The Unclaimed Bite, Reclaiming the Self in the Age of Relentless Caregiving
In a quiet, almost revolutionary act, Shalini Langer, a mother and National Editor, orders a plate of momos “just for myself” in a cinema hall. This simple decision, nestled between film screenings and the demands of her job, unfolds into a profound meditation on selfhood, sacrifice, and the silent economies of care that define modern parenthood, particularly motherhood. Her evocative piece, “A momo for myself,” serves as a poignant current affairs lens through which to examine a widespread, yet deeply personal, cultural phenomenon: the systemic erosion of individual desire within the framework of family life, and the nascent, guilt-tinged movement to reclaim it.
Langer uses the momo—a delicacy of “translucence” holding “succulence”—as a potent metaphor for a self-directed pleasure, a small, tangible unit of desire that belongs solely to the individual. The struggle to secure that last piece on a shared plate, against the keen instincts of ever-hungry children, becomes a symbolic battle for personal space. This micro-drama in the dining room points to a macro reality for countless parents, especially women: the gradual, often unconscious, abdication of one’s own preferences, tastes, and moments of simple joy to the ceaseless engine of familial need. The article is not a complaint but a quiet observation, making its commentary all the more powerful and relatable. It touches on the lived experience of a generation of caregivers navigating the tension between profound love and a fading sense of autonomous self.
The Historical Echo: The Unasked Question of the Bread Crumbs
Langer’s reflection reaches back a generation, to her own mother dutifully transferring the crunchy bread crumbs from her tomato soup to her children’s bowls. “Did our mother want those bread crumbs to herself? We never asked.” This haunting line encapsulates the intergenerational legacy of self-effacement. It highlights how the machinery of maternal sacrifice operates so smoothly that its constituent acts become invisible, even to their beneficiaries. The child accepts the offering as natural law; the mother’s potential desire is rendered irrelevant, even unthinkable.
This historical precedent sets the stage for Langer’s own culinary life, which is now orchestrated around a symphony of external demands: a son’s “protein requirements,” a daughter’s “hostel-deprived taste buds,” a husband’s “doomsday” preparedness with homemade kebabs. The question—“when did I ever get cooked a meal at my home because solely I wanted to eat it?”—hangs in the air, unanswered because the answer is self-evident. The family kitchen, for many primary caregivers, transforms from a place of creative expression to a logistical command center for nutritional and emotional support. One’s own favourite food becomes a forgotten archive, buried under grocery lists shaped by others’ palates and needs.
The Radical Act of Solo Dining: Pleasure, Autonomy, and Guilt
It is outside the home, in the public, anonymous space of the cinema food court, that Langer experiences what she calls a “cornucopia of pleasures.” This is not just about the food. It is about the unbounded autonomy of choice: “What do I want to have at that particular time?” It is the freedom to indulge a “sin” without the weight of “setting examples.” It is the liberation from the perpetual calculus of cleaning up. The pleasure is as much in the decision-making—an act of pure, unmediated will—as it is in the consumption.
This scenario underscores a significant social shift. The ability and conscious choice to dine alone, and to enjoy it, is a modern privilege tied to urban living, disposable income, and the loosening of social stigma around solo public activities. For a parent, it is a rare island of unshared time. Langer’s description resonates with the findings of sociologists who study time-use surveys, which consistently show that mothers, even those working full-time, have significantly less leisure time and fewer periods of pure, uninterrupted solitude than fathers. The “mom’s night out” or the solo lunch becomes a necessary psychological reset, a recalibration of the self that is too often framed as a luxury rather than a necessity for sustainable caregiving.
Yet, even in this liberation, the conditioning of care persists. Her “only creeping worry” is the FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) of choosing the wrong dish, a subtle echo of the perennial caregiver’s anxiety of making the imperfect choice for others. And more tellingly, the instinct to “wrap half a brownie in a paper napkin” to take home reveals how deeply the identity of provider is wired. The act of bringing something back, even a hopelessly crushed treat, is a tactile reconnection to her role. The pleasure is now dual: first in the private tasting, and second in the symbolic offering, left for “anyone to have.” It completes a circuit, allowing her to experience both the autonomous self and the connected caregiver, often presented as mutually exclusive.
The Broader Current Affair: Caregiver Burnout and the Crisis of the Self
Langer’s personal narrative is a microcosm of a pressing public health and social issue: widespread caregiver burnout. The World Health Organization has recognized burnout as an occupational phenomenon, characterized by exhaustion, cynicism, and reduced efficacy. While often discussed in professional contexts, it is endemic in unpaid domestic and care work. The constant subjugation of personal desire is not just an emotional footnote; it is a pathway to depletion. When one’s life is entirely structured around responding to the needs of others, the core self—the repository of one’s own likes, dislikes, and curiosities—can atrophy.
The “momo for myself” philosophy, therefore, is a small but vital form of resistance. It is an assertion that the caregiver’s humanity, with its own simple wants, remains valid. This connects to larger conversations about mental load, emotional labour, and the unequal distribution of domestic “invisible work.” Langer’s piece articulates the emotional component of that labour: the constant, background process of editing one’s own existence to make more room for others.
Furthermore, her exploration touches on the changing dynamics of adulthood and parenting. With adult children living at home longer—emerging from their rooms “at their choosing” to sniff out food—the boundaries of intensive caregiving are extended. The fantasy of an “empty nest” as a time for rediscovery is deferred, making the need for intentional, embedded acts of self-care more urgent.
Cultural Shifts and the Path Forward
The response to this quiet crisis is emerging in various forms. The market has responded with products and services catering to “self-care,” though often commercializing it. More substantially, there is a growing discourse, led by writers like Langer, therapists, and online communities, that validates the need for parents, particularly mothers, to retain a sense of self. It challenges the martyrdom model of parenting, suggesting that a fulfilled, individuated caregiver is ultimately a better one.
The path forward involves both personal and structural change. Personally, it means giving oneself permission, as Langer does, to claim that metaphorical momo without overwhelming guilt. It means asking the older generation, as she wishes she had, about their lost bread crumbs, fostering intergenerational understanding. It means couples intentionally designing partnerships that create space for each person’s “brownie” moment.
Structurally, it requires policies that acknowledge caregiving as work: more robust support systems, flexible work arrangements, and a cultural de-stigmatization of men engaging equally in the daily minutiae of domestic life to share the load. When care is a shared societal and familial responsibility, not the default duty of one person, the pressure to erase oneself diminishes.
Conclusion: The Wholeness in the Crumb
Shalini Langer’s essay concludes not with a triumphant declaration of independence, but with a complex, beautiful image of integration. The crushed brownie on the table is not a sign of failure, but of a matured selfhood. It represents a person who has ventured out, claimed a pleasure for herself, and willingly brought a piece of that experience back into the family fold. The completeness she feels is the wholeness of a person who no longer sees her own desires and her love for her family as a zero-sum game.
“A momo for myself” is therefore a vital cultural commentary. It highlights the slow-burning crisis of self-erasure in caregiving and champions the small, defiant acts of reclamation that guard against it. In a world constantly demanding more from parents, the most radical act may sometimes be the simple, conscious choice to savor a single, delicious bite—just for yourself. It is a reminder that preserving the self is not an act of selfishness, but the very foundation from which sustainable, joyous love is served.
Q&A: The Personal as Political in Caregiving and Selfhood
Q1: How does the author use the “momo” as a metaphor, and what does it represent in the broader context of caregiving?
A1: The momo is a metaphor for a simple, self-directed pleasure or desire that belongs exclusively to the individual. In the context of caregiving, particularly motherhood, it represents all the small personal preferences—from food choices to moments of solitude—that are routinely sacrificed or negotiated away to meet the needs of family members. The struggle to keep “a momo for myself” symbolizes the larger, often silent, battle to maintain a sense of autonomous self and individual identity within the all-consuming role of a caregiver.
Q2: What is the significance of the author’s memory of her mother giving away bread crumbs from her soup?
A2: This memory signifies the intergenerational transmission of self-sacrifice, particularly among women. It highlights how acts of erasing one’s own small desires for the benefit of children become normalized and invisible across generations. The author’s haunting question—”Did our mother want those bread crumbs herself?”—underscores that the caregiver’s own wants are often never considered, even by their loved ones, establishing a pattern the author finds herself continuing.
Q3: Why does the author describe dining alone in a cinema food court as a “cornucopia of pleasures”? What makes this experience so powerful?
A3: The pleasure is not solely about the food. It stems from the experience of pure, unmediated autonomy. She enjoys the complete freedom of choice (what to eat, when, and why), liberation from the responsibility of setting a healthy example, freedom from the mental load of post-meal cleanup, and the absence of having to consider anyone else’s preferences. This uninterrupted, solo decision-making and consumption become a rare and potent act of reconnecting with her own independent will.
Q4: How does the author’s act of bringing home a half-eaten, crushed brownie complicate the idea of “selfish” self-care?
A4: This act shows that reclaiming the self and fulfilling caregiving duties are not mutually exclusive. While she indulges in a private pleasure (eating the brownie for herself), her instinct to bring a piece home demonstrates that her identity as a provider remains a core, integrated part of who she is. The crushed brownie on the table symbolizes a synthesis: she has successfully claimed a moment for herself and is still connected to her family, offering what’s left of her experience. It challenges the notion that self-care is purely selfish, presenting it instead as an act that can coexist with and enrich caregiving.
Q5: What broader social issue does this personal narrative illuminate, and what are the potential solutions it hints at?
A5: The narrative illuminates the widespread issue of caregiver burnout and the systemic erosion of individual identity within family structures, a burden that falls disproportionately on women. It points to the mental load and emotional labour that go unrecognized. Solutions hinted at include both personal and structural changes: personally, giving oneself permission for guilt-free self-reclamation; intergenerationally, fostering conversations about sacrifice; and structurally, advocating for partnerships that equitably share domestic labour and for policies (like flexible work) that support caregivers, thereby reducing the pressure on any one individual to completely subsume their own desires.
