Of Careers and Creches

Today I want to muse a little on parenting - as loyal readers know, it is one of my favourite topics. Mostly, it's a chance to say unkind things about The Child, who is, thankfully too preoccupied with a pile of books borrowed from the library last week, to get back at me.

I attended an interesting session at IIT today. I was the "Chief Guest" at the creche in the campus. I agreed to go simply because a friend of mine asked me and I found it hard to say no (she is most accommodating and I owed her one). I was a bit hesitant at first, 'cause I didn't have a ready made speech to give. I know, I know, that has never stopped me before, and it did not stop me today either.

I laid out a salwar kameez to wear then on the spur of the moment ditched that and wore a sari. It was a purple-ish one and I wore matching earrings and a bindi. My parenting moment involved the walk to school to drop the child off, during which she laughed loudly and informed me that all three were different shades of purple, and nothing matched. Oh well.

My parenting philosophy has mostly revolved around Role Modelling. I can't for sure say that it has worked out super well for us or anything. But it is something that makes sense to me, and it gels with my own personality. Some aspects of role modelling are such that it can backfire on you - for e.g. the fact that I wake up early and run regularly leads to a certain disdain for running, for sure! But so be it! I am hopeful that in the future she will be somehow inspired by it, and last week I distinctly heard her say "I need some exercise now, it has been a while since I had a proper workout."

Speaking of creches, I think an important thing to bear in mind is the fact that all the feminism and equal rights and lack of a glass ceiling and so on falter at the altar of early motherhood. I know that in the absence of a high quality day-care center, on campus, right close to my work place, with a reasonable philosophy of child rearing, I would not have managed to have a career.

I could have handled a job, yes, I would have worked for sure, maybe simply because I am not very good domestically, but having a full fledged career would have been well nigh impossible without a set-up such as the one I was at this morning [My own early motherhood was dedicated to a sister concern that is in IIT Bombay, where the child went from the time she was 16 months old].

For that reason among others, I am immensely grateful that such things exist today, unlike when I was a baby. While the grandparents are super awesome and are any day better at parenting than any creche (or myself), the guilt I felt for putting them through the whole feeding - diaper changing - nap-time - and other routines of babies, was strong. Plus I think for a single child, having a set-up outside the home and some friends and non-family adults to interact with, were valuable.

It was a great walk down memory lane for me today. It was nice to introspect a little and tell the eager young parents that were in the audience, that the "Food Battles" are really not worth it. It was so hilarious to think about how much I used to agonise over her food, considering that she is 3 inches taller than me now!! I tried to convince them that it has been one of my failures as a parent.

Most of all, it felt good to do this informal session and spend the rest of the day mulling over the various things said and heard this morning. As we move on to Phase two - 'Parenting a Teen' - due to happen soon, while all is said and done, it has been a really wonderful journey. Although it sounds geeky to say it, the apple of our eye has grown to be a good (if distinctly disobedient) friend, and perhaps when she reads this she will recall those early creche days with fondness...

A long-ago memory captured for posterity

   

For the love of writing

At the end of it all, when I think about the reasons why I love this little space of mine, it boils down to just that. The love of writing. The joy in seeing words form in my mind and find their way to the keyboard and then on to this nice little template on blogspot.

Admittedly, 2016 has come and gone and I have very little to show for it. I used moodle a fair bit for my course and even that was not with the same degree of enthusiasm as usual. Aside from that, I wrote a number of articles of a general nature for The Wipro Chennai Marathon's public outreach. The most fun I had was when I wrote for our magazine The Rundown. Here have a look at something I recently put together, just some irreverent stuff in the context of The Wipro Chennai Marathon.

From The Rundown, Dec 2016 Edition

I like my alter-ego Maami Thayir Saadam, or MTS. She has gotten around to saying things that I wouldn't have said as Preeti, or KPBM, for that matter. But it's a tag team effort with the one and only ludwig for the column (not that he is a Maami, though he could be I suppose!) and so it may be that we have to fight it out for our space there at some stage, we'll see!

Meanwhile, having finished with the myriad responsibilities of 2016, which left me breathless and with barely a minute of time for myself, I am glad to be back here, doing what I like to do on a Saturday evening! (Having spent Friday evening putting together a little space for my course, over here). 

A page for my current course

I am also determinedly attending to my twitter and facebook handles, I won't repeat what I said over there about the annual pilgrimage to the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon, go see it over there, instead! 

Oh I suppose I will do this. The child, monster, as it was referred to earlier times, does occasionally use the opportunity to diss me in public, on her own blog, at The One Blog To Rule Them All  as she likes to call it. Do have a peek and give her some back pats once in a while. I do rue the day I set up the page for her occasionally, as my name is dragged through mud, but I guess it's all a part of the joy of motherhood! 

Till later then. 

London Marathon and So On

Thank you random google searchable website with such cards. It captures the essence of my relationship with my daughter perfectly! Though the visual is quite off. She is about an inch taller than me now, and it may interest you to know that recently, she outgrew her crocs, passed them on to me, and bought the next size. 

It has been an interesting summer, for sure. Last summer, in one more of those incessant food battles at home, I had thrown her a challenge. I asked her to grow taller than me by the end of the summer, and Show Me. It was awesome for me that she didn't manage that last year, but then the time to gloat has passed, and I am officially the shortest person in our house, plus have the smallest feet.

We had a great trip to London. I ran the Virgin Money London Marathon, it was amazing. It was my dumb luck that the day of the marathon turned out to be a super cold day. I barely sweated, and held together very well for a long while, running even Kms. The last few Kms were tough, I was still a bit cold, but no big. Met the family at 40th Km, gave me some mojo, finished in decent spirit and time (4:24), felt strong but was very cold. By the time I settled down near the other Indian runners, my lips were blue and all the clothes I wore were of no use. Thankfully, after a coffee and a hot bath, I felt fine!

The week long vacation we had after that was really fantastic. We did a walking Harry Potter tour (Muggle Tours) which was incredible, 'cause it was super geeky (so child lapped it up and answered all the questions before they were even asked). We did the Universal Studios thing also, which was alright. Butterbeer was terrible. Ugh. SO SWEET. We went on a Beatles walking tour (cute), saw Matilda (amazing), Mousetrap (super), rode everywhere in the tube, went to the Lord's Tavern (glug), drank some awesome beers (mmmmm...), cooked in our apartment (why not, dammit?), lost a scarf in Hyde Park (but found it again), & stood on the Prime Meridian. 

That motherhood gig

It has been a while since I talked about this whole being a mommy deal. I think the last time I complained about how the child liked all things pink (and purple). Well, we have come a long way from there. Now, she calls these two colours 'vile' and 'hurting to the eye' and says they must be avoided at all costs. Her favourite colours are, apparently, blue, and green.

Not that I am not complaining about this. We built a whole bedroom and bathroom based on those colour schemes (by and large), and she barely deigns to use those. And I couldn't find blinds in a matching colour so went with a neutral brown which is what most of the house has, and that, apparently, is a reason to avoid her room. And the monsters that are under her bed (precious little space down there for monsters, but hey).

My niece is now a bonafide teenager, and my nephew is getting close. My child is up next (still a few years away technically). We had the kids over a few months ago at home and it was pretty nice, overall, so I am hopeful that those years won't be as scary as they are in my head. But it is fair to say that I have turned to be a very different mother than in my ideal-case scenario.

I wasn't a dreamy sort of pregnant girl, in fact, I was a shit scared pregnant girl who was pretty miserable most of the time through those months. Despite the fact that I was healthy as a horse (a healthy horse, that is), and had not even a sniffle to complain about. I had edema of course, but big deal, everyone does. It was stressful and busy so I didn't dream forward to when my baby would be nine years old or anything.

But I had some ideas. That I would be a 'cool' parent that wouldn't be too hung up. That I wouldn't lose my temper at my child, or ever raise my hand at her (or him - didn't know that I would be lucky enough to be blessed with a baby girl, I was secretly hoping for a girl of course, but didn't want to say it out loud just in case). That we would read and sing and study together.

Maybe reality is a little bit different. Instead of getting the 'best of both' - the good characteristics from each of us - she seems to have inherited a healthy mix of good and bad. Which is how it invariably is, of course, but damn frustrating. Anyway it doesn't matter a whole deal because everyday I discover that however much she annoys me, it doesn't change how I feel about her. Which is very different than how I think about the adults that I love.

Yes, I am worried about teenage, and college, and her friends, and their parents, and everything. I think I am ready for the challenge, I feel confident (sometimes) that I will deal with it, but I do worry. And when I look at her after she falls asleep at night, I feel so overwhelmed with worry and emotion, it hurts. No, I was not expecting this back in March 2004 when I was sitting around sweating miserably in the Mumbai heat.

Around the world in eighty clicks

Parul and chox, thanks for the tag. Here goes. (I am nothing if not verbose).

Rules:
Guys, you need to post 5 things that you love about being a mom/dad) and find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country ..and to leave a link to the post at HBM, who started this tag.

What do I like about motherhood? Five things I like? FIVE things? You have GOT to be kidding me. You mean FIVE as in one less than the number of fingers on Hrithik Roshan’s hands? FIVE as in the number of years old the monster of a child of mine is? Is it not too big a number? Oh well, if you insist on it. Though to balance things out I do think that one should also be asked for at least five things that one hates about it. Or at least dislikes. You know, to be absolutely fair and all.

* I do enjoy the absolute sense of purpose it gives to your life. I mean I do have my job and I am a hundred other things such as a daughter a wife a daughter-in-law and all that jazz. But none of them have given me that sense of fullness, that feeling that ‘Ah ha! I am a somewhat important bit of flesh on this earth’ as the fact of being a mother. As always, what I like are the details. The innumerable little things to put on the list of things to do and pack (and not forget), such as extra crayons, and clips, and juice.

* Bibliophilia, I mean bibliomania. It is in the eyes. We walked into Landmark yesterday and two pairs of eyes were searching furiously. Found the corners and then that was it. No one could talk to either of us, we were like possessed creatures. Thankfully, being thirty years older, I came back to earth with a thud, quickly grabbed the Aseem Kaul, and dragged a reluctant monster out (clutching some book, of course). But those are times when I KNOW that this child is mine, that it has some of my genes. Otherwise it is hard to tell since she looks so much like her father and as far as I can see is so different in nature than me in other matters.

* The father. Other, wiser, better, saner moms than I have said this. But it is true for me as well. I love the man who is the father of my child a lot more now. And though he would never admit it, and cribs incessantly that this obsessive mommy-kenny is a poor shadow of the former Kenny, I am super sure that he is lying. He has been trying to convince the monster about my powers (whatever they might be). She has resisted believing him, probably recognizing it for what it is, blind love.

* I am a teacher, I suppose I cannot help it. It is quite in the blood with the weight of whole generations of the BunkPort family. And one of the good things about being a mother is that I can pretend to teach all nature of things to the hapless soul that has to spend so much time with me. Needless to say I learn a lot more than I manage to teach, which is in any case my aim in life, to masquerade as a teacher so no one thinks you are mad for going on reading and solving problems simply because you like it. And being a mother gives me unimagined opportunities for indulging in this pastime.

* The monster is a monster, despite the denials of some of my well-wishers and friends. They say be careful what you name the child, it will weigh upon her, and make her that. Well, that is clearly the case here. She periodically exhibits absolutely monstrous behavior, as befits her e-name. But her other name, the one we have picked out of love, she lives up to that one too (albeit occasionally). And those are times I cannot help feel that heart-wrenching love for her. And please I will stop now because I do think that it is as important for a mother to love as to let go and not impose too many expectations on her child.

I am really supposed to tag someone. But all (most of?) the mommies I know are tagged. So that leaves me the lounger, who is, of course, daddy^2 from Bengaluru, for perspective.

Being Invincible

Those days are gone. Just vanished. Poof. Behind now, not coming back.

You know, the days when I could wake up at 5:30, go for a most grueling session of basketball, come back, shower, breakfast, pack bags, cycle to school, sing loudly in the assembly, attend classes, eat lunch, play kho-kho in the free class, dissect a rat in the practical session in the afternoon, cycle home, make a chart for the science exhibition, do my homework, eat dinner, polish NCC shoes and go to sleep with dreams of the morrow.

Also gone, the days when I could sleep at 1 am, wake up fresh at 7 am, brush, bathe, breakfast, go to the 8 am class, come back starving for the 11:40 lunch, eat, brush, chit-chat, wear the khaki and go to workshop, come back, eat bread pakoras (and digest them), go play basketball (not so grueling though), come back, shower, eat, go to audition for a play, chit-chat, drink miles of tea, park the bum in the corridor, cut out a crossword to take to the class tomorrow (hey!), put the clothes pile on the mat on to the bed, and lie down and go to sleep at 1am, dreaming about the dumb charades competition on the morrow.

Irreversibly behind me, micro-waved cinnamon-oatmeal (1 packet), shower, wear layers of clothes and sneakers, run to the bus, in by 7:30 am and working away for a fair bit by the time the rest of the gang showed up and clamored for coffee at 9:30, very sweet American coffee, lunch at 11:30, simulation jobs on every computer accessible to mankind, graphs, emails, more coffee (even sometimes half a donut), take the bus back home to a mish-mash of rice, dhal and veggies cooked in the rice cooker as Seinfeld plays in the back, desultory reading of papers, phone calls to New York, going to bed a little disturbed but confident that the light would appear tomorrow, and at any rate, a soccer game at 3 pm, must not forget the cleats.

Age has surely caught up with me as waking up at 6:30, milk, coffee, sandwich, PUTTING the dabbas in her bag, telling her the road is smooth because of the road-roller and the road-roller is smooth because we made it so, and also very heavy, and, no, they did not run the road-roller in those parts with pot-holes, but they will do it soon one hopes, and yes, it is true all this was a forest before human beings built such big buildings there, and surely it is best that we are happy with what we have and not keep on worrying about what we don't have (such as several arms similar to the branches on trees), and no, I just know the white birds are here but am not sure why they like to be near my office, and okay bye its good you want to walk in to the class alone and I will just stand here a little far way and wave, see you sweetheart at noon. And here at the desk on firefox and two emails later I am just tired.

Yes, my invincible years are behind me. Its not her fault. Children should question things. They are born scientists. Mothers should have known not to exhaust themselves in earlier lives.

Motherhood and apple-pie, of course

The writing of the monster's birth story made me think a wee bit about ideal, perfect, beautiful, serene mommies, and myself. Who is nothing of those things. Usually the first reaction of people when I tell them I have a four year old daughter is disbelief. Part of that might be because they are being polite, I do it too, you know. I always tell women that it is very hard to believe that they have such grown up children, and sometimes, I am being only partly truthful and partly saying it because I like the smile they give me when I say that. But I have to admit that part of that disbelief might have something to do with what I project myself as. And what a 34-year old, much married, mother of a child is 'supposed' to look and behave like.

I was supposed to climb into the back of a Sumo yesterday. There was slush all around so one had to step from the pavement to the little foot-place on the Sumo directly. The girl who was ahead me hmmed and hawed and finally heaved herself in. When she saw I was behind her she offerred me her hand, you know, to pull me in. I should have felt insulted. Heck! my daughter could have climbed in yaar, and you are giving me a hand? Poor thing looked quite shocked when I just un-lady-like-ly hitched up my salwar and literally bounded in. My neck hurts some in recent times. My abdominal muscles have sort of given up the fight, I do moan and groan about how old I feel. Sometimes. Most times I run around like a headless chicken (I have absolutely NO economy of movement. Its sad. With age one is suppose to acquire that poise and that stately regal bearing. I am on my toes so much, literally).

So that stuff is all when the monster is not around. When she is around with me, we pretty much always hold hands. Most times if she jumps across something, so do I. People laugh at me, I suppose, but I don't care. I talk to her using giant big words, virtually no coo-chie-coo things. I have conversed with her since she was even more little. She has always nodded wisely, repeated the strange sounding words out loud, and used them in the most inappropriate of places leading to a combination of embarassment and pride (for us, as parents, who let their child say things like 'I am sufferring here' at the age of four). I avoid some of my vocabulary in her presence, but few, countable words - idiot, stupid and fuck mainly. I say shit a lot, sometimes soften it as shoot, though not always, but nowadays she scolds me saying that is not nice to say. Pretty much no other barriers here.

Sometimes we drink at home, without making a big deal about it. Many of our friends, and some of our relatives drink too. Some smoke, though they walk out onto the landing when they light up. It is not a big deal. No one really hides their drink. We don't call it 'juice for adults.' We tell her its beer or whiskey (or coffee or tea), and thats the end of it. She is hardly interested beyond that. There was one time my husband and she were in the store and he suddenly discovered that our friendly neighbourhood supermarket had started carrying alcohol. He went 'Slurp, maybe I should pick up some B E E R for myself' (spelling the word out, that is). She promptly went at the top of her lungs 'Appa you want to buy beer?' much to the chagrin of local aunties out shopping. In a way I was glad I wasn't there since surely they would have all looked disapprovingly at me, this bad mother. I would have been obliged to smile at them at that. They would have further thought me mad. Well, maybe it would have been interesting. Anyway the husband burst out laughing.

So here is the madmomma, from her recent post -

"And yet, the moment you become a parent, you are supposed to stop being the person you were and just fit this stereotype. No more bad language, no more TV, no more listening to the heavy metal (only Mozart) and no smoker friends hanging around. And then some. Suddenly you’re a homogeneous bunch of women who are supposed to lose all other interests the moment you begin to lactate."

Her plaint really made me consider the truth - that while I love my child immensely and feel real lucky to be her mother, it has never crossed my mind that I have to change myself, now that I am a (drumrolls) MOTHER. There has been no pressure, virtually. I continued to hang out with the men at work, who, fathers or not, did not seem to particularly alter tendencies of drinking chai endlessly or complaining about the accounts department, or whatever. Our friends (few and far between as they are) were the same ones we had before parenthood took us by storm (or whatever). True, I had to lie low for a bit, catch up on much needed sleep, avoid alcohol when I was pregnant/feeding, and such other things, but I do think that nothing has changed at the core. Or, for that matter, on the outside of me. The clothes I feel comfortable in, the shoes I normally wear, not liking to get wet in the rain, these things are the same.

It is, of course, true what they say. Having a child changes your life entirely. Of course. Starting a new job changes things dramatically too. Having a parent come and live with you changes things. A new city makes your life feel very different from that other one, for one, the traffic is much more crazy, and the streets are really not clean at all, and the weather is just nuts. And we all grow up, from not liking aviyal at all, turning your nose up at it when mum made it at home, to making it yourself with full enthu, and sitting down and eating a second round of it. But this stuff about re-inventing yourself (into mommy-mould), shunning old friends (maybe because they drink or smoke), changing your religious beliefs (so you can give your child something of that), and whatever else because you are now a mother, sorry, I just could not do that. I suppose I considered it for a bit, but four years out, I think the discovery is really that it is impossible for me. I am just the same old Kenny, only older, and cooler, because I now have this monstrous side-kick of mine, this mini-Kenny to inflict on people, in addition to myself.

Which is all fine and dandy, but sometimes, I would give a body part away for the pleasure of an evening out at Totos, without a care about the time or place.

Back to 2004..

The story of why suddenly after seven years of marriage we decided to take the plunge, so to speak, is a longish one. Fraught with emotion and all that. Many of you who know me personally have heard the genesis of the child's name and so on. We will not go into that. This is a birth story, purely.

I was HUGE. I mean, humongous is the only word to describe it. For someone who started off at 5ft 1in and 48 kgs, I had come a LONG way in the eight-odd months. When my thirtieth birthday rolled around in early april, I was huge and quite uncomfortable. But the baby was doing well and had a tendency to stick its tongue out in ultrasounds. Its nose seemed to be big, in keeping with family tradition. The due date was in early May though I was sure (as was everyone around me) that I would not last that long, considering my size. I was quite healthy (not even a single touch of cold or other things!) and actually quite active, going on walks with mum and working the whole entire time. I also managed to retain my tendency to stress about everything under the sun from the beginning, and had several trips, including one to Germany for work, in my second trimester.

I was going for these exercise classes too, once (or was it twice) a week. We would drive all the way to Bandra, with a little bag containing some biscuits and juice and what not. I was in this room full of pregnant girls, each one looking more beautiful than the other. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my neck having turned all black and brown, and my disproportionately large belly (even for a third trimester). But I LOVED the exercises. It was some yoga like thing. Whatever. Since I could not do anything besides walking and this, I really spent the whole week looking forward to the class, the teacher being a floozy notwithstanding.

She advised a regimen consisting of duck walks and squats and so on and so forth. I did them all diligently. I was up to some fifty squats and many duck walk sessions by mid-april. This stuff is supposed to help with normal deliveries. The ob-gyn had not said anything to indicate it would be otherwise. My mum had her doubts, you know, because even for a family of small people, I am small. But she kept them to herself until after, because I was so gung-ho about a normal delivery. My logic of course being that I am athletic so I should be able to do this, easily. (I am dorky sometimes!). On hind-sight, whenever I brought up the topic of pain-killers during delivery the doc would quickly move on to the next thing on my list.

The last week or so before I went in was real painful. I had itchy spots all over. My blood pressure showed up high one time. I was a bit stressed about some responsibility at work (which I managed to fulfill two days before the hospital). The head had fixed and it was exerting immense pressure. I was in pain and that itchy stuff. We tried barley water and neem and all external things but finally the doctor prescribed some anti-histamine (which I did not want to take, I think I just took one dose of it finally).

At the hospital, we were whooshed through the check in. Clearly my labour was not progressing fast or anything. They prepped me anyway and left me to languish till the doc came. I did duck walks and squats and read all the baby mags again and asked mum a billion questions and made the husband again promise that he would not gallivant away anywhere. Finally the doc showed up (on hind sight I love her, though at that point I was a bit uhhhh). She took one look and declared, we need a C-section tomorrow afternoon.

I was shocked to say the least. I pushed her saying I am strong, I can do this, I want a normal delivery. Honey, she said, the baby's head is bigger than the space you have in your pelvis whichever way you look at it. I was like, but doc, you never told me this last week. She was all calm and composed and said, fine, if you don't believe me do this Xray test that will tell you in numbers. You engineers will only believe numbers right, she joked at the husband and me and left.

I was quite a bit disappointed. I am not scared of surgery. I am scared of very few things that I need to do. But I was so all ready for the pushing and scratching my husband's hand and also, at that age I was very proud of how strong I am, despite my small size. The husband never has opinions on these things, just mirrors what he sees in my face, so he was also a bit disappointed. Anyway as I was being wheeled to the Xray thing (they refused to let me walk, although I assured them I was quite capable of it!), we both simultaneously reached the conclusion that we did not need the Xray. If surgery was what it was meant to be, so be it. We had thus far trusted the doc and I had a perfectly healthy pregnancy, even if I was so big. We did not want to expose our little baby to the Xray, even the ultrasounds we had managed to do the minimum number. So...

The hospital staff was quite irritated but they brought me back. Mum started laughing at us. We called the doc and told her our decision. She said good. Don't eat now till morning. Uck. I was hungry. And a bit worried. Constantly checking on that monitor thing that the baby was fine and so on. So big I could not sleep. But at least the itchiness had subsided somewhat.

In the OT they made a fuss about my husband being there. He stood up to his full height, used his charm on the doc, and with extreme excitement donned his scrub and hat and showed up. I was excited. I could feel them cut me open, it was pain of a sort, but I could bare it (maybe the anesthesia helped :-)). And I was super confident that with my husband there and the doc there things would be just fine. When they started exerting the pressure on my chest it hurt like hell, and I was constantly feeling like throwing up and asking the nurse who just smiled at me.

It was all over in what felt like minutes. The husband was beside himself with joy. Jumping in his green scrubs. The baby was a pink-faced, curly-haired skinny but tall girl. The feeling at the sight of her and at the sight of the grin on her father's face is undescribable of course. But I was tired and still feeling pukey. They sewed me up, the doc all the time exclaiming at how good a cut it was and how nice the baby was. That feels good huh, when the doc and others tell you your baby is 'beautiful' (even if it does look like a little red monkey).

The first few days after the surgery were painful. I was super worried about feeding. I mean, I extremely strongly felt like the baby should be completely breast-fed and did not want my surgery, anesthesia or anything to interfere with that. She kept sleeping though, much to my worry. In five days I was home (I stayed an extra day simply cause I was quite sleep deprived already and looked tired) and we started getting into a schedule and what not.

The surgery itself was fine, no complaints. Over the years I have come to agree with the doc that the incision she made is 'beautiful'. The baby's head was nice and round, which is a good advantage over the normal delivery. :-) My incision healed super well and super fast, it has never prevented me from doing anything. Eight or nine months after that I ran the Mumbai 7k race (and trained for it with 3k runs for about a month or so). Feeding was no issue, my worries were unnecessary. She took to it real well, of course I do hope that it helped that I was completely over the top quantitatively organised about it. I did some sort of a diet, a combination of things the hospital said and things that mum knew.

And today, four years down the line, I feel comfortable and happy with the whole thing. Yes, I wanted to experience the normal delivery thing, but that might not have been great for either of us. I more importantly wanted to ensure that my baby was fully breast-fed for six months, and I managed to do that despite everything (like going back to work, stress levels, whatever). My incision has healed so well that I can hardly find it sometimes, though when I twist in weird shapes sometimes there is a pull. If I managed to retain so much of my preggie tummy post-surgery, well, it has been a good challenge to go from there to here (though I still have a bit of it still!). I had no back pains to speak of. I have done crazy things - we travelled five times in her first year, I corrected exam papers the first week back from the hospital, I let anyone who wanted to carry her carry her, I massaged her myself, and I bathed her myself with help from husband initially and then mum, I could sit-stand or whatever was required, and I have run races every year and have been kick-boxing starting with 2005. Yes, to some extent I got myself stressed and got headaches from the combination of stress and lack of sleep. But really, overall, the birth experience was a very positive one. Its all in the mind of course, its how you choose to look at it, and I look at it as a fun day out and feel blessed and lucky about it.

Ironman Triathlon

Well, I wish I could do that. I don't know to swim (contrary to popular perception, I have learnt three times and forgotten all three times). I am wary of cycling. But I can run. Anyway, the triathlon is surely wishful thinking as of now. The Ironman is, well, just completely out of my league. But be that as it may.

Yesterday, I suddenly realised that the iron-board was creaking under the weight of clothes sitting atop it. Skipped the morning exercise thing (anyway the gym is closed on Mondays; my running partner has scooted to the US for the summer; my walking partner (mum) is back home) and decided to attack the creature bravely.

First, the tiny little t-shirts, mostly pink in colour. Have to be ironed ulta so the graphics and letters don't melt.

My dad was a chronic iron-er. He needed EVERYTHING, by which I really do mean EVERYTHING, neatly pressed. His shirts and pants went to the dhobi. The lazy old man in the place opposite. They got stacked in the godrej. Prior to wearing the shirt, just prior to it, he would fire up the box and iron out the wrinkles where the sleeves were folded and so on.

Okay, moving on to the handkerchiefs. Whats this? Holes in all of them where they were safety pinned to the t-shirts? Oh well.

His bathing was a ritual. Most irritating when I was next in line. Recall it fondly now. Towel, undie, banian, dhoti, all white with that ridiculous Robin Blue happening all over it, all ironed and folded in specific ways had to be kept ready. He would take eons to bathe. Drag this huge copper pot of cold water over himself PSCHAAK. Mum would yell. DON'T LIFT THAT HEAVY POT. To no avail. Later, mum did the needful and hid away the pot so the man had to bathe using a mug like a decent human being, or at least a human being with a heart condition.

Uff. These interminable shorts. Why bother ironing stuff she wears only at home? At night?

Me, on the other hand, was (still am) quite a casual bather. Not to mention demonstrating a distinct tendency to iron my school uniform salwar knee-down only (which is the only part that showed under the kameez; and yes, in 11th and 12th, we had to wear these horrid salwar-kameez uniforms). The skirt with pleats was at a younger, healthier time. Dad would try to iron it for me but usually the pleats frustrated him. He would mutter disapprovingly if I suggested we give up on the ironing totally. I did not care much. But, he would not hear of it.

Ah, beautiful frocks that the monster cribs so much about wearing. What's this? White lining material? Nice. Irons well.

Mum has, in their long years of marriage and togetherness, picked up the ironing bug. She is markedly more efficient of course (mum is almost synonymous with efficiency. bustling with efficiency is a good way to describe her; in her walks, cooking, cleaning, gardening, everything). For long years she maintained a semblance of normalness at home, ironing the towel and so on quickly, so that it would seem that the only reason dad did not get to iron his own clothes is that mum got to them first. Not that his shoulder was dislocated last night. Not that this morning he is still reeling under the medication. Even when he was in the hospital for the nth time, he was allowed to wear his own clothes, and they were pristinely ironed.

The pants are all of varied lengths. Barbie proclaims this one (yeah right! bought it at 50 bucks). Everything is short for her. This devilish creature with her daddy's long legs.

Although it has been years since a dhoti has been ironed in my presence (or, for that matter an undie), everytime I stand here at this nice ironing board (bought by my father-in-law, a man I have never seen in front of an iron-box. When we go out for dinner though, he is the most smartly dressed, his sons look like crumpled heaps next to him :-)), I remember those days. The smell of a long time ago. A snaking coiling iron-box wire that I burnt innumerable number of times. Our special, sturdy, huge, ironing table with the cabinets below that housed my 'home clothes.' Oh, even those patches of Robin Blue Blue on dad's white towel.

I WILL iron the monster's clothes myself. Next year, I will have her school uniforms to do. I do hope I remember how the pleats should be done.

Monstrosities

I should really be working, but something ludwig said prompts me to write this. choxbox has previously expressed displeasure at my calling the monster monster. Here you go, my justification.

* It all started with airspy. Only she was not spying much those days. Was a straight forward single plaited girl in a green salwar kameez. Kids are monsters she was fond of saying. Her dislike of children was the stuff of college legend. She used to claim that she had three children locked up in a safe in a bank. I know, these things are politically incorrect now. Like you can look at me and go 'Hi Kenny' but you are forbidden from saying 'Hi Kenny... Oh! You are standing up, I thought you were sitting.' Like that. But in the early 90s political correctness was not big on our agenda. We called bald people bald, short people short, and fat people, well, fat. We called young looking people Kiddo, also.

* I was never one to say anything very bad about children. I have a young cousin whom I loved very much; even back when she was a rat-like baby a day old and smothered in kajal and stuff (who, it turns out, is a charming and beautiful adult now). I have other little girl cousins slightly older than her that I love quite a bit (but did not meet as often). Children in and out of my home were treated reasonably well by me, except for a brief year or so when I tried to scare them using my teeth braces and crazy hair to advantage. The younger sisters were always treated (I hope) well, indulged, fed, dropped to dance class and so on when I was old enough to do such things (since they occasional read here they can of course let the skeletons out of my closet and inform the junta about my ill-treatment :-)).

* Airspy went on to have her lovely little children, long before I even thought about it. Many of the other girls from college stepped in and met that challenge too. I was still wary of the whole thing. Until one fine day, the forces conspired and then I was finally mentally ready. Don't worry, corny lines won't show up here. :-)

* And then my sister had her children. I was bowled over in love with them. I adored the ground they walked on. I used to take like a hundred pictures every time I visited them. My husband loved them too. I guess we were just in that place in our adult life. When I was pregnantly fat (there I go again), I used to vaguely wonder if mine would be cute like those two. Was it even possible to exceed that cuteness, I used to wonder, looking at old pictures of the two of them and so on.

* I absolutely love and adore my little girl. I was fully expecting a boy (everyone had predicted as much, based on shape of tummy, my general ugliness during pregnancy etc.) but heart of hearts I wanted a girl. Which is this one. She has a very special name. She is named after two of her great-grand fathers. Both of whom we loved immensely. I cannot use that in this public space. Rather I don't want to. I can't get enough traction with other forms of endearment, it prevents the writing flow you can say. So I recalled the monster bit from college the instant I needed to refer to her here, and it stuck. Yes, its an 'endearment' - like you say sweetie pie, I say monster! (sloch used to call her brat) Of course, it helps a lot that she is quite monstrous in her behaviour. At least as she grows older, and we find ourselves in several more disagreements in our views on things. Many of them are my own making and fault, a something I admit to once in a while, but still there are these traits that she has...

* In conclusion, she is a monster and will be one till she is big enough to see eye to eye with me. Which should take a year or two at this rate. But when I call her on that I don't mean any harm so the animal rights type people needn't worry. At least I have not tapped into my scatological sense and used those names here. She is loads of fun to be around, I love hanging out with her. It is only difficult being her parent, cause her parent has to discipline her, scold her, listen to and answer her questions, and feed her. Those are hard things. I work really hard at them and therefore vent about it. So please, just go with it? Don't report me? Please?

Wicked Wizard

The wizard was a dude wearing sunglasses and a naaasty banian (the kind I hate, with the long arm holes and tendency to show too much man cleavage). He strutted around with a broom and sang well and danced well too. Except that the pelvic thrust thing when they are in naaasty off-white pajama pants is well, a bit off-putting to put it mildly. Dorothy was good, nice high voice and that ability to carry a note strongly and for long (always makes me wonder what is inside their throats when they do that). I think the lion & Dorothy had a thing going, they seemed to hug far more than was really required. The lion was quite funny, and behind the painted whiskers and inside that orange suit, he must be a nice looking (if thin) boy, with a very good sense of humour.

Yeah, so I went and did one of the things I promised to do. The play was quite nice, if a bit weird for a four-year old (she was damn scared of the wicked witch). I laughed a fair bit. She hung on to me for dear life throughout. The bearded dude sitting next to her was totally going crazy cause mine child was whimpering like Toto for some strange reason. But it was a good bit of fun. Something different.

I managed to avoid all the expected melt-downs due to missing of the afternoon nap through clever strategies. Oh yeah, I did manage to get back to the missed calls I had had during the show so that the massive machinery that is my office-life did not come to a thorough stand-still due to my one afternoon of frivolity. I was expecting a very hep mother-crowd. But no. Most people smelled, including this little boy (ten years old maybe), who was stinking so much that I considered moving to the back of the line. Its called talcum powder and is available in handy sizes in every road-side shack-shop, people, please go line up now.

I drank a nice warm coffee in the ride back and she ate the white cream part of the mousse cup. Fine, I got some calories from that mousse thing, should have known that it was coming to me before I bought it. My resolve to be super-super-cautious through the week about junk food has gone a tad bit off, but hey, no regrets now! Though I do regret this morning's 'Laziness and Sloth' diatribe. I had woken up at 5:30 and done all the things I do of a morning. It was 10 when I reached office. I KNOW I said I am sort of taking it marginally easy what with it being summer vacations for the monster and all, but I just HATE spending so much time at home in the morning. I like to wake, efficiently go through the morning routine, get dressed, and get to work. BAM. Anyhow, I should have breathed deep and moved on.

Today afternoon I plan to unwind into the weekend by working from home while she sleeps. I usually end up being much more efficient when people are not coming up to me with their inane ideas and suggestions every few seconds. And I really need to be efficient and write up this very important thing that I have been putting off for eons now. Lets hope monster will co-operate and not (a) get coughing bouts during her nap (b) insist on neck-strangling me when she sleeps.
Deep breathing will surely be required.

Crazy Kenny

Usually my motherly duties leave me gasping for breath and breathers and (mostly figuratively) reaching for that Vodka Chilli Shot. The monster has consistently gotten one over me. Sleeping habits. Colds. Food. Chewing. Teeth. Clothes. Shoes. Hair. TV. We are always in a tussle over everything. Constantly carping. Even before she could utter words and would just sort of drool at me if I said anything she objected to. And then break into plaster-shattering mode.

Of course we agree on a lot of things. Being nice to people. Using our key words. Eating healthy & not pigging out on junk. Books. Obsession of books. Hatred of TV sports and action-adventure AXN type movies that the male in the household watches. We keep at each other (now that she can talk, and boy can she TALK!) and make sure we follow these rules. Keep each other straight. Thats too much chocolate Amma, she will say. And she is of course right.

But the things we are perpendicular (err maybe concentric?) to each other in seem to far outweigh the other stuff. So my brow is routinely scrunched up. Her brow is also starting to scrunch now. I do tons of introspection, read here and there, decide on a few strategies to deal. Simple things like don't sweat the small stuff; give her options; explain the situation in simple words; and so on. Minute I conquer one of her crazy things she comes up with another one. I have not had the foresight to come up with a strategy for that yet! Heck, I don't even know what its going to be. When she was a baby, I sort of knew. Okay folks, the potty thing is going to change in consistency, watch out now. Bingo. She will hate her solid food initially, but we have to keep at it. Bingo. She will get out of her morning nap habit. Bingo. She can use bigger shoes; longer stories; writing/drawing stuff; puzzles; speaking, crawling, walking well I was all over those things. Knew what and when to expect, and most importantly, how I should behave.

But who the hell knew I would have to have a 'discussion' with her on clothes? Naively I thought I would stick to my golden rules (100% cotton, everything in the cupboard washed and ironed, a banian inside every dress, etc.) and all would be fine. But matching shoes and rubber bands and why not to wear shoes and socks when its forty degrees out and mix-and-match (my favourite style mantra) vs. matching (her favourite, pink tee with pink pants; green spagetti 'stripe' monstrosity with green shorts) vs. contrast matching (our usual meeting point and middle ground)? I shudder. 'Boys clothes' is another big one. I used to shop in the Young Boys section (for myself that is) till quite recently. They have groovy sports clothes (which is all I usually care for). She will not even wear this spectacular yellow spider-man tshirt. Her preferences are lacy, flouncy, asymmetric, pink, blingy sets. Much to my horror she has recently taken to looking for the tag that says 'Lilliput' in anything I suggest she wear. My preference (especially in this weather) for her are boys shorts and colourful Tantra t-shirts. Problems galore, as you can see. Yeah I know I should just give in, wear what I want and let her wear what she wants. I do that. But I hate it okay? I absolutely detest fussy clothes and loose noise making jewelry. Its so damn distracting.

Recently though, like say, oh, in the past week or two, we seem to be on real good terms. We eat mangoes, we love it. She wants to take mangoes to school. I refuse saying not unless we buy enough mangoes to feed all the children. I will sit in the kitchen and eat she says (she means the kitchen in her play school). You can sit in our kitchen and eat it I say. But finally I promise that I will check with the teacher and get mangoes for everyone one day. She is happy. I try to push it and say why don't you and I make a big cauldron of fruit salad to give to all the kids (what a fantastic summer idea eh?). She won't have any of this though. Thats okay, she is likely more sensible than I am, it would mean plenty of work on a week-day early in the morning. I am not so energetic these days in my old age.

I explain to her about how her school aunties, our maid, our cook, all wake up early and make food for their own families and then show up to help her through the day, and are working hard but smiling all the time. She likes that. She promises to work hard. She quips that Appa is lazing usually. I ask her when he leaves for work. Early. When he returns. Late. See, I say, he is working really really hard at office so he needs to laze when he is home over the weekend. It makes sense to her. What about you, she says. Now this is where I have the choice of upping my quotient right, 'cause she is so receptive right now. But I don't, thank heavens. I tell her I work a bit at office and bit at home so it adds up to hard work. Again it makes sense. But children are playing and being silly all the time she says. Ah-ha. Well, this one is easy to tackle. I do. The whole conversation is nice, I am not frustrated, I think I know this girl a little now, just got to explain calmly and logically, she understands.

A friend came over yesterday evening. This girl used to be our neighbour and it would drive me nuts that they were all constantly in and out of our houses, disturbing the elder sister who was studying and messing things up and what not. I mostly went with the flow and let them do what they wanted at least in the evenings and on weekend mornings, but it used to drive me absolutely crazy. The past week since they moved away to another flat has been quiet. We both go to the park. Talk about snails. Do some writing. Practice eating by hand. Make a salad for Appa (only for him somehow although I quietly wolf down a large portion :-)). I was sure she was missing her so I put in extra effort to be fully free to hang out and play with the child. Which was really therapeutic at least for me (in my defense, even if I was free she would not give me time of day when the friend was around so I slowly gave up on it). And yesterday, I invited the girl over, she spent an hour or so and somehow it was much much better all around. No fights with each other or me. Both quietly drank some milk shake and ate a biscuit and wrote on parallel white boards for almost the entire hour. Then we adjourned to my computer and they nicely asked for music from Race (!) and I obliged and they danced. After a long time I felt like things were in control, and I don't hate anyone and things are not going to reach boiling point. We ate dinner with my father's version of the Blue Jackal.

I know that most of the problem originates with me. What the hell is my problem with pink? I don't know. What is the big deal if she sleeps a bit late one day (well, she gets real cranky the next day and everything is doubly difficult when she is tired from lack of sleep. At any rate she is not a very sound sleeper and has been known to wake up and yell 'Appa stop torturing me' at 3 am when the husband rolls her in her sheet and tries to overpower her into keeping herself covered). Oh well, maybe it is not a big deal. So what if she eats lunch a bit late (same reason as above). Is it the end of the world if she punches a child who has been annoying her? Am I a bad mother if I turn away when she kicks sand back at that one (she sucks at such things and usually misses anyway)? Is TV SOOOO bad that two minutes in front of it will fry her brains (I sort of do believe this though it does not make scientific sense. :-)). So what if she asks questions like 'If you fainted one day in Cambridge while jogging with Appa how come you are still sitting here?' (Her friend - same one above - told her that if anyone fainted they died and never came back. This was further reinforced in some serial grandparents were watching on TV a long time back). Should I project into future heart-breaks and worry my ass off simply because she cries her lungs out when someone leaves the house? (she stops the absolute next second anyway). Why do I STILL RUN into the room when she cries out for me? She is FOUR and can possibly run faster than little old me considering her long legs and is more than capable of coming over and finding me if she wants me, really.

I guess its up to me, mostly. At least for this month I resolve to chill out and enjoy this whole business. Cut the stress. Make a scrap-book thing about snails. Watch a play (or two). Cut out of work a few days (mental health days we used to call them back in Grad School), just like that. Be productive. Eat healthy cause that is the best way to get her to eat healthy (meaning eat fruit we already consume immense amount of veggies). Enjoy year four (and thirty four).

Life is so complicated...

I have been debating the whole entire day now. From the moment I woke up and saw the husband moonwalking out with his backpack. To my one open eye he whispered 'I am staying over there tonight' Its a testament to the solidity of our marriage that I did not bat that one open eye. Even as the mists of early morning sleep cleared, I knew what he meant. He is working late tonight and has a dinner to go to after, he has an early morning set of things at work tomorrow. So, on my expert advice, he booked himself a room in swish south bombay hotel.

Which sounds like a real sensible thing to do if you have ever met the Mumbai traffic. Or had the privilege of living in Powai and hauling ass to Nariman Point every single day of your weekday for six long years, morning and night. (Gosh! It feels almost like I have done this commute when in actuality its the husband person.)

So, coming back to my debate and complications pertaining to my life. This dinner tonight. It turns out, I am invited. Its late, so of course, the monster is *not* invited. Its in someone's place, I am getting the jitters thinking about how spectacular that house (not sure if its a flat, could even be a bungalow, rowrrrrr) must be, considering the guy (and his wife) are so so hep. I would usually dismiss this invite with a laugh and some snide remarks. Mentally filing away brownie points for myself about my whole attitude to parenting.

This time around is a bit different though. My mum is around. I am a bit worn out from the semester. My exam just finished today; the class is small. I am up-to-date on several things at work (which also goes to show that I have the time to write this blog post in the middle of an afternoon). The experience could be fun. But then, it means, leaving the monster back. Going away for the night (OH MY GOD!) Although its just here, it makes virtually no sense to get back late at night by myself. What about her potty? Night-time susu breaks? Dinner? Will she miss me? Will she mind? Will she cry? Will mum get really stressed out managing her? Will she be rude to my mom? Will she be mean & show her true colours and embarrass me thus? Will I regret the whole entire thing? Am I just doing this for the sake of a couple of drinks and a half an hour of conversation with my husband? (provided he does not get a phone call or email during that time from Singapore) How will I get there? Carbon foot-print issues?

For a girl, the only question I could answer comfortably and easily was, What will I wear. Yeah well, I thought about it. My orange shirt will be fine. Screw you for remembering that I bought it in Filene's Basement about ten years ago, I still fit in it (sort of), so there. There is nothing to think about in terms of footwear 'cause obviously my well worn Liz Cs are the only decent things that I own. I tend to slip a little in them since the heel is so worn out, but thats fine, manageable! Those other questions though are killing me.

But I am going anyway. Mum is game enough to manage the monster for one solitary night. And if she starts something or refuses to sleep, there is always the option of making her skip the creche tomorrow and just relax at home. Considering that mum had a good relaxing day today (apart from a trip to the supermarket in the middle of the day), and is lounging around in her brown nightgown, I am sure she can handle it. And one day, I will pay her back for it by being good and putting my clothes away as soon as she reminds me the second time...

I am ridiculously silly, I think its safe to say. Someone cut the cord already.

Taming The Tempest

I have a mutiny on my hands! The little monster has acquired a new skill. A set of spectacular tantrums have been witnessed around the home in the past week or two. I was expecting it at the magic age of two, thought that I had seen them actually, and that in the two years since then, I was confident that the foundation of good responsible behaviour had been laid. I did not exactly sit back and stretch my arms out on couch backrests (I love to do that, I feel like I AM THE KING!! when I do that), but, yes, I did feel moments of some comfort that despite being such a crazy person myself my child seemed to behave itself in most situations.

But now its MELTDOWN time. I am getting to a point where I am reluctant to step out in public with this mutinous monster. I kid a little of course, but it has acquired this temper for sure. Brows knit, little hands on its hips, it stomps around the house going NO I WON'T DO THAT. I DON'T LIKE THAT. Although I do feel like having a good chortle at it, after the third of fourth time of telling her to do something and her giving me lip, I lose it and give a nice yell. That results in a nice session of loud plaster-shattering cries that Bianca Castafiore would have been proud of. Volumes of tears flow down. If I ignore it, the cries crescendo out and stop after a while. If I react they subside immediately but no amount of reasoning will completely put a stop to them. The chances of relapse are fairly high. Of course, the option of just giving in does not particularly arise except in rare situations when I go with the 'don't sweat the small stuff' philosophy.

I am tolerating some of it, ignoring parts of it, having long chats sometimes if she is in a pliant mood later, losing my own cool and throwing my very own special tantrum (when I think I can get away with it, or when I am really really tired), but the best bet is actually humour! I laugh at myself, how worked up a four year old can make me. How I am having this conversation with her that is going nowhere.

"So this red dress looks nice right?"

"NO THIS RED DRESS IS BORING. VAAK"

"But this is your favourite thing. Perfect for school"

"NO ITS NOT PERFECT. I DON'T WANT IT. VAAK VAAK VAAK"

"Hey thats quite enough now. Stop it right now. Here wear this"

"NO I WON'T"

So by this time it is quite clear to me that I have two choices (a) Give In and Let Her Wear What She Wants or (b) Give a Tight Slap and Beat Her Into Submission. Not much to do with these choices cause I never hit her so it would be quite useless to do so especially when she is feeling so rebellious. And she does not particularly know what it is she wants to wear, just that it cannot be what Amma has picked out. Which, come to think of it, is quite funny (and possibly quite smart of her considering my non-existent fashion skills). Much to my own mum's discomfiture, I have thrown open her cup-board, she is welcome to rifle through it and pick up things she would like to wear. But she is just such a chick, I swear, she can never decide what it is she wants!

It is the same with going anywhere, doing, eating anything as well. I say one thing and she completely goes ballistic. I dread teenage all over again. The only good thing out of all of this is that I get to periodically throw tantrums, mutter to myself fuck this shit I swear I am going to slap this child, and generally yell and scream. Its good tension release, its been a while now, have been sitting with this stick up my mommy ass...

Putting a baby-sitter

Did I hear anyone say motherhood was all pink and wonderful and a walk in the park? Hmm. They are clearly not leading my life. Motherhood is all about re-living your own childhood and developing extreme amounts of respect for your own mother, and the institution. Nevertheless, I survive. I enjoy MagicPot and Jigsaws and Bhindi and Paavadais, and even, the colour pink now. The monster is, well, a monster and a geek, but she is my monster and geek, and I am partially (at least) to blame, so we chug along. Of late, she sounds quite adult, and amma-monster days (meaning weekends when the husband has gallivanted off to Bangalore for work) are actually loads of fun (if tiring). We visit the Supermarket; we talk about spellings of everything we see around us; we buy random pieces of clothing from the roadside (and resolve to donate away equal number of our older clothes); we withdraw cash from the ATM (she loves to press that button on our way out); we go to the library.

Mid-day, if the sun is a little high, we get into an argument. You are annoying me. YOU are annoying me. You don't talk that way to me. YOU don't talk that way to me. Want a time out? Ugh, you smell (Of chocolate, apparently, should I feel guilty for the chocolates I devoured last night or should I wonder if mine child has lost it?)
We have a nice loud session of this. She cries. My temper flares. My temper calms. She cries some more. We throw each other off. Then we hug, and cuddle. I advice her. Her replies are at a tangent. She has finished with this conflict, and moved on. I am not done. I get the distinct feeling that she thinks I am her friend. Which is good. And bad.

Now when its the three of us during the weekend, the ups and the downs are much more pronounced. Its great when we eat our dinner together. Or rather, she eats by herself while we are still in the liquid part of our dinner. Its wonderful to take afternoon naps together. I always try very hard and stay awake till they are both asleep and snoring, slip out, and watch songs on MTV. Its awesome to go grocery shopping together. I don't have to drive either the car or the cart. She is a perfect doll sitting up there in the cart with appa pushing her. But when its mid-day and the sun is high! OH! She does something really silly. I lose it first, but gain it back soon. He loses it and loses it some more as she cries. One look at his face and she dissolves into tears (usually starts off sounding quite fake, if you ask me). I have to play middle-man. Which sucks. I want to either just cry loudly or just lose my temper loudly. Middle-man has to be calm. Reach a resolution. Identify the source of the conflict. Ugh.

So we had this guest over on Friday night. Nice guy, friend of ours from a long time ago. Yes, from college, and he and I went to graduate school together as well. He is interesting because generally he knows everything about the life of all the people that went to college with us. I mean, everything, not just a vague recollection of the continent they reside in. A yearly meeting can be used to get up-to-date on all the good gossip. And so it was, I racked my brains and came up with names of a lot of folks, and, as expected, he gave me all the dope on them (or at least the dope that he considered fit for my consumption). Of course I asked him about his own family and kids and we exchanged some parenting tips.

In the typical tamil way, he says to me, "Why don't you put a baby-sitter for your child? Then you can have some free time." AAh Put a baby-sitter, as in find a person who will substitute for you, so you can enjoy yourself. What an interesting thought! It has barely occurred to us! I recall an older lady last year during our trip to Udaipur. She looked me in the eye and said, "Your child is too active, why did you not bring her ayah on the trip? You will tire yourself out this way" She is a nice person so only expressed shock and surprise (and not disgust) when I told her there is no such person back in Mumbai. Its us. And, of course, the weekday creche, which is GREAT LET ME NOT HEAR ANYONE SAY ANYTHING AGAINST IT GODDAMMIT.

I sent off friend with (a)I am a very involved parent (b)We don't think baby-sitters can work (c)Bit mad no, we are?
I am sure he will work these bits into his spiel about us when he next meets other people. But its fine. He is not a malicious gossiper. He is one of those who genuinely wants to have as much connection with his friends as back when we all lived together on the same campus.

But seriously, I want to put a baby-sitter now. I dreamed of going to a movie, eating dinner calmly without worrying about why on earth the tomato soup is so damn hot every time, visiting restaurant bathrooms secure in the knowledge that no little hands are touching the walls when your back is turned, holding hands, taking a walk, talking about mutual friends in disparaging ways (just to let off steam guys I really do love you, don't worry), swearing a little bit, riding escalators in our usual fashion - me a step higher so I can put my hands on his shoulders without stretching, shopping in dusty second-hand book stalls by myself and not worrying about dust and cough and is it time for dinner, sitting in coffee shops and watching people without having to worry about her falling off the chair she is climbing from the back, an endless list of simple silly things I did without a thought that I should be storing up on them.

But seriously, its all good. We all make our choices. Of course we go to movies and dinner and coffee shops and any bookstore that happens to be there. She comes along. She enjoys it, never cribs. Its more work for us, of course, but its all good. At any rate I don't think I can find a baby-sitter that will let me guiltlessly go forward into the night. Grapes are sour. Hell yeah. Goddam you, Just back off, will you....

Children's Day

Is it not parent's day today, the monster asks when I tell her that its Children's Day. I was too bored to explain Chacha Nehru (whom Appa hates), and birthdays, and roses, and crisp sherwanis and Lady M.Batten and so on, so I just left it there, saying, no, everyday is Parent's Day and some such. The school seemed to have arranged some magic show with a clown and so on. This I learnt late at night sort of obliquely in the middle of conversation about what else? crying and avoiding the-kids-who-pinch.

The play-school is undergoing renovations. The ladies are all super excited. Kitna Posh Lagayga! they are walking around exclaiming. I am forced to join in their joy, though I am thinking, god, these guys are working so slowly, its so damn dusty, some kid is going to bang its silly head on these tiles, and so on. Anyway, the supervisor requested that parents volunteer at the school since the teachers and the care-taker ladies were super loaded with moving to the temp location, and cleaning and clearing out and over-seeing the renovations.

Mother-guilt forced me to haul-ass over there at 4 pm sharp on Children's Day. Thinking in my head, the monster is bound to be asleep, I can be useful to them for a little while at least. Of course this pink creature with her hair all piled-up nest-like on the head emerged sleepy-eyed the minute I showed up inside, sidled up to me, and started mewling. Now, if I had anticipated this (which I should have), I would have mentally allocated 10 mins of mommy-daughter time. Perhaps that would have helped. As it happened, right at that time, the idiotic fellows doing the renovation broke this whole wall right next to a pile of books, making the books look like they were rescued from collapsed buildings. Alarms went off. Our books Our books. If anything tops mommy-guilt its book-love so I drifted off to help with this issue, leaving the pink-mewler in the able hands that deal with her EVERYDAY.

The supe-lady and me, we had this surreal conversation with the main guy (good-looking, thin chap) doing the work there. Please move these books here, we told him. Okay, he said. Hey You, he called out to an old-ish guy. The old-ish guy showed. Move these books here, he told him. Hmm said the guy and proceeded to carry some tiles from here to there and back again, on the outside. We went back to the main thin chap and said, Okay, get the idiot who kept his shoes on the cupboard (referred to generally as KAPAT) to move them. Hey you, he called out again. Nothing happened. My blood was reaching higher temperatures. Supe-lady is calmer. The shoe got moved. There are guys all around going on with their business as if the world is turning because of them, including one who was on the floor scraping cement off with his bare hands, I think he was supposedly cleaning.

Now, when I volunteered for this stint here at the play-school, I was imagining, hanging around with the kids, in a circle, enthralling them with my rendition of Karadi Rhymes, getting them to smile. Taking them to su-su, in a line. Resolving pinching-scratching-Katti quarrels. And talking intelligently to the cement-covered guys and moving and shaking stuff. Most of all, I did not want to touch anything in the old place, because my skin is hardly what it used to be and it was too damn dusty and cement-y in there.

So of course what I had to do was move about 500 books from the cement enclosed shelft on to the other KAPAT. Dig around in the other, old KAPAT, find poster colours, sheafs of papers with childish scrawls, chart paper, etc. and move them. It took us upwards of half and hour.

When I returned, I found that the largest girl (okay, one of the) in the play-school, looking for all the world like a very pink bunny with a birds nest on her head, had been crying all the while, going AMMA AMMA AMMA. It was a combination of Puke-Crying and regular stuff. No actual puking but you know.. I was really exasperated. The aunties gave me some tea, which was very welcome. I managed to calm it down finally and we hung around singing rhymes. There was a small fight involving pinching. All the kids made cameras from lego and clicked my picture. The boys were running around like maniacs screaming about fighter jets.

Thanks to the intervention of my friend, I calmed down, and we got home, somewhat on talking terms with her. The neighbours asked the usual How was School? question. I immediately said, OH she cried so much when I went to help out in her school. Why, did you do that, they asked her. Because I wanted to be with Amma and I love her very much. she said.

OUCH!

Theme Parties, Event Managers

Those are normal words you can use these days when you consider Kiddie Birthday Parties. Apparently. Its fine, I can live with it. Thankfully, on Sunday was a theme party, not involving an event manager. Being a-social and all, we rarely get to go to parties of this kind, but this time, it was unavoidable. Meaning the hosts live next door so we had to be invited, of course.

The theme was Pirates (shudder!). I suppose its fun for a kid. There were swords in golden and purple, with scabbards and everything. A treasure chest, gold & silver coin chocolates, a pinata with chocolates, little chocolates all over the house as treasure, a pirate ship cake with a pink wafer sail, yadayadayada.Oh yeah, these swell eye-patches too, for all the kids.

I, being of course, totally clueless about such matters, was not of much help to the host-mamma or host-elder-sis-in-charge-of-games. I hung around, looking less bored than I was, mopped up some apple juice some kid spilled, and tried very hard to convince a particularly annoyingly screechy kid to lower the volume a tad. And when the boys charged at me with their swords saying they would attack and kill me, I told them I would fight back with a hug. They would poke my (fat) tummy with the sword, & I would smother them with a hug. They were quite cute though, despite such weird behaviour from what looked suspiciously like an aunty, they talked to me again. I stuck to my theme of hugs for the entire evening. I was surely not going to indulge in sword-fights with kids, that would go against my everything.

My husband supported me very well by disappearing to the gym for most of the time of the party; returning all sweaty and scaring the kids in the hallway (there was a relay race for pirate treasure going on at that time; my daughter and I were sitting on a parapet wall & watching & wincing), and then speaking on the phone for a continuous hour. Then he asks me (as if I have sole rights on such things), would you do a pirate theme party for our child? So I say, no, of course not. How about a Princess, he says. No, of course not, and he knows it too. He shakes his head, and says, oh the poor child, will curse her parents so much. Well, let her.

What are pirates & princesses anyway? What do they even mean? Do the kids understand what the words even mean? The only princess I know is that one in Jean Sasson's books. Should I talk to my three year old about that, now? I did ask her what a Pirate was. She confidently told me that he is a person who looks for treasure. The treasure is gold, she said. What is all this, really? Why don't I have a theme birthday party on Human Rights or Global Warming?

I have lots of battles to fight with mine child in the future. Already today I was under fire because I dressed her in (what I thought was) these really cute little pair of green shorts & a black t-shirt; and Simmie (school friend age approx. four) was in a pink skirt with twinkly things on & a white t-shirt that had ties here and there. Much upset at her amma was my child. And this is a constant tussle these days. If I say skirt, she says pants, if I say pants, she says frocks... And I cannot get myself, with my own hands, to make her wear shiny twinkly fussy lacy things to school!!