, these Moms consider me family (maybe not so much after this post) so I affectionately call them Aunties. Having Indian Aunties is like a Mama Mafioso. They come at you in groups, telling you you're too skinny, you don't know what's right for you and that you need to hurry up and get married. Talk about pressure. You never go against The Aunties. To do so guarantees death by feeding.

I've had many interesting moments with The Aunties. One time was when I returned home for a break. The Aunties were sitting in our family room, enjoying Chai Masala. They were also enjoying interrogating me about college, my activities, my meal plan. Then, one Auntie asked me about my major.

"She's studying Journalism." my Mom quipped, giving me the stink eye.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh," The Aunties said in unison, "Very good! Very good! Maybe you work for The New York Times one day!" They all started laughing. I had no idea why. But, I think there was something a little more than masala in that chai.

"Mom!" I yelled, "I'm studying Advertising."

"Whatever. She's going to be a journalist." Mom turned to The Aunties.

"I AM NOT GOING TO BE A WRITER! I am going to figure out how to market products. I am going to work at an ad agency! Why are you pretending not to understand English?"

My Mom uttered something in Hindi, most likely to the effect of, "Aunties, my daughter is a complete moron. Her choice of majors is like her choice in boyfriends. Stupid. Some day, she will get it right. But, until then, I will lay like a tiger in wait. Then, when the moment arises, I will pounce and scream, I TOLD YOU SO!"

The Aunties were nodding their heads in agreement, making "tsk-tsk" noises with their tongues and glancing at me.

I don't know if my Mom told everyone I was studying Journalism because Advertising made no sense or if it was an embarrassment to the family name. Or, perhaps since she wasn't going to have a doctor or lawyer in me, maybe she thought a writer would be the next best thing. Because, as with any creative field, idiosyncrasies and oddities are easily explained if you are "the creator of stuff."

So Mom, since you're in India and will not see this, I admit, you were right. I am a writer. Not the journalist you hoped for, but a writer nonetheless. It only took me 40 years to find myself and see that you truly knew best. And, hopefully, my little morons will be quicker studies than me.

Mom, in case you do see this, here's my "published" article on www.thewellmom.com. Dressed to Decompress. Enjoy! And, yes, I am eating properly.

*Bhut: pronounced boot, Gujurati word for demon.