Saw TZP over the weekend ( review on We are like this only) which led us to reminisce about the teachers we had through school. It was a mixed bag - there were some who were truly inspiring, there were some who were lazy or boring or just plain cruel, and there were some who made you feel ten feet tall...
There was Mrs. Bhattacharya, who used to teach science or something. Quite the sadist, if she found that someone hadn't done their homework, she used to bang their head against the wall. Her nephew was in my section and used to come in for this treatment quite regularly. The Hindi teachers, way back in primary school, would give you poor marks if you expressed an honest opinion, as opposed to the 'ratta' answers they had dictated to each question.
Pankaj Sir - who taught maths - was known as Paan Chabau because of his habit of chewing paan, and woe betide you if you sat next to a window. Streams of paan would come flying past at any point of time during his class, and you were easily liable to get some red flecks on your white uniform. Our PE teacher, in line with the general trend in Delhi schools, had trouble with his English. Like an 'angrezon ke zamaane ke jailor', he used to divide the class into three halves. If you ever interrupted him in the middle of a conversation, he'd say, "I talk she talk, why you coming middle middle?" He also used to ask for windows to be opened so the climate could come in. He frequently made us do something which I still haven't figured out the real name for - 'Table cards' exercises!
Our maths teacher, Mrs. Kharbanda, loomed large in her stern glasses, plaited greying hair and rather colourful clothes. If you ever asked her a question, she would turn to the class toppers in Maths and ask them if they had understood. As soon as these toadies nodded yes, she'd turn back and say, "If they can understand, why can't you?", and rap you on the knuckles with a wooden ruler. I have a feeling that she was responsible not only for my fear of maths but my feeling, throughout my educational career, that I was not capable of understanding maths.
Mrs. Raman was our chemistry teacher from class 6. An extroverted, fast-talking Tam-Brahm, she really got us all excited about chemistry. She had a way of talking which would make the subject come alive. One of the weird things I remember from her class was a ghost story she narrated about someone who was driving down Purana Quila Road late at night in the winter and suddenly found a white film on the windscreen. When the wipers couldn't wipe it away, the chap got out to wipe it off himself and found it was just not going. Then he realised it was a supernatural presence and started reciting the Gayatri Mantra. The thing vanished and he drove home at a terrific speed. Funny mix of the arcane and the prove-able, eh?
Our English teacher in class 6 was Mrs. Chawla. She used to be stern, with cat-shaped glasses and her salt and pepper hair always in an immaculate French roll. She was no-nonsense and all of us used to be scared of her. One day, right after the exams, she called me up to the board and asked me tio wipe it clean. As I was doing so, she turned to the class and said, "This girl has done something I didn't think any of you were capable of." I froze in place, wondering what terrible thing I had done. She went on, "She has come first in all four sections in English, and scored over 70%." I was so relieved I hadn't committed any sacrilege that it took a while for the news to sink in. Our English teachers always used to be fun - young, excited about the subject and thrilled if they found someone who showed any signs of prowess.
I continued my love affair with English teachers through my years at American school too. There was Mrs. Morano - one of the original flower children, and I wouldn't be surprised if she'd gone to Woodstock. She taught Advanced English, and made us read Romeo and Juliet and A Separate Peace, The Catcher in the Rye and the Bible. She gave me a special assignment once to read and interpret part of Milton's Paradise Lost. Mrs. Banck was more easy-going and lots of fun, and again, passionate about her subject. She took us through Beowulf and Macbeth, Shakespearean sonnets and the Romantic poets. As a result of the English teachers I have had, I have always loved reading and writing and the analysis of literature - it seems like something that is necessary for a full life.
So much of who we become and what we enjoy gets shaped by our school days. The attitude of teachers towards each and every student is so important in shaping that person's view of himself or herself, in their self-esteem and how they perceive their own abilities. The impact of the school days and school teachers is lifelong. If only we as a society would recognise the criticality of the function they perform, and pay them fittingly for the influence they have on our children...
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Promises, promises...
The end of the year is an interesting time for me. Typically your work-related appraisals happen now - where you appraise your team and get appraised by your boss. Together you review what you set out to do or accomplish in the past year, and what you have managed. You also look at a SWOT - strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, threats - and chart out a growth and development plan for the next year. Most people hate this time of year, but I personally like this process. I feel that you can't plan where you're going unless you know where you've been. Doing this at work is one thing, but I have never done it on a personal level. I never got into the hoopla of New year resolutions either.
But this year, with two kids and a busy life, it occurs to me that I should learn something from the process and apply it to myself as a mother, wife and daughter. I need to appraise what I have been doing all year versus what I should be doing ( as defined by the kind of human being I want to become), and to set goals for the next year. I need to make certain promises to myself, to my husband and to my kids and then see over the course of the year whether or not I have managed to keep them. And I need to make promises to myself too. The Bible has a lovely story called the Parable of Talents, whose message is that each of us is given a certain talent by God. If we do not make the best use of it that we can, it is the same as not having been gifted that talent in the first place - which is not only a disrespect to God but a disrespect to oneself. So keeping that in mind, let me think about the good and bad and sort out the things I need to do.
Things to change:
1. I need to listen more and worry about clean hands less. When Chubbocks and his little sister are busy trying to tell me about their day, I need to stop looking at their mud-encrusted hands in shock and horror and open my mind to their words and expressions. Soap and a cast-iron digestion will take care of the rest.
2. I need to spend more active time with them, teaching them things. I used to be more active about it when I worked part time and of late have played a much more passive role.
3. I need to be less impatient, especially with Chubbocks. He really is a pretty good kid and extremely well-behaved for the most part. (NB - that applies to A also).
4. I need to worry less about Chubbocks's eating. He won't eat more if I worry more, and worrying less will certainly aid my digestion.
5. I need to be more strict with Chubbocks about his TV watching.
6. I need to be more regular with ensuring Chubbocks takes things to school for show and tell. I also need to help him with his developmental needs as set out by his teachers - not getting distracted, completing work on time...
7. We need to take Puddi about with us more. It is a problem stage because she loves running about and picks up the most inappropriate things, but she needs it.
8. We need to be more organised about our mountain of family photographs, and they need to be labelled and to be taken out and enjoyed at frequent intervals.
9. I need to try and be more organised about paperwork, especially financially related, and about my clothes.
10. I need to spend less...money.
11. I need to - every now and then - just put down everything I'm in a frenzy over and try to answer one fundamental question - Will this matter to me three years from now? And take a deep breath.
12. I need to get on that treadmill and get ready to participate in the 2008 Delhi Marathon.
Things to continue:
11. Laughing and playing with my kids, husband and parents.
12. Spending time in and effort on the garden. It really nourishes the parts other things can't reach.
13. Experimenting in the kitchen - that gives me both mental and heart satisfaction - mental because it's creative, heart because for all the feminist vibe, it warms the cockles of my heart to see my family relish something I have cooked with my own two hands.
14. Writing - it's something I stopped doing a while back and rediscovered a couple of years ago. It satisfies a deep-rooted need in me, and the creative urge to write has only gotten stronger with each blog or page of story that I write.
15. Saying I love you to the most improtant people in my life regularly. Even if they know it. Even if I forget it.
But this year, with two kids and a busy life, it occurs to me that I should learn something from the process and apply it to myself as a mother, wife and daughter. I need to appraise what I have been doing all year versus what I should be doing ( as defined by the kind of human being I want to become), and to set goals for the next year. I need to make certain promises to myself, to my husband and to my kids and then see over the course of the year whether or not I have managed to keep them. And I need to make promises to myself too. The Bible has a lovely story called the Parable of Talents, whose message is that each of us is given a certain talent by God. If we do not make the best use of it that we can, it is the same as not having been gifted that talent in the first place - which is not only a disrespect to God but a disrespect to oneself. So keeping that in mind, let me think about the good and bad and sort out the things I need to do.
Things to change:
1. I need to listen more and worry about clean hands less. When Chubbocks and his little sister are busy trying to tell me about their day, I need to stop looking at their mud-encrusted hands in shock and horror and open my mind to their words and expressions. Soap and a cast-iron digestion will take care of the rest.
2. I need to spend more active time with them, teaching them things. I used to be more active about it when I worked part time and of late have played a much more passive role.
3. I need to be less impatient, especially with Chubbocks. He really is a pretty good kid and extremely well-behaved for the most part. (NB - that applies to A also).
4. I need to worry less about Chubbocks's eating. He won't eat more if I worry more, and worrying less will certainly aid my digestion.
5. I need to be more strict with Chubbocks about his TV watching.
6. I need to be more regular with ensuring Chubbocks takes things to school for show and tell. I also need to help him with his developmental needs as set out by his teachers - not getting distracted, completing work on time...
7. We need to take Puddi about with us more. It is a problem stage because she loves running about and picks up the most inappropriate things, but she needs it.
8. We need to be more organised about our mountain of family photographs, and they need to be labelled and to be taken out and enjoyed at frequent intervals.
9. I need to try and be more organised about paperwork, especially financially related, and about my clothes.
10. I need to spend less...money.
11. I need to - every now and then - just put down everything I'm in a frenzy over and try to answer one fundamental question - Will this matter to me three years from now? And take a deep breath.
12. I need to get on that treadmill and get ready to participate in the 2008 Delhi Marathon.
Things to continue:
11. Laughing and playing with my kids, husband and parents.
12. Spending time in and effort on the garden. It really nourishes the parts other things can't reach.
13. Experimenting in the kitchen - that gives me both mental and heart satisfaction - mental because it's creative, heart because for all the feminist vibe, it warms the cockles of my heart to see my family relish something I have cooked with my own two hands.
14. Writing - it's something I stopped doing a while back and rediscovered a couple of years ago. It satisfies a deep-rooted need in me, and the creative urge to write has only gotten stronger with each blog or page of story that I write.
15. Saying I love you to the most improtant people in my life regularly. Even if they know it. Even if I forget it.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Coloured thoughts
Yesterday was a Christmas fest at Chubbocks's school, with grandparents especially invited to attend. As usual Chubs insisted on wearing his uniform rather than dress up, and sure enough, when we got to school, everyone else was dressed up in red and green, and there was Chubs in his purple sweater...! I sure bought temporary peace in the morning by letting him have his way but later at school, I got an earful from him about how I had put him in his uniform. Can't win.
Of course, he did stand out from the sea of red. By the way, his new filling between his front teeth had fallen out day before when our friend butted his teak head into my parents' bed ( did I mention, the headboard has a 6 inch wide crack in it now?), so he was back to being known as hole-in-the-teeth by his friends.
Puddi had been tagged on to the jingbang since she loves going to his school. She was busy walking around the grounds with a proprietorial air as if to say, "This is my school".
After the carol singing ( cute but discordant), came the art activities - painting, colouring, making sparkly candles and such. Chubbocks picked up a lovely christmas tree to colour. He has a definite talent for art which we noticed a while back and encouraged by giving him water colour paints and crayons to work with. All the spare paper in office ( the wasted printouts etc) are commandeered by me as his art paper. Some months ago, when he was still in playschool, he had made a gorgeous painting, mixing up interesting combinations of colours and coming up with what he called 'Happy'. Yesterday, he painstaking coloured inside the lines of the christmas tree. He used some lovely colours and made sure he didn't leave any spots uncoloured, but somewhere the artist and freespirit in me was weeping when I saw how careful he was being to colour inside the lines. Even when I tried to tell him it was ok to colour anywhere he liked, he insisted that ma'am had said they were supposed to only colour inside the lines.
Part of me knows I'm overreacting and that it won't permanently kill his creativity if he learns to stick to the instructions. And a very small part of me, truly a very small part, is a little bit sad that ma'am is now his arbiter of behaviour and not mom. But mostly I'm wondering why they have to learn to colour inside the lines, and why they should get points for doing so, rather than for creativity and expressiveness and being their own, wonderfully quirky and different little selves. What do you think?
As an aside, later at home, he drew a grey-violet something which he said if you looked at right side up was a house on fire, and from the side, was a playground. So weird quirkiness seems to be alive and well.
Of course, he did stand out from the sea of red. By the way, his new filling between his front teeth had fallen out day before when our friend butted his teak head into my parents' bed ( did I mention, the headboard has a 6 inch wide crack in it now?), so he was back to being known as hole-in-the-teeth by his friends.
Puddi had been tagged on to the jingbang since she loves going to his school. She was busy walking around the grounds with a proprietorial air as if to say, "This is my school".
After the carol singing ( cute but discordant), came the art activities - painting, colouring, making sparkly candles and such. Chubbocks picked up a lovely christmas tree to colour. He has a definite talent for art which we noticed a while back and encouraged by giving him water colour paints and crayons to work with. All the spare paper in office ( the wasted printouts etc) are commandeered by me as his art paper. Some months ago, when he was still in playschool, he had made a gorgeous painting, mixing up interesting combinations of colours and coming up with what he called 'Happy'. Yesterday, he painstaking coloured inside the lines of the christmas tree. He used some lovely colours and made sure he didn't leave any spots uncoloured, but somewhere the artist and freespirit in me was weeping when I saw how careful he was being to colour inside the lines. Even when I tried to tell him it was ok to colour anywhere he liked, he insisted that ma'am had said they were supposed to only colour inside the lines.
Part of me knows I'm overreacting and that it won't permanently kill his creativity if he learns to stick to the instructions. And a very small part of me, truly a very small part, is a little bit sad that ma'am is now his arbiter of behaviour and not mom. But mostly I'm wondering why they have to learn to colour inside the lines, and why they should get points for doing so, rather than for creativity and expressiveness and being their own, wonderfully quirky and different little selves. What do you think?
As an aside, later at home, he drew a grey-violet something which he said if you looked at right side up was a house on fire, and from the side, was a playground. So weird quirkiness seems to be alive and well.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
An Interesting read
All about us - parents that blog - is an article in NY Times. Do you agree or disagree with the reasons as to why we blog?
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Reluctant Romeo
Tharini's cute post finally made me get off my a and write about some little incidents which have been amusing us lately. Chubbocks, for some reason, has always been a favourite with the girls in his playschool or at the playground at home. He is a relatively gentle boy so maybe that has something to do with it. His proud dad was reporting to me some time back about how when Chubbocks was running around in the park, all the little girls would turn around and watch him, and some of them would bring their candy to share with him only. I think dad was a little j:)
Anyway, a few days ago, one of the little girls in the colony ( all of 3 years old) had gotten all dressed up to attend a wedding. Then this little girl insisted on coming over to our place to show off her finery to Chubbocks, because, "I'm going to marry him when I grow up!" ( Kids really start early these days).
Chubbocks is of course least interested and busy playing by himself. So the little girl comes up to our lady - and complains, saying, please make Chubbocks marry me.
I asked Chubbocks what he said and why. Chubbocks - I don't want to get married. I just want to stay home with you and dad and Puddi.
Grandma - But someday Puddi is going to get married and move away.
Chubbocks - Who's going to let her?
*************************************************************************************
In the same vein...
Many years ago, before A and I were married, we were chatting with some friends who had a little daughter. The husband says, when his daughter starts dating, he's going to follow her around. Ha ha ha.
Another friend says he's going to look for an orphan to marry his daughter so he can be a ghar jamai and the daughter never leaves home. Ha ha ha.
Some time later, after we've had Chubbocks and another couple have had a daughter, the husband says, when she grows up and goes away to hostel to study, I'm going to take up a job as the warden to the hostel. Ha ha ha.
Last year, after Puddi is born, A says, why do girls have to grow up? Why do they have to get married?
I ask - So are you also going to become the hostel warden?
A says - No. Who's going to let her go out of the house anyway?
Joke's on him!
Anyway, a few days ago, one of the little girls in the colony ( all of 3 years old) had gotten all dressed up to attend a wedding. Then this little girl insisted on coming over to our place to show off her finery to Chubbocks, because, "I'm going to marry him when I grow up!" ( Kids really start early these days).
Chubbocks is of course least interested and busy playing by himself. So the little girl comes up to our lady - and complains, saying, please make Chubbocks marry me.
I asked Chubbocks what he said and why. Chubbocks - I don't want to get married. I just want to stay home with you and dad and Puddi.
Grandma - But someday Puddi is going to get married and move away.
Chubbocks - Who's going to let her?
*************************************************************************************
In the same vein...
Many years ago, before A and I were married, we were chatting with some friends who had a little daughter. The husband says, when his daughter starts dating, he's going to follow her around. Ha ha ha.
Another friend says he's going to look for an orphan to marry his daughter so he can be a ghar jamai and the daughter never leaves home. Ha ha ha.
Some time later, after we've had Chubbocks and another couple have had a daughter, the husband says, when she grows up and goes away to hostel to study, I'm going to take up a job as the warden to the hostel. Ha ha ha.
Last year, after Puddi is born, A says, why do girls have to grow up? Why do they have to get married?
I ask - So are you also going to become the hostel warden?
A says - No. Who's going to let her go out of the house anyway?
Joke's on him!
Monday, December 10, 2007
Indian Born Confused Desi
There have been a lot of blog posts on the topic of culture and integration and all that so I thought I would put in my two paise on it.
I'm pretty familiar with the integration game, having been born and brought up in Delhi to Kannadiga parents. My parents were very clear that the mother tongue was kannada, and moreover they hated the 'hinglish' type of language, so we spoke in only one language at a time, which at home tended to be Kannada or English. Hindi was the language de rigueur everywhere else, though in those days, it was considered more hip to speak English with friends. We ate primarily Karnataka food and celebrated all the festivals with great enthusiasm, be it 'gombe koodasodu' for Dasara or Ganesh chathurthi. Mom would invite all her friends, which included a huge bunch of TamBrams for arshna-kumkuma - haldi-kumkum, as well as all our neighbours who were from all parts of the country - Bengalis, Gujaratis, Kashmiris and Punjabis. It was never a matter of either embarassment or superiority to be different from other people in some ways.
At the same time, Holi was celebrated with great gusto, and my parents made sure we had plenty of gulal and pichkaris at home, along with mithai. Christmas was something dad initiated us into, with Jim Reeves playing on the music system through December, and a little Christmas tree at home and presents being snuck under our pillows. Some years we just drew a Christmas tree on green art paper, decorated it with gold and silver foil from cigarette packets and pasted it up on a wall, with tinsel wreaths all over the house. Dad always used to bring home a Christmas Plum Cake, stuffed with nuts and raisins, and it always seemed as special a time of year as Diwali.
My mom's family is a polyglot one - they speak Kannada with grandpa, Telugu with grandma and write to each other in Tamil! My mom was brought up in Delhi and has spent most of her life here - so what does that make her? Of course, when she lived here with her parents, they brought non-assimilation to a new high, mainly because ajji was extremely traditional and orthodox. They weren't allowed to have friends who weren't south indian, they weren't allowed to eat anything outside, with North Indian food a particular taboo, or even fruit and vegetables that ajji considered 'foreign', like watremelon, which looked 'too meaty'. Certainly, the only movies they ever saw was when they were on vacation in Salem, mostly religious ones. Mom rebelled to get her first salwar kameez when she was in post grad!
Now my family is a pretty heterogenous mix. My husband is from the North and Muslim to boot. So if we were to get all het up about identity and integration, I don't know if we'd survive. For us, in a way it's about remaining who we are and being inclusive simultaneously. So we celebrate all festivals that we can, in the ways that we're used to celebrating them. My husband's family is not very religious so on Id they just have an open house rather than go to the masjid. So that's what we do. And he's used to celebrating Diwali and Raksha Bandhan - my sis in law sends him a rakhi from Canada every year. So most of the Hindu festivals, we celebrate with my parents, where they do the puja and mom and I do the festive cooking together, if the festival is a holiday. I want my kids to grow up learning both sets of prayers and more. My favourite memory of school ( I went to Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan) was the Friday prayers which were called SarvaDharma prayers. We had a Sanskrit shloka, a parsi prayer, a Kalma and a hymn, one after the other, and everyone sang along. We still celebrate Christmas at home, with a tree, presents for the kids and a Christmas lunch. The custom in my family with newborns is that the first place you take them is a temple. In our case that just meant place of worship and we wanted to make sure we were neutral and inclsive. So we started out at the Baha'i temple, which is at the other end of town from us, moved down to a Masjid and finally alighted at a south indian temple in RK Puram.
When A and I were in France, I admit there was a huge sense of missing home and therefore we found that all the desis spoke to each other more in Hindi. We got together more often. At the same time, all of us enjoyed our wine and cheese, A freaked on madeleines, we celebrated the Beaujolais nouveau and we loved wandering around the country. On the other hand, I remember back when I lived in Bangkok with my parents, we were the only family from the embassy to even try and learn Thai, while most others grumbled and cribbed that the Thais couldn't speak English.
To me identity is never about either-or, it's about both. A passport needn't mean one thing over another, because one of the things that makes the US interesting is the constant mix of new ideas and perspectives that immigrants supply. If all immigrants were to jettison who they were and what they believed before they came to the US and adopt a 'typically American' attitude, whatever that may be, I think the US would be the loser. It would lose the debates that keep the country thinking and democratic, it would lose the ability to look at itself objectively.
Just because you have a passport from a country doesn't mean you stop noticing the problems or issues. What it does mean though, is that you're part of the problem and need to help solve it. I find plenty to criticise about India though I live here and love my country passionately. I'm pretty vocal about the problems too. Just because an immigrant used to be from another country before he or she got his passport shouldn't mean that they have no right to criticise what they see. It just means that they have to see them as 'our' problems and not 'their' problems.
We know family friends who live and work in Singapore and are citizens of that country.Yet, when their sons turned 14, they sent them off to study elsewhere so their sons could avoid the mandatory 2 year army service. Of course, past that danger-point, the sons came right back and started their careers in Singapore. That, to my mind, is dishonest and unfair. You cannot take all the advantages a place gives you and not give back the basics that the place demands of all citizens.
As far as the rest goes - cultural assimilation and all that - I feel it's a highly individual choice. There are lots of Jewish people in the US who don't celebrate Christmas and that doesn't make them any less American. Celebrating Halloween, on the other hand, doesn't make you any more American. As long as you don't use your different customs as a point of superiority or inferiority, and as long as you see issues as 'ours' and not 'theirs', you're assimilated.
I'm pretty familiar with the integration game, having been born and brought up in Delhi to Kannadiga parents. My parents were very clear that the mother tongue was kannada, and moreover they hated the 'hinglish' type of language, so we spoke in only one language at a time, which at home tended to be Kannada or English. Hindi was the language de rigueur everywhere else, though in those days, it was considered more hip to speak English with friends. We ate primarily Karnataka food and celebrated all the festivals with great enthusiasm, be it 'gombe koodasodu' for Dasara or Ganesh chathurthi. Mom would invite all her friends, which included a huge bunch of TamBrams for arshna-kumkuma - haldi-kumkum, as well as all our neighbours who were from all parts of the country - Bengalis, Gujaratis, Kashmiris and Punjabis. It was never a matter of either embarassment or superiority to be different from other people in some ways.
At the same time, Holi was celebrated with great gusto, and my parents made sure we had plenty of gulal and pichkaris at home, along with mithai. Christmas was something dad initiated us into, with Jim Reeves playing on the music system through December, and a little Christmas tree at home and presents being snuck under our pillows. Some years we just drew a Christmas tree on green art paper, decorated it with gold and silver foil from cigarette packets and pasted it up on a wall, with tinsel wreaths all over the house. Dad always used to bring home a Christmas Plum Cake, stuffed with nuts and raisins, and it always seemed as special a time of year as Diwali.
My mom's family is a polyglot one - they speak Kannada with grandpa, Telugu with grandma and write to each other in Tamil! My mom was brought up in Delhi and has spent most of her life here - so what does that make her? Of course, when she lived here with her parents, they brought non-assimilation to a new high, mainly because ajji was extremely traditional and orthodox. They weren't allowed to have friends who weren't south indian, they weren't allowed to eat anything outside, with North Indian food a particular taboo, or even fruit and vegetables that ajji considered 'foreign', like watremelon, which looked 'too meaty'. Certainly, the only movies they ever saw was when they were on vacation in Salem, mostly religious ones. Mom rebelled to get her first salwar kameez when she was in post grad!
Now my family is a pretty heterogenous mix. My husband is from the North and Muslim to boot. So if we were to get all het up about identity and integration, I don't know if we'd survive. For us, in a way it's about remaining who we are and being inclusive simultaneously. So we celebrate all festivals that we can, in the ways that we're used to celebrating them. My husband's family is not very religious so on Id they just have an open house rather than go to the masjid. So that's what we do. And he's used to celebrating Diwali and Raksha Bandhan - my sis in law sends him a rakhi from Canada every year. So most of the Hindu festivals, we celebrate with my parents, where they do the puja and mom and I do the festive cooking together, if the festival is a holiday. I want my kids to grow up learning both sets of prayers and more. My favourite memory of school ( I went to Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan) was the Friday prayers which were called SarvaDharma prayers. We had a Sanskrit shloka, a parsi prayer, a Kalma and a hymn, one after the other, and everyone sang along. We still celebrate Christmas at home, with a tree, presents for the kids and a Christmas lunch. The custom in my family with newborns is that the first place you take them is a temple. In our case that just meant place of worship and we wanted to make sure we were neutral and inclsive. So we started out at the Baha'i temple, which is at the other end of town from us, moved down to a Masjid and finally alighted at a south indian temple in RK Puram.
When A and I were in France, I admit there was a huge sense of missing home and therefore we found that all the desis spoke to each other more in Hindi. We got together more often. At the same time, all of us enjoyed our wine and cheese, A freaked on madeleines, we celebrated the Beaujolais nouveau and we loved wandering around the country. On the other hand, I remember back when I lived in Bangkok with my parents, we were the only family from the embassy to even try and learn Thai, while most others grumbled and cribbed that the Thais couldn't speak English.
To me identity is never about either-or, it's about both. A passport needn't mean one thing over another, because one of the things that makes the US interesting is the constant mix of new ideas and perspectives that immigrants supply. If all immigrants were to jettison who they were and what they believed before they came to the US and adopt a 'typically American' attitude, whatever that may be, I think the US would be the loser. It would lose the debates that keep the country thinking and democratic, it would lose the ability to look at itself objectively.
Just because you have a passport from a country doesn't mean you stop noticing the problems or issues. What it does mean though, is that you're part of the problem and need to help solve it. I find plenty to criticise about India though I live here and love my country passionately. I'm pretty vocal about the problems too. Just because an immigrant used to be from another country before he or she got his passport shouldn't mean that they have no right to criticise what they see. It just means that they have to see them as 'our' problems and not 'their' problems.
We know family friends who live and work in Singapore and are citizens of that country.Yet, when their sons turned 14, they sent them off to study elsewhere so their sons could avoid the mandatory 2 year army service. Of course, past that danger-point, the sons came right back and started their careers in Singapore. That, to my mind, is dishonest and unfair. You cannot take all the advantages a place gives you and not give back the basics that the place demands of all citizens.
As far as the rest goes - cultural assimilation and all that - I feel it's a highly individual choice. There are lots of Jewish people in the US who don't celebrate Christmas and that doesn't make them any less American. Celebrating Halloween, on the other hand, doesn't make you any more American. As long as you don't use your different customs as a point of superiority or inferiority, and as long as you see issues as 'ours' and not 'theirs', you're assimilated.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Tough Question
You hear so much about poor, tiny little kids who are molested by a close family friend, a relative, or a parent, and very often you feel outraged that the other parent stood by and did nothing, or chose not to believe it. Recently, a small little experience proved to me why this is such a difficult thing for a parent to accept and act upon.
Lately, I have banished myself to the kids' room, because A's snoring has been worse than ever and I really am a light sleeper. Chubbocks and Puddi have been sleeping in our bedroom.
The other day, Puds had a bad diaper rash since she's been spending more time than usual in diapers because of the weather, and was complaining about pain 'down there'. Then it occurred to me that that's what a kid complains of when she's been molested too.
The minute the thought came into my head, I started mentally apologising to A for even having such a thought...And then the realisation flashed - maybe this is what mothers go through ( or fathers) when they hear these statements from their kids. They think, "Oh no, my husband/ wife/ friend would never do this. How could I be such a terrible person to even think of something like this...?" and shut their mind on it. Because it is honestly mind-boggling to be able to bring oneself to think that the people one had known and loved for so long could even be capable of such behaviour. It just doesn't tally with the mental or heart-image of them that we carry around.
But sadly, every baby's dad is not like A. There are indeed some deeply disturbed and depraved people out there walking with 'mom and 'dad' and 'uncle' and 'aunty' tags on.
I don't even know if this is making any sense. Let me clarify - all Puds had was a diaper rash, I'm in no way saying anything else about A. Also, I'm not supporting parents/ carers who refuse to believe or perceive the evidence they see piling up year after year and turn their backs on it because they refuse to rock the boat. But I can understand how that might happen, unless they are overtly confronted with the evidence.
A - sorry for dragging you into this one.
Lately, I have banished myself to the kids' room, because A's snoring has been worse than ever and I really am a light sleeper. Chubbocks and Puddi have been sleeping in our bedroom.
The other day, Puds had a bad diaper rash since she's been spending more time than usual in diapers because of the weather, and was complaining about pain 'down there'. Then it occurred to me that that's what a kid complains of when she's been molested too.
The minute the thought came into my head, I started mentally apologising to A for even having such a thought...And then the realisation flashed - maybe this is what mothers go through ( or fathers) when they hear these statements from their kids. They think, "Oh no, my husband/ wife/ friend would never do this. How could I be such a terrible person to even think of something like this...?" and shut their mind on it. Because it is honestly mind-boggling to be able to bring oneself to think that the people one had known and loved for so long could even be capable of such behaviour. It just doesn't tally with the mental or heart-image of them that we carry around.
But sadly, every baby's dad is not like A. There are indeed some deeply disturbed and depraved people out there walking with 'mom and 'dad' and 'uncle' and 'aunty' tags on.
I don't even know if this is making any sense. Let me clarify - all Puds had was a diaper rash, I'm in no way saying anything else about A. Also, I'm not supporting parents/ carers who refuse to believe or perceive the evidence they see piling up year after year and turn their backs on it because they refuse to rock the boat. But I can understand how that might happen, unless they are overtly confronted with the evidence.
A - sorry for dragging you into this one.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The answer to life's questions
I was thinking about all the various small and big factors that turn a life into what it is, and I came up with an interesting thought - people who're into literature ought to be better at figuring things out than people who're into maths.
Before the math fiends start pelting me with rotten tomatoes, hear me out...
It's because in math, everything has a logical, objective, right answer, and you're either right or wrong, no other ways about it.
In literature, things are more fuzzy - there are lots of greys, many subjective likes or dislikes and there's no correct answer per se ( except in grammer, which may explain why I hated it so) - it's how you explain it.
Isn't that how most of us go through life, especially as we get older and our eyesight dims a little bit and you realise it's not black and white, there are millions of shades of grey everywhere? You answer questions in your own subjective way, figuring things out, and eventually whatever answer you come up with, you figure out a way to justify it to yourself most of the time. Ambiguous. That's life.
Before the math fiends start pelting me with rotten tomatoes, hear me out...
It's because in math, everything has a logical, objective, right answer, and you're either right or wrong, no other ways about it.
In literature, things are more fuzzy - there are lots of greys, many subjective likes or dislikes and there's no correct answer per se ( except in grammer, which may explain why I hated it so) - it's how you explain it.
Isn't that how most of us go through life, especially as we get older and our eyesight dims a little bit and you realise it's not black and white, there are millions of shades of grey everywhere? You answer questions in your own subjective way, figuring things out, and eventually whatever answer you come up with, you figure out a way to justify it to yourself most of the time. Ambiguous. That's life.
Brave Boy
We noticed some time ago that chubbocks was getting a funny grey mark in between his two front teeth. His teeth are amongst the cutest things about him, so this came as a rude shock and we thought it might be caries, whatever they are. Hauled him off to the neighbourhood dentist, and lo and behold, the little guy had a cavity. The dentist was pretty surprised that he would get a cavity there, but he sure had'em, and the only solution was to clean them out and get them filled in.
In our abysmal ignorance, we asked, "But those are milk teeth. Can't we just wait for them to fall off?" Nope - it turned out milk teeth last until age 7 or 8 so chubbocks had to go through the torture chamber all right.
A took him on the weekend for the cleaning, which left a nice cavity-and-lactobacillus-acidophilae-sized hole between the two teeth. Chubbocks's nice friends were calling him hole-in-the-teeth all of Monday at school Monday evening was my turn to take him to the dentist. I talked up a big game, 'Be brave', and 'it won't hurt a bit'. Chubbocks went smiling in to sit on the rack and I sat all trembly-faced in a corner, watching the goings on. Everey time the dental assistant came close to chubbocks, the little guy would protest and say, "I don't like it." So eventually the assistant was promoted to position of hanger-on and I was the de-facto assistant, which basically consisted of holding chubbocks upper lip off his teeth ( with a cotton pad) and cheerleading him through the process. At one point the dentist turned to me and said, "You should be a teacher or a counselor", as a compliment to my persuasive powers. I was mighty please, naturally, and chubbocks bravely underwent the ordeal so he now has two normal looking front teeth.
Of course, what I didn't tell chubbocks was just how much of a coward his mamma is. The last time I went to a dentist was some 8 years ago. Yes, yes, I know it's bad, but not as bad as having to sit in that chair. I needed a tooth drawn, so I sat in his chair while he prepared some fearsome looking anaesthetic injections. I heard the clacking of metal and saw all manner of sharp, pointy steel objects cluttering his chair. I was just contemplating runnign away to the wilds of the Amazon when the dentist poked his head inside my mouth - well, alright, not his whole head but something, and it hurt like crazy. I whimpered in pain, too scared to yell out loud.
"Is it hurting?" he asks gently.
"Yes", I nod.
"Where?"
"There, inside my jaw where you poked your needle in."
"I haven't touched your mouth with a needle yet - what I used just now was the mirror", said he caustically. Sure enough, that's all it was, the little rounded, bent-backed little dentist's mirror. You think I'm going to let my son know his mamma is such a wuss? How would it sound the next time I threaten to dismember him?
"If you don't finish you food I will rip you into shreds."
"If you rip me into shreds, I'll grow up and turn into a dentist!"
Ulp!!!
In our abysmal ignorance, we asked, "But those are milk teeth. Can't we just wait for them to fall off?" Nope - it turned out milk teeth last until age 7 or 8 so chubbocks had to go through the torture chamber all right.
A took him on the weekend for the cleaning, which left a nice cavity-and-lactobacillus-acidophilae-sized hole between the two teeth. Chubbocks's nice friends were calling him hole-in-the-teeth all of Monday at school Monday evening was my turn to take him to the dentist. I talked up a big game, 'Be brave', and 'it won't hurt a bit'. Chubbocks went smiling in to sit on the rack and I sat all trembly-faced in a corner, watching the goings on. Everey time the dental assistant came close to chubbocks, the little guy would protest and say, "I don't like it." So eventually the assistant was promoted to position of hanger-on and I was the de-facto assistant, which basically consisted of holding chubbocks upper lip off his teeth ( with a cotton pad) and cheerleading him through the process. At one point the dentist turned to me and said, "You should be a teacher or a counselor", as a compliment to my persuasive powers. I was mighty please, naturally, and chubbocks bravely underwent the ordeal so he now has two normal looking front teeth.
Of course, what I didn't tell chubbocks was just how much of a coward his mamma is. The last time I went to a dentist was some 8 years ago. Yes, yes, I know it's bad, but not as bad as having to sit in that chair. I needed a tooth drawn, so I sat in his chair while he prepared some fearsome looking anaesthetic injections. I heard the clacking of metal and saw all manner of sharp, pointy steel objects cluttering his chair. I was just contemplating runnign away to the wilds of the Amazon when the dentist poked his head inside my mouth - well, alright, not his whole head but something, and it hurt like crazy. I whimpered in pain, too scared to yell out loud.
"Is it hurting?" he asks gently.
"Yes", I nod.
"Where?"
"There, inside my jaw where you poked your needle in."
"I haven't touched your mouth with a needle yet - what I used just now was the mirror", said he caustically. Sure enough, that's all it was, the little rounded, bent-backed little dentist's mirror. You think I'm going to let my son know his mamma is such a wuss? How would it sound the next time I threaten to dismember him?
"If you don't finish you food I will rip you into shreds."
"If you rip me into shreds, I'll grow up and turn into a dentist!"
Ulp!!!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Funny Superstitions
Normally I would tag my husband and I as rationalists. We're not heavily into rituals, traditions or organised religion, preferring to follow a more free and easy style. Yes, of course, if you're Indian, by and large believing in God seems to come more easily and naturally, as does believing in ghosts. But otherwise, we thought we were pretty scientific in terms of knowledge and up to date and all that jazz.
Well, four years and eight months ago, a mini-earthquake put all of our rationality to test. When little A ( gotta think of a more creative name...hmm how about Dennis - as in the Menace? naah...Chubbocks? That was one of his many nicknames...I have to try this out and see) was born, we started off all scientific and Dr. Spock-ey. Soon enough we realised that this kid had a major problem - that of attracting 'nazar'. Occidentals call it the Evil Eye, but it's not purely that, the way we Indians think about it. Nazar is something that happens when someone casts a complimentary eye on you or your kids or anything else. Somehow, the compliments are thought to awaken some unknown jealousies on the part of the universe, which then combine to cause a negative impact on the object of that jealousy. Sounds like mumbo-jumbo, right?
We thought so too. Until we observed a pattern. Every time Chubbocks got complimented or happened to be in the limelight, he'd fall ill that very day. Though he seemed perfectly fine at the start of the day. His part in the playschool play this summer? He was cutely dressed up in a bowtie and formal white shirt and trousers and attracted many smiles, pats on the head and so on. He was fine that morning, right upto the time he went to school. As soon as his performance finished, he started complaining of a headache, and by that night we had a full-blown throat infection on our hands. Last Saturday he attended a birthday party along with my husband and apparently got lots of compliments. Saturday night, he fell ill with a viral. One time, my husband bumped into an ex-colleague and took out a picture of Chubbocks to show him. That afternoon, Chubbocks started with high fever.
We've seen the same thing happen with the Puds as well. Anytime she gets complimented, she falls ill. In fact, we don't take her out to too many places even now, because she's at a stage where she just wants to run around, and not all public places are safe for her to do that. Lately she's been going to Chubbocks's school along with the maid to pick him up. Last week some three moms doing pick-up duty apparently commented on what a happy child she seems to be and how active it is. By evening, she was whiny, fretty and droopy - yup, a throat infection.
It sounds ridiculous for two grown adults with post grad educations to believe in such a concept. Especially when people say, "Bacche Bhagwan ka roop hote hain", i.e. Children are a manifestation of God. How can one cast Nazar on God, right?
But it happens. And that is why I have removed the pictures of the kiddos from the header of my Food blog.
Hey my job is to keep my kids safe and healthy, right? Even if it means I start believing in weird superstitions and acting irrationally! Comes with the territory.
Well, four years and eight months ago, a mini-earthquake put all of our rationality to test. When little A ( gotta think of a more creative name...hmm how about Dennis - as in the Menace? naah...Chubbocks? That was one of his many nicknames...I have to try this out and see) was born, we started off all scientific and Dr. Spock-ey. Soon enough we realised that this kid had a major problem - that of attracting 'nazar'. Occidentals call it the Evil Eye, but it's not purely that, the way we Indians think about it. Nazar is something that happens when someone casts a complimentary eye on you or your kids or anything else. Somehow, the compliments are thought to awaken some unknown jealousies on the part of the universe, which then combine to cause a negative impact on the object of that jealousy. Sounds like mumbo-jumbo, right?
We thought so too. Until we observed a pattern. Every time Chubbocks got complimented or happened to be in the limelight, he'd fall ill that very day. Though he seemed perfectly fine at the start of the day. His part in the playschool play this summer? He was cutely dressed up in a bowtie and formal white shirt and trousers and attracted many smiles, pats on the head and so on. He was fine that morning, right upto the time he went to school. As soon as his performance finished, he started complaining of a headache, and by that night we had a full-blown throat infection on our hands. Last Saturday he attended a birthday party along with my husband and apparently got lots of compliments. Saturday night, he fell ill with a viral. One time, my husband bumped into an ex-colleague and took out a picture of Chubbocks to show him. That afternoon, Chubbocks started with high fever.
We've seen the same thing happen with the Puds as well. Anytime she gets complimented, she falls ill. In fact, we don't take her out to too many places even now, because she's at a stage where she just wants to run around, and not all public places are safe for her to do that. Lately she's been going to Chubbocks's school along with the maid to pick him up. Last week some three moms doing pick-up duty apparently commented on what a happy child she seems to be and how active it is. By evening, she was whiny, fretty and droopy - yup, a throat infection.
It sounds ridiculous for two grown adults with post grad educations to believe in such a concept. Especially when people say, "Bacche Bhagwan ka roop hote hain", i.e. Children are a manifestation of God. How can one cast Nazar on God, right?
But it happens. And that is why I have removed the pictures of the kiddos from the header of my Food blog.
Hey my job is to keep my kids safe and healthy, right? Even if it means I start believing in weird superstitions and acting irrationally! Comes with the territory.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Get a Life!
I just read this over at mad momma's blog and had to put it up. So true.
This was a speech made by Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Anna Quindlen at the graduation ceremony of an American university where she was awarded an Honorary PhD.
'I'm a novelist. My work is human nature. Real life is all I know. Don't ever confuse the two, your life and your work. You will walk out of here this afternoon with only one thing that no one else has. There will be hundreds of people out there with your same degree: there will be thousands of people doing what you want to do for a living. But you will be the only person alive who has sole custody of your life. Your particular life. Your entire life. Not just your life at a desk, or your life on a bus, or in a car, or at the computer. Not just the life of your mind, but the life of your heart. Not just your bank accounts but also your soul.
People don't talk about the soul very much anymore. It's so much easier to write a resume than to craft a spirit. But a resume is cold comfort on a winter's night, or when you're sad, or broke, or lonely, or when you've received your test results and they're not so good.Here is my resume: I am a good mother to three children. I have tried never to let my work stand in the way of being a good parent. I no longer consider myself the centre of the universe. I show up. I listen. I try to laugh. I am a good friend to my husband. I have tried to make marriage vows mean what they say. I am a good friend to my friends and they to me. Without them, there would be nothing to say to you today, because I would be a cardboard cut out. But I call them on the phone, and I meet them for lunch.
I would be rotten, at best mediocre at my job if those other things were not true.You cannot be really first rate at your work if your work is all you are. So here's what I wanted to tell you today: Get a life. A real life, not a manic pursuit of the next promotion, the bigger pay cheque, the larger house. Do you think you'd care so very much about those things if you blew an aneurysm this afternoon, or found a lump in your breast?
Get a life in which you notice the smell of salt water pushing itself on a breeze at the seaside, a life in which you stop and watch how a red-tailed hawk circles over the water, or the way a baby scowls with concentration when she tries to pick up a sweet with her thumb and first finger. Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love, and who love you. And remember that love is not leisure, it is work. Pick up the phone. Send an email. Write a letter. Get a life in which you are generous. And realize that life is the best thing ever, and that you have no business taking it for granted. Care so deeply about its goodness that you want to spread it around. Take money you would have spent on beer and give it to charity. Work in a soup kitchen. Be a big brother or sister.
All of you want to do well. But if you do not do good too, then doing well will never be enough. It is so easy to waste our lives, our days, our hours, and our minutes. It is so easy to take for granted the colour of our kids' eyes, the way the melody in a symphony rises and falls and disappears and rises again.It is so easy to exist instead of to live.
I learned to live many years ago. I learned to love the journey, not the destination. I learned that it is not a dress rehearsal, and that today is the only guarantee you get. I learned to look at all the good in the world and try to give some of it back because I believed in it, completely and utterly. And I tried to do that, in part, by telling others what I had learned. By telling them this: Consider the lilies of the field. Look at the fuzz on a baby's ear. Read in the back yard with the sun on your face. Learn to be happy. And think of life as a terminal illness, because if you do, you will live it with joy and passion as it ought to be lived'.
This was a speech made by Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Anna Quindlen at the graduation ceremony of an American university where she was awarded an Honorary PhD.
'I'm a novelist. My work is human nature. Real life is all I know. Don't ever confuse the two, your life and your work. You will walk out of here this afternoon with only one thing that no one else has. There will be hundreds of people out there with your same degree: there will be thousands of people doing what you want to do for a living. But you will be the only person alive who has sole custody of your life. Your particular life. Your entire life. Not just your life at a desk, or your life on a bus, or in a car, or at the computer. Not just the life of your mind, but the life of your heart. Not just your bank accounts but also your soul.
People don't talk about the soul very much anymore. It's so much easier to write a resume than to craft a spirit. But a resume is cold comfort on a winter's night, or when you're sad, or broke, or lonely, or when you've received your test results and they're not so good.Here is my resume: I am a good mother to three children. I have tried never to let my work stand in the way of being a good parent. I no longer consider myself the centre of the universe. I show up. I listen. I try to laugh. I am a good friend to my husband. I have tried to make marriage vows mean what they say. I am a good friend to my friends and they to me. Without them, there would be nothing to say to you today, because I would be a cardboard cut out. But I call them on the phone, and I meet them for lunch.
I would be rotten, at best mediocre at my job if those other things were not true.You cannot be really first rate at your work if your work is all you are. So here's what I wanted to tell you today: Get a life. A real life, not a manic pursuit of the next promotion, the bigger pay cheque, the larger house. Do you think you'd care so very much about those things if you blew an aneurysm this afternoon, or found a lump in your breast?
Get a life in which you notice the smell of salt water pushing itself on a breeze at the seaside, a life in which you stop and watch how a red-tailed hawk circles over the water, or the way a baby scowls with concentration when she tries to pick up a sweet with her thumb and first finger. Get a life in which you are not alone. Find people you love, and who love you. And remember that love is not leisure, it is work. Pick up the phone. Send an email. Write a letter. Get a life in which you are generous. And realize that life is the best thing ever, and that you have no business taking it for granted. Care so deeply about its goodness that you want to spread it around. Take money you would have spent on beer and give it to charity. Work in a soup kitchen. Be a big brother or sister.
All of you want to do well. But if you do not do good too, then doing well will never be enough. It is so easy to waste our lives, our days, our hours, and our minutes. It is so easy to take for granted the colour of our kids' eyes, the way the melody in a symphony rises and falls and disappears and rises again.It is so easy to exist instead of to live.
I learned to live many years ago. I learned to love the journey, not the destination. I learned that it is not a dress rehearsal, and that today is the only guarantee you get. I learned to look at all the good in the world and try to give some of it back because I believed in it, completely and utterly. And I tried to do that, in part, by telling others what I had learned. By telling them this: Consider the lilies of the field. Look at the fuzz on a baby's ear. Read in the back yard with the sun on your face. Learn to be happy. And think of life as a terminal illness, because if you do, you will live it with joy and passion as it ought to be lived'.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Still Quaking
Night before last, we had a big earthquake around 4:35 am. The epicenter of the quake was reight here in Gurgaon, so the impact was huge, and lead to wonder at all those people who stay right on top of San Andreas Fault. I was asleep on the sofa downstairs, having given up in defeat of getting any sleep in the bedroom thanks to a very snorey husband. Suddenly, everything starting moving and shaking from side to side. Various things in the house started jangling and clanking, the sofa moved like it wanted to throw me off.
I woke up in a flash and flew up the stairs, first calling to my maid to head downstairs and out of the house. I picked up my sleeping daughter from her crib, having first shrieked to my husband to get up, pick up our son and flee downstairs. I can't remember ever having moved faster, especially down the stairs, given that I have a slight phobia of stairs, especially when carrying my kids. In fact, I hardly ever carry them downstairs, since I'm so convinced I'll slip and fall with them.
That didn't stop me this time, and we were soon out in the park across the house. I sent the maid to wake up dad and my in-laws who were staying over at his house. That's when I realised I had come out into a cold wintry night clad only in PJs, and with no slippers or shoes on. Thankfully, the kids were warmly covered to start with, and my husband who's a pretty deliberate person, had taken the time to pull on a jacket and wear his slippers.
We waited uneasily outside. The nextdoor neighbour peered out of her window and asked if that had been an earthquake. "Yes, that's why we're out here", I replied, hoping she would take the hint. Nope, she and her family stayed put inside. Two more families had woken up. One stood around in their lawn - the husband and wife, that is, while their daughters were sleeping peacefully inside. "Don't disturb their sleep", I heard the mother say to the father.
We weren't sure exactly how long we were supposed to stand outside, so after a chilly fifteen minutes, we figured there was no risk of aftershakes and went back in. Later we heard that the intensity had been 4.8, which is pretty mild, but because we were at the epicenter, it felt like an 8 or 9 ( not in a good way!)
Today after all the excitement and lack of sleep has passed, I find myself thinking how little we know about safety rules. Do we know what makes for safety within a home, and how much of those do we follow? Do we have an emergency drill for fire, for earthquakes and other such calamities? I mean, God forbid, but they do happen. If our house had collapsed in the quake, we would have had no money, no passports, no documents of anything - quite apart from no clothes ( and slippers in my case).
Well, I looked up the safety rules for earthquakes and according to one website - pretty much do nothing! Stay indoors under furniture. If outdoors, head for open spaces. It doesn't say how long to wait for fear of aftershakes. Most important rule: Stay Calm! one website advises - Do not go sightseeing!
???
I woke up in a flash and flew up the stairs, first calling to my maid to head downstairs and out of the house. I picked up my sleeping daughter from her crib, having first shrieked to my husband to get up, pick up our son and flee downstairs. I can't remember ever having moved faster, especially down the stairs, given that I have a slight phobia of stairs, especially when carrying my kids. In fact, I hardly ever carry them downstairs, since I'm so convinced I'll slip and fall with them.
That didn't stop me this time, and we were soon out in the park across the house. I sent the maid to wake up dad and my in-laws who were staying over at his house. That's when I realised I had come out into a cold wintry night clad only in PJs, and with no slippers or shoes on. Thankfully, the kids were warmly covered to start with, and my husband who's a pretty deliberate person, had taken the time to pull on a jacket and wear his slippers.
We waited uneasily outside. The nextdoor neighbour peered out of her window and asked if that had been an earthquake. "Yes, that's why we're out here", I replied, hoping she would take the hint. Nope, she and her family stayed put inside. Two more families had woken up. One stood around in their lawn - the husband and wife, that is, while their daughters were sleeping peacefully inside. "Don't disturb their sleep", I heard the mother say to the father.
We weren't sure exactly how long we were supposed to stand outside, so after a chilly fifteen minutes, we figured there was no risk of aftershakes and went back in. Later we heard that the intensity had been 4.8, which is pretty mild, but because we were at the epicenter, it felt like an 8 or 9 ( not in a good way!)
Today after all the excitement and lack of sleep has passed, I find myself thinking how little we know about safety rules. Do we know what makes for safety within a home, and how much of those do we follow? Do we have an emergency drill for fire, for earthquakes and other such calamities? I mean, God forbid, but they do happen. If our house had collapsed in the quake, we would have had no money, no passports, no documents of anything - quite apart from no clothes ( and slippers in my case).
Well, I looked up the safety rules for earthquakes and according to one website - pretty much do nothing! Stay indoors under furniture. If outdoors, head for open spaces. It doesn't say how long to wait for fear of aftershakes. Most important rule: Stay Calm! one website advises - Do not go sightseeing!
???
Monday, November 26, 2007
7 weird things
mummyjaan tagged me on this meme, and I'm sitting here racking my brains trying to think of 7 weird things ( or do I mean trying to think of only 7 weird things about me?). I remember when I was in high school - an American one - it was in fashion to say, "I'm weird", and express strange opinions or profess to 'uncool' likings. Maybe it was the art of making the uncool cool...
2. I hate slimy food. Any bhindi which isn't cooked right, the mere thought of gumbo or that West Indian dish in which they boil bhindi...yeeuch!
3. I'm hopeless about paperwork, except at work - I'm always behind in my tax returns, I forget to pay insurance premia on time...I just hate dealing with documentation.
4. I have days ( most of them, in fact) when I just don't bother picking up after myself or organising anything. I think of it as time wasted from doing something more fun like playing with the kids or reading. On the other hand, when the tidy fit hits me, I can give OCD patients a run for their money. Once I had even colour coded my closet.
5. I'm always reading - in a car, in a plane, at work...No, not when I'm driving a car, and that brings me to my next point...
6. I don't drive. I don't know if it's laziness or a phobia. I took driving lessons twice. The first time, my driving test unfortunately was the morning after I had been out partying all night, and moreover my driver who was my teacher, hadn't taught me the art of reversing. Well, my test involved me having to reverse the car in through some particularly narrow gates, and I managed to scrape the car ( a Maruti 800, so you know how badly I was driving) and knock the sideview mirror off. After all that, my driver hopefully goes up to the hapless guy from the license department who had to sit white-knuckled through my performance and asks him if I passed! The second time I had to pass a written exam and perform a driving test to get my license - and we all know how rare it is to have to jump through those particular hoops in India - and I did pass with flying colours if I say so myself. But after getting the license, I have not driven for a single day. Every year I promise myself I'm going to do it and every year I chicken out.
7. I'm scared of going down the stairs. Kind of ironic, given that we live in a Duplex house, and the first and second floor of that, so I'd never be able to get out of home, or even the bedroom if I gave in to this fear. It started when I fell down the stairs at school when I was a teenager - got knocked out, knocked a couple of teeth out and had to go to the dentist for weeks ( and I have a dentist phobia too!). It got pretty bad when I was pregnant and my body got cumbersome, and it got worse after the kids were born. For the first 9 months of their lives, I never carried them down to the living room from the bedroom - my husband had to do it, or I'd call one of my domestic helpers up. Even now, it's with extreme reluctance and only in emergencies that I will carry them down voluntarily!
There - done - and it was fun - and in the process, I finally figured out how to link to from my posts! Thanks, mummyjaan! And now, I tag Sujatha, Lulu, Asha, gettingtherenow, mnamma, Tharini and Kodi's mom.
rules of the meme:
Rules.1. . Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.2. Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.4. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
2. I hate slimy food. Any bhindi which isn't cooked right, the mere thought of gumbo or that West Indian dish in which they boil bhindi...yeeuch!
3. I'm hopeless about paperwork, except at work - I'm always behind in my tax returns, I forget to pay insurance premia on time...I just hate dealing with documentation.
4. I have days ( most of them, in fact) when I just don't bother picking up after myself or organising anything. I think of it as time wasted from doing something more fun like playing with the kids or reading. On the other hand, when the tidy fit hits me, I can give OCD patients a run for their money. Once I had even colour coded my closet.
5. I'm always reading - in a car, in a plane, at work...No, not when I'm driving a car, and that brings me to my next point...
6. I don't drive. I don't know if it's laziness or a phobia. I took driving lessons twice. The first time, my driving test unfortunately was the morning after I had been out partying all night, and moreover my driver who was my teacher, hadn't taught me the art of reversing. Well, my test involved me having to reverse the car in through some particularly narrow gates, and I managed to scrape the car ( a Maruti 800, so you know how badly I was driving) and knock the sideview mirror off. After all that, my driver hopefully goes up to the hapless guy from the license department who had to sit white-knuckled through my performance and asks him if I passed! The second time I had to pass a written exam and perform a driving test to get my license - and we all know how rare it is to have to jump through those particular hoops in India - and I did pass with flying colours if I say so myself. But after getting the license, I have not driven for a single day. Every year I promise myself I'm going to do it and every year I chicken out.
7. I'm scared of going down the stairs. Kind of ironic, given that we live in a Duplex house, and the first and second floor of that, so I'd never be able to get out of home, or even the bedroom if I gave in to this fear. It started when I fell down the stairs at school when I was a teenager - got knocked out, knocked a couple of teeth out and had to go to the dentist for weeks ( and I have a dentist phobia too!). It got pretty bad when I was pregnant and my body got cumbersome, and it got worse after the kids were born. For the first 9 months of their lives, I never carried them down to the living room from the bedroom - my husband had to do it, or I'd call one of my domestic helpers up. Even now, it's with extreme reluctance and only in emergencies that I will carry them down voluntarily!
There - done - and it was fun - and in the process, I finally figured out how to link to from my posts! Thanks, mummyjaan! And now, I tag Sujatha, Lulu, Asha, gettingtherenow, mnamma, Tharini and Kodi's mom.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Parting pangs
My son, little A, has become a big boy now. At 4 years 8 months, he thinks he is too old for as many hugs and kisses as I want to shower upon him. It has become a regular game at our place for me to call him angrily and say, "I really want to scold you right now", and the scolding consists of hugs and kisses. That's the only way I can satisfy my need to squeeze him!
How quickly they grow up. It seems like yesterday when he was so shy around other people that he used to cling to my skirt or pants or shirt when intriduced to strangers. Now when he goes to the park, on some days he'll actually tell me to stay at home because he wants to go with the maid.
I think the first pang of loss was when he turned into a little boy from being my baby. That was the day we got his hair shaved off. He had really silky black hair, which had become shoulder-length by the time he was a year old. It used to be quite wild and hang all over his face, giving him a manic look, and yet the utter babyness of that silky, downy hair was adorable. After his hair-shave, it grew back like normal hair - you know, nice normal hair, no longer baby hair. Suddenly, he looked and acted like a little boy, not mamma's itty-bitty baby.
I was pretty bad at keeping baby books and so on, so have no idea about his first word. But I do remember his first sentence. It was in the US, where we were on holiday, when he was 2 and a half years old. We were driving back from Napa with my sister's family, and Ali, my husband, was busy pulling little A's chubby cheeks. The little guy bore it for a while and then it got too much. "Ali! What are you doing my face?" he demanded belligerently. Now he speaks not sentences but paragraphs, full of imaginative stories and 'jokes'(at this age, jokes tend to be scatalogical!). I miss his funny uses of language and the words he used to make up.
I remember his toddler walk when I see the Puddi stomping around. The first time he wore shoes, he carefully lifted his feet way up in the air at each step, as if scared that they would not move otherwise. Now he has a wardrobe of different types of shoes and pulls them on and off by himself.
Before he was born, I made several promises to myself and to him, among which one was that I would hold him close but not hold him back. Each time he moves from one stage of growth and maturity to the next, I feel the urge to break that promise and hold him back. I want to keep him as my baby a little longer, before friends and peer groups become his key influences. I want to preserve his innocence and faith in the world around us as long as I can. If I could, I would turn back the clock and relive the last 56 months, and with the hindsight of knowing how quickly they pass, relish each and every moment all the more. I would take hundreds more photos. I would sing more songs, and scold less and laugh more...
Yet everyday when I get home and find that he has scribbled all over my newest tablecloth with his crayon/ permanent marker or thrown yet another tantrum, I hold my head and ask myself, "How long before he grows up?"
How quickly they grow up. It seems like yesterday when he was so shy around other people that he used to cling to my skirt or pants or shirt when intriduced to strangers. Now when he goes to the park, on some days he'll actually tell me to stay at home because he wants to go with the maid.
I think the first pang of loss was when he turned into a little boy from being my baby. That was the day we got his hair shaved off. He had really silky black hair, which had become shoulder-length by the time he was a year old. It used to be quite wild and hang all over his face, giving him a manic look, and yet the utter babyness of that silky, downy hair was adorable. After his hair-shave, it grew back like normal hair - you know, nice normal hair, no longer baby hair. Suddenly, he looked and acted like a little boy, not mamma's itty-bitty baby.
I was pretty bad at keeping baby books and so on, so have no idea about his first word. But I do remember his first sentence. It was in the US, where we were on holiday, when he was 2 and a half years old. We were driving back from Napa with my sister's family, and Ali, my husband, was busy pulling little A's chubby cheeks. The little guy bore it for a while and then it got too much. "Ali! What are you doing my face?" he demanded belligerently. Now he speaks not sentences but paragraphs, full of imaginative stories and 'jokes'(at this age, jokes tend to be scatalogical!). I miss his funny uses of language and the words he used to make up.
I remember his toddler walk when I see the Puddi stomping around. The first time he wore shoes, he carefully lifted his feet way up in the air at each step, as if scared that they would not move otherwise. Now he has a wardrobe of different types of shoes and pulls them on and off by himself.
Before he was born, I made several promises to myself and to him, among which one was that I would hold him close but not hold him back. Each time he moves from one stage of growth and maturity to the next, I feel the urge to break that promise and hold him back. I want to keep him as my baby a little longer, before friends and peer groups become his key influences. I want to preserve his innocence and faith in the world around us as long as I can. If I could, I would turn back the clock and relive the last 56 months, and with the hindsight of knowing how quickly they pass, relish each and every moment all the more. I would take hundreds more photos. I would sing more songs, and scold less and laugh more...
Yet everyday when I get home and find that he has scribbled all over my newest tablecloth with his crayon/ permanent marker or thrown yet another tantrum, I hold my head and ask myself, "How long before he grows up?"
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Toddler
The word Toddler is a funny, bumpy sort of word that doesn't roll off the tongue - just like a toddler's walk...toddle. I love watching Puddi move around - her body language is so imperfect and yet so perfect. I really wish there was a way I could press pause and have her at this stage for a while longer...before I know it, she'll have moved on to walking properly, running, talking full sentences and all of that...
I love the way Puddi is always on the move, as if she has suddenly discovered what her legs are for, and is too excited to sit still any longer. Back and forth she goes, giggling with the thrill of being able to exercise independent will, moving as fast as she can. Her whole body leans forward, the steps are sure, even while suddenly the weight of her diapered butt drags her off course or an unwary step brings her plopping on the ground. She thankfully lands with the limpness of not knowing and fearing the consequences of a fall, and therefore gets hurt much less.
I love the little hands of my Puddi, always busy, always exploring with her tiny yet capable fingers as she figures how to flick a switch on and off, or points the remote towards the television in imitation of us. The little hand that, surely just months ago, she wasn't even aware belonged to her, and seemed like a mysterious object and which she used to stare at in such fascination...Now it's able to reach for a morsel of food and put it into her mouth, now it can grab my necklace or pull a toy along, or pick up a crayon and scribble all over the floor...
I love the way she moves and expresses emotion. She has several smiles. One is a wide and toothy grin that shows off her four big teeth in the top gum. There's the sleepily cuddly one, reserved for early mornings and bedtimes. There's the excited one which comes on when I get home from the office and lights up her whole face. There's a mischievous one, slightly sideways, mouth and eyes just partly open. There's the one where she closes her eyes slowly, with a wide grin on her face, which she gives me when playing on my lap. And the best one, which she gives when she's thoroughly enjoying herself - she moves her whole little body from side to side , with a wide grin on her face and an expression in her eyes just asking you to share the joy with her.
And I love her babyliciously soft skin...like roses or soft, soft velvet...like the brush of feathers...like a deep well of cream...
I love the way Puddi is always on the move, as if she has suddenly discovered what her legs are for, and is too excited to sit still any longer. Back and forth she goes, giggling with the thrill of being able to exercise independent will, moving as fast as she can. Her whole body leans forward, the steps are sure, even while suddenly the weight of her diapered butt drags her off course or an unwary step brings her plopping on the ground. She thankfully lands with the limpness of not knowing and fearing the consequences of a fall, and therefore gets hurt much less.
I love the little hands of my Puddi, always busy, always exploring with her tiny yet capable fingers as she figures how to flick a switch on and off, or points the remote towards the television in imitation of us. The little hand that, surely just months ago, she wasn't even aware belonged to her, and seemed like a mysterious object and which she used to stare at in such fascination...Now it's able to reach for a morsel of food and put it into her mouth, now it can grab my necklace or pull a toy along, or pick up a crayon and scribble all over the floor...
I love the way she moves and expresses emotion. She has several smiles. One is a wide and toothy grin that shows off her four big teeth in the top gum. There's the sleepily cuddly one, reserved for early mornings and bedtimes. There's the excited one which comes on when I get home from the office and lights up her whole face. There's a mischievous one, slightly sideways, mouth and eyes just partly open. There's the one where she closes her eyes slowly, with a wide grin on her face, which she gives me when playing on my lap. And the best one, which she gives when she's thoroughly enjoying herself - she moves her whole little body from side to side , with a wide grin on her face and an expression in her eyes just asking you to share the joy with her.
And I love her babyliciously soft skin...like roses or soft, soft velvet...like the brush of feathers...like a deep well of cream...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The Puds
I've been reading over some of these entries and realised how little I blog about my daughter. When she grows up and reads this blog, she's going to be really mad at me, so it's high time I change that. First of all, let me start by revealing her age - 17 months - and her unlovely nickname - Puddi. I don't know where that came from. Putti means little one in Kannada, so that may be where it originated. I remember having many more nicknames for our son, little A, though most of them were shortlived. This poor thing seems saddled with this nickname for much longer.
Anyway, back to the start. Even when we conceived our first child, I was desperately keen on a girl. All my instincts were telling me that it was going to be a boy and I tried not to trust them because I was so keen on a girl. In fact, after I finally found out - a couple of days before delivery - I was actually disappointed. Of course, I got over my disappointment pretty quickly, and love him to bits but still...I yearned for a daughter I could dress up in girly clothes, who would steal all my best clothes and make up and jewelry, who would become my friend as she grew up...So when we finally conceived the second time around, I was even more keen that we have a girl. I warned my husband that in case the second one also turned out to be a boy, we would just have to adopt a girl, and he would just have to put up with having three kids, because it was all his fault - his and that chromosome he added or forgot to add.
In little A's case, we had a name picked out from the time we were dating. In Puddi's case, we decided that the name we had picked in our dating days was too complex - we had chosen Lyla ( to be pronounced as Leela/ Layla/ Leila, as either set of relatives chose). It just seemed a little too precious so we started a name hunt some months before she was born - I scoured international name sites, because the name had to be religion-neutral yet with a nice meaning, and we eventually came up with a set of three names - Naina, Alena and Alyssa - all girl names.All the names I liked and we picked out were girl names. On the last day before she was born, we panicked and finally chose a boy's name, but didn't have to use it.
The two pregnancies were completely different. The first time around, my hair just refused to grow, and since I had had it cut short just before conceiving, it looked terrible through out. My skin, which has always been good, started looking terrible. I couldn't keep any food down, and exercise, apart from walking, was forbidden due to various reasons. The second time, the first indication of my pregnancy, at least to me, was that my skin started glowing. My hair grew faster than ever before, and it shone, I was eating enough for four, I felt well and continued working out till my ninth month. I had a feeling it was going to be a daughter, but again hesitated to trust my instincts, just because I was so keen on a daughter...Thankfully, we did finally get the daughter I had always wanted.
I remember bonding with her much faster than I did with my son, and I felt a little guilty about it, until my best friend wisely reminded me that when little A was born, I was still a girl and wife, but when Puddi was born, I was already a mother. I think she was right about that.
Each and every day, I can't wait to go back home and play with her. Just in the last three months, she has changed so much. She has started speaking more words, become more clear about what she wants. When she's hungry or sleepy, she'll actually walk up to us and say, "Doo doo dedo". Then she picks up her bottle, jams it in her mouth, walks over to the mattress in the family room, and plonks her head down on the pillow, while still standing so her legs are straight and her rump is sticking up in the air. Then she does a complicated wriggle and keels over to one side, thus landing the rest of her body on the bed - usually dislodging the pillow in the process!
When I get home from work, she can recognise my footstep upon the stairs - she starts yelling 'Mamma' even before I've reached the door. As soon as I'm inside, I have to pick her up, regardless of whatever else is in my hand. No way can I take a loo break before I've cuddled her for five minutes - she yells her head off. She thinks all closed doors are called 'Abba', so she starts banging on the closed bathroom door and yelling 'Abba' at the top of her rather powerful voice if I do.
In the morning, she wakes up in a cuddly but chuckly mood. The first thing she does is yell for her father, "Abba!" She can't wait to get out of her room and start the day. The next thing, in case little A is still sleeping is to start yelling for him from across the room - 'Baiyya! otho' (That's the way she pronounces utho). She snuggles into my husband's arms when he picks her up in the morning, her head tucked into his neck, and one chubby little arm around each of my husband's shoulders.
She loves trying everything her brother does, whether it's riding the tricycle, jumping off the sofa or making paper planes and boats out of every blessed piece of paper which finds its way into our house. When he's asleep for the day, she still wants to play, so if a few pats of his face and loud 'otho's are not doing the trick, she picks up his hand and bites it. She really enjoys eating, and walks around the room, mouth wide open, saying 'Aaa', anytime anyone is eating anything at all. Highly adventurous about food, she has tried all kinds of fruit, vegetables, and even a green chilly. She sneaks dahi out of the fridge, or simply begs for it off my plate until she gets the bowl. She likes the few bits of toffee (tottee) that she has had so far, and knows they are kept on top of the fridge, so she keeps pointing upwards and asking for tottee all day long. When she doesn't get it, she pulls the little plastic stool from the kitchen up to the fridge and tries to reach up to the tottee, all 2 feet or so of her. And she has inherited the family temper - when she doesn't get what she wants, she flings herself dramatically onto the floor and just lies there staring at everybody, hoping this qualifies as a tantrum.
She loves swings and can spend hours on them. The minute she sees my dad she runs to his lap and starts wiggling her index fingers, singing 'Two little dickey birds...' Of course, she has it mixed up with 'Four fat sausages', so the last line of the song is 'One went bang', at which she gleefully claps her hands together. She loves playing goofy games with her brother and running from one corner to the other. She is almost never still, except when asleep. She loves dancing, and her latest favourite song is a ridiculous little number called "Kehndi Pom pup the Jam". The minute she hears it, her round little behind sways from side to side. These days she's starting adding head and arm movements to her dance repertoire, apart from singing 'Pom pom pom pom'. She loves laughing, and when she does show her wide grin, four large teeth shine through, surprisingly not making her look like a rabbit.
My favourite part of the day is when she plops herself on my lap, one plump leg splayed out on each side and plays with me. If I'm wearing jewelry with stones in it, she thinks they are tottees and tries to eat them. She pulls my hair. She suddenly rears up and throws her whole body back, so if I'm not holding her tight she's liable to fall. Then she'll jerk forward with equal abruptness, her teak-hard head butting into my chest with all the force of a cannonball. And then when she's weary, she'll rest her head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat and humming to herself, her whole weight sinking softly and limply and trustingly into my body...Those are the times when I feel I just cannot hold her close enough...Those are the times when 24 hours in a day are not enough time to spend with her...Those are the moments when I realise being a mother is the best thing in the whole world...
Anyway, back to the start. Even when we conceived our first child, I was desperately keen on a girl. All my instincts were telling me that it was going to be a boy and I tried not to trust them because I was so keen on a girl. In fact, after I finally found out - a couple of days before delivery - I was actually disappointed. Of course, I got over my disappointment pretty quickly, and love him to bits but still...I yearned for a daughter I could dress up in girly clothes, who would steal all my best clothes and make up and jewelry, who would become my friend as she grew up...So when we finally conceived the second time around, I was even more keen that we have a girl. I warned my husband that in case the second one also turned out to be a boy, we would just have to adopt a girl, and he would just have to put up with having three kids, because it was all his fault - his and that chromosome he added or forgot to add.
In little A's case, we had a name picked out from the time we were dating. In Puddi's case, we decided that the name we had picked in our dating days was too complex - we had chosen Lyla ( to be pronounced as Leela/ Layla/ Leila, as either set of relatives chose). It just seemed a little too precious so we started a name hunt some months before she was born - I scoured international name sites, because the name had to be religion-neutral yet with a nice meaning, and we eventually came up with a set of three names - Naina, Alena and Alyssa - all girl names.All the names I liked and we picked out were girl names. On the last day before she was born, we panicked and finally chose a boy's name, but didn't have to use it.
The two pregnancies were completely different. The first time around, my hair just refused to grow, and since I had had it cut short just before conceiving, it looked terrible through out. My skin, which has always been good, started looking terrible. I couldn't keep any food down, and exercise, apart from walking, was forbidden due to various reasons. The second time, the first indication of my pregnancy, at least to me, was that my skin started glowing. My hair grew faster than ever before, and it shone, I was eating enough for four, I felt well and continued working out till my ninth month. I had a feeling it was going to be a daughter, but again hesitated to trust my instincts, just because I was so keen on a daughter...Thankfully, we did finally get the daughter I had always wanted.
I remember bonding with her much faster than I did with my son, and I felt a little guilty about it, until my best friend wisely reminded me that when little A was born, I was still a girl and wife, but when Puddi was born, I was already a mother. I think she was right about that.
Each and every day, I can't wait to go back home and play with her. Just in the last three months, she has changed so much. She has started speaking more words, become more clear about what she wants. When she's hungry or sleepy, she'll actually walk up to us and say, "Doo doo dedo". Then she picks up her bottle, jams it in her mouth, walks over to the mattress in the family room, and plonks her head down on the pillow, while still standing so her legs are straight and her rump is sticking up in the air. Then she does a complicated wriggle and keels over to one side, thus landing the rest of her body on the bed - usually dislodging the pillow in the process!
When I get home from work, she can recognise my footstep upon the stairs - she starts yelling 'Mamma' even before I've reached the door. As soon as I'm inside, I have to pick her up, regardless of whatever else is in my hand. No way can I take a loo break before I've cuddled her for five minutes - she yells her head off. She thinks all closed doors are called 'Abba', so she starts banging on the closed bathroom door and yelling 'Abba' at the top of her rather powerful voice if I do.
In the morning, she wakes up in a cuddly but chuckly mood. The first thing she does is yell for her father, "Abba!" She can't wait to get out of her room and start the day. The next thing, in case little A is still sleeping is to start yelling for him from across the room - 'Baiyya! otho' (That's the way she pronounces utho). She snuggles into my husband's arms when he picks her up in the morning, her head tucked into his neck, and one chubby little arm around each of my husband's shoulders.
She loves trying everything her brother does, whether it's riding the tricycle, jumping off the sofa or making paper planes and boats out of every blessed piece of paper which finds its way into our house. When he's asleep for the day, she still wants to play, so if a few pats of his face and loud 'otho's are not doing the trick, she picks up his hand and bites it. She really enjoys eating, and walks around the room, mouth wide open, saying 'Aaa', anytime anyone is eating anything at all. Highly adventurous about food, she has tried all kinds of fruit, vegetables, and even a green chilly. She sneaks dahi out of the fridge, or simply begs for it off my plate until she gets the bowl. She likes the few bits of toffee (tottee) that she has had so far, and knows they are kept on top of the fridge, so she keeps pointing upwards and asking for tottee all day long. When she doesn't get it, she pulls the little plastic stool from the kitchen up to the fridge and tries to reach up to the tottee, all 2 feet or so of her. And she has inherited the family temper - when she doesn't get what she wants, she flings herself dramatically onto the floor and just lies there staring at everybody, hoping this qualifies as a tantrum.
She loves swings and can spend hours on them. The minute she sees my dad she runs to his lap and starts wiggling her index fingers, singing 'Two little dickey birds...' Of course, she has it mixed up with 'Four fat sausages', so the last line of the song is 'One went bang', at which she gleefully claps her hands together. She loves playing goofy games with her brother and running from one corner to the other. She is almost never still, except when asleep. She loves dancing, and her latest favourite song is a ridiculous little number called "Kehndi Pom pup the Jam". The minute she hears it, her round little behind sways from side to side. These days she's starting adding head and arm movements to her dance repertoire, apart from singing 'Pom pom pom pom'. She loves laughing, and when she does show her wide grin, four large teeth shine through, surprisingly not making her look like a rabbit.
My favourite part of the day is when she plops herself on my lap, one plump leg splayed out on each side and plays with me. If I'm wearing jewelry with stones in it, she thinks they are tottees and tries to eat them. She pulls my hair. She suddenly rears up and throws her whole body back, so if I'm not holding her tight she's liable to fall. Then she'll jerk forward with equal abruptness, her teak-hard head butting into my chest with all the force of a cannonball. And then when she's weary, she'll rest her head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat and humming to herself, her whole weight sinking softly and limply and trustingly into my body...Those are the times when I feel I just cannot hold her close enough...Those are the times when 24 hours in a day are not enough time to spend with her...Those are the moments when I realise being a mother is the best thing in the whole world...
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Kids' Eating Habits
Recently in the US, two cookbooks that have found a roaring market are both about the concept of sneaking vegetables into children's food by disguising them - put pureed spinach into brownies and chocolate pie, put sweet potatoes into a cheese sandwich...So the basic premise is, kids will only like foods full of starch, fat and sugar so the only way you can make it a little better is by hiding pureed vegetables in those same starchy, fatty, sugary treats and re-cooking them umpteen times until all semblance of taste, texture and nutrition is drained from the vegetables.
Frankly, I disagree, and much to my relief, so does a pioneering paediatrician who did her research way back in 1928 ( the link to the article on her in Slate - http://www.slate.com/id/2155816/). Her thesis was that supplied with a variety of healthy foods, kids are naturally programmed and smart enough to pick things that offer a complete and healthy diet. Now, obviously, if all you're going to offer them is potato chips, brownies and cookies to choose from...
I honestly believe that good food habits are something that need to be inculcated from the beginning. The basics, like limiting candy, sugar and flour. Making sure they get vegetables and fruit into their diet from the time they start eating solids. Restricting the availability of chips, colas and the like.
So far it hasn't been an issue despite any amount of peer pressure. Yes, of course my son loves chips and asks for them periodically, but we just don't stock them at home. Same with colas, chocolates and candy. Now he's allowed to drink a glass of coke, but only at parties ( typically because most birthday parties nowadays are hosted at Pizza Hut or McDonalds where juice isn't available as an option). He loves soup and salad and asks for them on a regular basis. In fact, of late he's been showing signs of interest in cooking, and came up with a soup recipe over the weekend which we had to choke down(thankfully only a small quantity - the soup consisted of glucose biscuits soaked in water with Boost on top!). So I asked him to help me in making Stone soup (recipe to be found on my food blog), and he loved both helping me and the soup that 'I made myself', as he claimed. My 17 month old daughter loves her fruit and veggies and spent a gloriously messy evening fishing all the veggies out of the soup and feeding herself yesterday. So far, her idea of sneaking food is to help herself to curds from the fridge.
There are so many different types of cuisine and so many recipes are available freely on the net that it shouldn't be that difficult to find some way to cook a vegetable that your child will like, while still retaining the taste and flavour of the vegetable. I think if we start with the premise that kids will like vegetables and fruit rather than the opposite, then we don't need to do all this 'disguising' and 'sneaking'. Maybe the concept was based on the authors' own dislike for vegetables and fruit?
Frankly, I disagree, and much to my relief, so does a pioneering paediatrician who did her research way back in 1928 ( the link to the article on her in Slate - http://www.slate.com/id/2155816/). Her thesis was that supplied with a variety of healthy foods, kids are naturally programmed and smart enough to pick things that offer a complete and healthy diet. Now, obviously, if all you're going to offer them is potato chips, brownies and cookies to choose from...
I honestly believe that good food habits are something that need to be inculcated from the beginning. The basics, like limiting candy, sugar and flour. Making sure they get vegetables and fruit into their diet from the time they start eating solids. Restricting the availability of chips, colas and the like.
So far it hasn't been an issue despite any amount of peer pressure. Yes, of course my son loves chips and asks for them periodically, but we just don't stock them at home. Same with colas, chocolates and candy. Now he's allowed to drink a glass of coke, but only at parties ( typically because most birthday parties nowadays are hosted at Pizza Hut or McDonalds where juice isn't available as an option). He loves soup and salad and asks for them on a regular basis. In fact, of late he's been showing signs of interest in cooking, and came up with a soup recipe over the weekend which we had to choke down(thankfully only a small quantity - the soup consisted of glucose biscuits soaked in water with Boost on top!). So I asked him to help me in making Stone soup (recipe to be found on my food blog), and he loved both helping me and the soup that 'I made myself', as he claimed. My 17 month old daughter loves her fruit and veggies and spent a gloriously messy evening fishing all the veggies out of the soup and feeding herself yesterday. So far, her idea of sneaking food is to help herself to curds from the fridge.
There are so many different types of cuisine and so many recipes are available freely on the net that it shouldn't be that difficult to find some way to cook a vegetable that your child will like, while still retaining the taste and flavour of the vegetable. I think if we start with the premise that kids will like vegetables and fruit rather than the opposite, then we don't need to do all this 'disguising' and 'sneaking'. Maybe the concept was based on the authors' own dislike for vegetables and fruit?
New Definitions
Little A went through a major milestone over Diwali weekend. So far he has never had the patience to sit through a full movie at a theatre, including Ice Age 2 which was a pain for me because I wanted to see the second half of Ice Age 2. This weekend we took him to watch Om Shanti Om, and the sweet little guy sat through the whole thing, happily crunching through a small box of popcorn. Whenever something came on that I wouldn't like him to watch, I'd ask him not to look and he complied easily, turning his back on the screen for as long as we told him.
Movie over, we went to the food court for lunch. Little A came up with some new dish he wanted, called Chicken meroti! We tried to figure out what it was - is it chicken mein roti ( chicken inside a roti)...nope, it was something he claimed to have heard about. Stumped, we finally decided to get a chicken kathi roll and hope for the best. Luckily it worked - our friend liked the taste and worked his way through it, generously offering bites to his dad and me.
I had to turn his offer down, as I'm vegetarian. Little A couldn't understand the concept, so I told him I eat only vegetables and fruit, no meat or fish. Then he wanted to know why. I didn't want to get into a philosophical discussion with him so I finally said I didn't like the taste, only to be told, "Try my meroti. It's delicious - you'll love it!" Had to tackle that minefield tactfully!
Then little A ponders for a while and says, "Mamma, I'm a meateatarian. In fact, I'm a chicketarian!"
Movie over, we went to the food court for lunch. Little A came up with some new dish he wanted, called Chicken meroti! We tried to figure out what it was - is it chicken mein roti ( chicken inside a roti)...nope, it was something he claimed to have heard about. Stumped, we finally decided to get a chicken kathi roll and hope for the best. Luckily it worked - our friend liked the taste and worked his way through it, generously offering bites to his dad and me.
I had to turn his offer down, as I'm vegetarian. Little A couldn't understand the concept, so I told him I eat only vegetables and fruit, no meat or fish. Then he wanted to know why. I didn't want to get into a philosophical discussion with him so I finally said I didn't like the taste, only to be told, "Try my meroti. It's delicious - you'll love it!" Had to tackle that minefield tactfully!
Then little A ponders for a while and says, "Mamma, I'm a meateatarian. In fact, I'm a chicketarian!"
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Mother Love
It's interesting to think that of all the relationships that exist in the human world, the only one that is parallelled in the animal kingdom is the mother-child one. There are the rare exceptions like swans or lobsters mating for life, but the one that cuts across is the maternal bond. I guess it's designed that way to ensure basic survival of the different species, but whatever the reason, it's heartwarming.
We got evidence of it several years ago through a pet. A cat, one monsoon, decided to have her kittens on the windowsill of our drawing room. The window sill was a good 2 feet deep and provided ample protection from the raging storm, and we woke up to find 2 little kittens curled up there. We put a cardboard box and some old clothes out for the ginger cat and she made a cozy nest for her two kiddies out there. Sadly one of the kittens died soon thereafter and the mother cat left our place a couple of months later. The other kitten adopted us but only in part - he had the soul of a wild cat. He never ate anything we put out, preferring to hunt his own food, never allowed any petting or caressing by us and made it clear that the relationship could only be on his terms, not ours. He came whenever he wanted to, lay in a patch of sunlight in our sun room or lolled about elsewhere at will. We named him Sphinx, after his habit of curling up in that pose on top of the sofa.
After a while we started to notice that Sphinx seemed to have a date saturday morning and were curious to observe. Come 10 am saturday morning, he would be eager, all aquiver with excitement. He would wait in our garden, all his nerves on alert. About five minutes later, who should come along but his mother! He and his mother romped through the garden playing catch-me-if-you-can, roll me over and other such games, leaping up to snap at the flowers, throwing themselves onto each other in that visceral connection that now reminds me of the way my kids throw themselves on me. It was a joy to watch the two, completely oblivious to us gawkers and to anything else, their orange bodies gleaming in the morning sun. At the end of the romp, they would cuddle up quietly for a snooze, mother cat and kiddie cat all tangled up in a bundle of orange fur, so entwined you couldn't tell one from the other.
They kept us this rendezvous every Saturday, and as long as we lived in that house, we made it a point to watch them. Sphinx declined to come along when we moved house so we left him to his happy hunting grounds. But I hope and believe that he and his mom kept up their playdate as long as they lived.
We got evidence of it several years ago through a pet. A cat, one monsoon, decided to have her kittens on the windowsill of our drawing room. The window sill was a good 2 feet deep and provided ample protection from the raging storm, and we woke up to find 2 little kittens curled up there. We put a cardboard box and some old clothes out for the ginger cat and she made a cozy nest for her two kiddies out there. Sadly one of the kittens died soon thereafter and the mother cat left our place a couple of months later. The other kitten adopted us but only in part - he had the soul of a wild cat. He never ate anything we put out, preferring to hunt his own food, never allowed any petting or caressing by us and made it clear that the relationship could only be on his terms, not ours. He came whenever he wanted to, lay in a patch of sunlight in our sun room or lolled about elsewhere at will. We named him Sphinx, after his habit of curling up in that pose on top of the sofa.
After a while we started to notice that Sphinx seemed to have a date saturday morning and were curious to observe. Come 10 am saturday morning, he would be eager, all aquiver with excitement. He would wait in our garden, all his nerves on alert. About five minutes later, who should come along but his mother! He and his mother romped through the garden playing catch-me-if-you-can, roll me over and other such games, leaping up to snap at the flowers, throwing themselves onto each other in that visceral connection that now reminds me of the way my kids throw themselves on me. It was a joy to watch the two, completely oblivious to us gawkers and to anything else, their orange bodies gleaming in the morning sun. At the end of the romp, they would cuddle up quietly for a snooze, mother cat and kiddie cat all tangled up in a bundle of orange fur, so entwined you couldn't tell one from the other.
They kept us this rendezvous every Saturday, and as long as we lived in that house, we made it a point to watch them. Sphinx declined to come along when we moved house so we left him to his happy hunting grounds. But I hope and believe that he and his mom kept up their playdate as long as they lived.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Sibling love
My kids are as yet pretty young and have an age-gap of just three years. Though my daughter, littler a is just 16 months old, she shows signs of being spiriteed and having a temper, so she and my 4 and a half year old son do squabble from time to time. But yesterday night, little A, our son, said something amazing.
"We didn't have any fun before Puddi* came, na?"
My husband, A, said, "Of course we did. Why do you say that?"
Little A, "Because she's so cute and so fun to be around."
* Puddi is our unlovely nickname for littler a.
"We didn't have any fun before Puddi* came, na?"
My husband, A, said, "Of course we did. Why do you say that?"
Little A, "Because she's so cute and so fun to be around."
* Puddi is our unlovely nickname for littler a.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Krishna Leela
Stories of Bal Krishna always talk about his various acts of mischief in hunting out butter and curds. Today we came upon a similar scene in our house.
Our 16 month old daughter littler a loves curds and is always eager for more. This evening, we found the modern version of Krishna- Leela. She had opened the fridge, found a cup full of curds and was happily digging into it with both hands. hands, clothes and face were smeared with the stuff!
Our 16 month old daughter littler a loves curds and is always eager for more. This evening, we found the modern version of Krishna- Leela. She had opened the fridge, found a cup full of curds and was happily digging into it with both hands. hands, clothes and face were smeared with the stuff!
Friday, October 26, 2007
Siblings
When we were expecting our second child, we knew we had to be careful about how to break this into little A's world, since he had been the only child in the family for a good three years. We diligently spoke to him about the new baby and how it would be a great playmate for him, pointed to our own siblings and in general tried to reassure him that it would be a fun experience.
The poor kid! First of all, when he came to the hospital the day of the delivery, his visit unfortunately coincided with my being wheeled out of surgery and in a state of general anesthesia-induced oblivion, which really spooked him out. Then, when he saw the baby, his face fell. This mewling, red, tiny little thing was expected to be his playmate/ friend?
He was really disappointed by the baby-ness of the new entrant, and the fact that I had to spend oodles of time with it didn't help, and neither did the fact that I couldn't play with him at the time, thanks to various reasons. He went through his share of tantrums and jealousies over the year.
He was really disappointed by the baby-ness of the new entrant, and the fact that I had to spend oodles of time with it didn't help, and neither did the fact that I couldn't play with him at the time, thanks to various reasons. He went through his share of tantrums and jealousies over the year.
One of the most rewarding sights to see, however, a year and a half after the baby entered our lives, is them interacting and playing together. Littler a watches her big bro in fascination and imitates everything he does, from sitting on the tricycle to trying to do paltis. And Big brother little A loves to entertain her with his crazy antics and make her laugh. He even insists on pushing her stroller when we go for a walk, hugs her when she cries ( usually when he's snatched back his toy that she has been playing with) and gives her a taste of whatever he's eating ( I really have to watch out when he does that, since many of the things he eats may not be ok for a toddler). My husband, A, took a great picture of them this weekend, which says it all!
Cross posted at Desi Momz Club
Working and Stay-at-Home Moms
Honestly, I don't know why this issue turns into an us versus them debate whenever it comes up - online or off. Maybe both sides feel vulnerable and get extra assertive to prove that they're in the better position. I've been on both sides of the coin. I had to quit when I was 3 months pregnant due to having a job that required lots of travelling which I couldn't do due to complications. I didn't see the sense in joining a new place only to go on mat. leave in 6 months, so I stayed home for the duration. I did enjoy it for a while, loved the fact that I could sleep in and laze about, but it got old fast. All my friends were working women so it was very difficult to find someone to hang out with.
I've never been an overly maternal type of person, so it shocked me when I turned maternal after my son was born. For 6 months after he arrived, I stayed home, mostly because I couldn't face the thought of leaving him at home with a caretaker all day. Even though I was bored and longing for adult company. Somehow I just didn't want to only hang out with other moms, because I felt the conversation was too focussed.
Eventually a wonderful half day job fell into my lap and I thought - ok, let me try this out. Initially it was hard but eventually I got used to it, and he got used to having me go to office. After my daughter was born, however, a wonderful full time job, an opportunity I had been looking for, came my way. The office was (is) literally a 5 minute commute. I made sure we got another carer, so there would be enough hands on deck. And I began working fulltime after 5 years.It's been just about a year since then.
I have times when I'm so swamped by work that I don't even see my kids when they are awake. I hate that. Then I have times when I make a good presentation or a client likes my work. I love that. There are days when my husband is flying into town and I'm flying out and we meet at the airport. I miss PTA meetings. I like seeing my bank account grow and having money I can call my own. I enjoy the arguments and debates that form my work. Every day my feelings regarding working vs. staying at home change. On good days, I think - Yes! I can do it. On bad days, I type out my resignation letter.
When I look at my kids objectively ( and I am quite good at being objective, even about my kids), I don't see two neglected kids. I see kids who may spend a little less time with their parents than other kids do. But through his playschool career and even now, my son gets complimented on his great manners and the fact that he's rarely rough with other kids. I'm more finicky about their diet than many of the SAHMs ( I've posted a blog on this issue at http://foodandlaughter.blogspot.com/2007/10/indian-breakfasts.html.) I am very strict about how much television they watch, and what they watch. Even when I'm not home, my son knows what he is not supposed to do and why not - which is again something many of his friends who have SAHMs don't ( and I've blogged on that at http://we-are-like-this-only.blogspot.com/2007/06/what-do-kids-do-today.html).
My son loves reading ( he's just learning) and my daughter looks like she'll follow suit. My son is trilingual and has an advanced vocabulary in all three languages. My husband is wonderfully supportive and he really wants to be an involved dad, so he does tons of stuff with and for them. On my days off, we paint together. We both tell him stories. I teach him the names of all the plants in our garden. We go to the park and play together. We have fun.
I have several friends who are SAHMs, and are doing a great job with their kids. They've put in the time and effort to spend quality time with the kids, teaching them stuff, playing with them and bringing them up to be good human beings, first and foremost. Sometimes I envy them their time with the kids, especially when my son has vacation from school and I have to go off to the office. That really hurts!I think it's not a question of whether one is a working mom or a SAHM, it all depends on what you do with the time you get.
I'm someone who honestly doesn't fully buy the 'quality time' argument so I constantly have guilt pangs about the quantity time the kids aren't getting. But contrast that with the non-quality but quantity time that many SAHMs provide, and I guess my kids are ok. I'm lucky to have my parents live nearby ( 5 houses away), so when they're in town, it's a great source of stimulation and family affection for the kids and a reassurance for me. But despite all the support systems, ultimately this is one debate that no one can win outright, because each one of us has to work it out for herself. And I'm not even sure you've won it even with yourself, because the feelings towards the decision ebb and flow with everything that happens ( at least they do for me.)
And so I've decided to take it one day at a time. Each day can be good or bad, and I'm just going to live with it. It doesn't sound like a very liberating, Hollywood crescendo of music decision. But it works. So far.
I've never been an overly maternal type of person, so it shocked me when I turned maternal after my son was born. For 6 months after he arrived, I stayed home, mostly because I couldn't face the thought of leaving him at home with a caretaker all day. Even though I was bored and longing for adult company. Somehow I just didn't want to only hang out with other moms, because I felt the conversation was too focussed.
Eventually a wonderful half day job fell into my lap and I thought - ok, let me try this out. Initially it was hard but eventually I got used to it, and he got used to having me go to office. After my daughter was born, however, a wonderful full time job, an opportunity I had been looking for, came my way. The office was (is) literally a 5 minute commute. I made sure we got another carer, so there would be enough hands on deck. And I began working fulltime after 5 years.It's been just about a year since then.
I have times when I'm so swamped by work that I don't even see my kids when they are awake. I hate that. Then I have times when I make a good presentation or a client likes my work. I love that. There are days when my husband is flying into town and I'm flying out and we meet at the airport. I miss PTA meetings. I like seeing my bank account grow and having money I can call my own. I enjoy the arguments and debates that form my work. Every day my feelings regarding working vs. staying at home change. On good days, I think - Yes! I can do it. On bad days, I type out my resignation letter.
When I look at my kids objectively ( and I am quite good at being objective, even about my kids), I don't see two neglected kids. I see kids who may spend a little less time with their parents than other kids do. But through his playschool career and even now, my son gets complimented on his great manners and the fact that he's rarely rough with other kids. I'm more finicky about their diet than many of the SAHMs ( I've posted a blog on this issue at http://foodandlaughter.blogspot.com/2007/10/indian-breakfasts.html.) I am very strict about how much television they watch, and what they watch. Even when I'm not home, my son knows what he is not supposed to do and why not - which is again something many of his friends who have SAHMs don't ( and I've blogged on that at http://we-are-like-this-only.blogspot.com/2007/06/what-do-kids-do-today.html).
My son loves reading ( he's just learning) and my daughter looks like she'll follow suit. My son is trilingual and has an advanced vocabulary in all three languages. My husband is wonderfully supportive and he really wants to be an involved dad, so he does tons of stuff with and for them. On my days off, we paint together. We both tell him stories. I teach him the names of all the plants in our garden. We go to the park and play together. We have fun.
I have several friends who are SAHMs, and are doing a great job with their kids. They've put in the time and effort to spend quality time with the kids, teaching them stuff, playing with them and bringing them up to be good human beings, first and foremost. Sometimes I envy them their time with the kids, especially when my son has vacation from school and I have to go off to the office. That really hurts!I think it's not a question of whether one is a working mom or a SAHM, it all depends on what you do with the time you get.
I'm someone who honestly doesn't fully buy the 'quality time' argument so I constantly have guilt pangs about the quantity time the kids aren't getting. But contrast that with the non-quality but quantity time that many SAHMs provide, and I guess my kids are ok. I'm lucky to have my parents live nearby ( 5 houses away), so when they're in town, it's a great source of stimulation and family affection for the kids and a reassurance for me. But despite all the support systems, ultimately this is one debate that no one can win outright, because each one of us has to work it out for herself. And I'm not even sure you've won it even with yourself, because the feelings towards the decision ebb and flow with everything that happens ( at least they do for me.)
And so I've decided to take it one day at a time. Each day can be good or bad, and I'm just going to live with it. It doesn't sound like a very liberating, Hollywood crescendo of music decision. But it works. So far.
Melting Moments
There are so many moments in the day when I'm totally exasperated with my son, little A. He is usually so deeply engrossed in whatever he is doing that he tunes out everything else. When he's making paper planes ( the latest craze, and thankfully a cheap one), he doesn't hear me telling him to do something, he forgets to pick up a bite of breakfast or to swallow the bite already in his mouth. Drinking milk can take forty five minutes when he's watching Mickey and friends...
And then there are the moments when he reduces me to a little puddle of mush.He's been having bad dreams for the past few days and we've been so tired that we have given up and bring him into our bed each time. Last night he went through another such episode, on a night when I was dog tired. Later he woke up to use the bathroom. Still later he wanted a drink of water and I yelled at him.
Then early this morning, cuddled up next to me, he says, "I feel so safe when you're near me, mamma."
Then when we were both up, he tells me, "Even when I'm as big as Priyesh ( our downstairs neighbour's 9 year old) I'll still play with you. Even when I'm 100 I'll still play with you, mamma."How cute is that!
(Cross-posted from Desi Momz Club)
And then there are the moments when he reduces me to a little puddle of mush.He's been having bad dreams for the past few days and we've been so tired that we have given up and bring him into our bed each time. Last night he went through another such episode, on a night when I was dog tired. Later he woke up to use the bathroom. Still later he wanted a drink of water and I yelled at him.
Then early this morning, cuddled up next to me, he says, "I feel so safe when you're near me, mamma."
Then when we were both up, he tells me, "Even when I'm as big as Priyesh ( our downstairs neighbour's 9 year old) I'll still play with you. Even when I'm 100 I'll still play with you, mamma."How cute is that!
(Cross-posted from Desi Momz Club)
My baby and me
When I first found out I was having a baby I didn’t feel very much besides nausea. I had never been overly maternal or felt any ticking from the old body clock. Over the months of gestation, the nausea receded but though various worries kept manifesting themselves, I didn’t feel any special bond with the baby. I worried about that too.
After my son was born, since I was woozy and passed out from the sedation, everyone else in the immediate family saw him before I did. And even when I saw him I didn’t feel what I expected – a gush of love so strong and powerful that nothing else would compare. My husband seemed to have bonded much faster than I did.
Through the first couple of months of endless feeding and cleaning I guess my son and I took our first tentative steps (obviously metaphoric in his case) towards understanding each other and maybe liking.My son is six months old now. And today as I watch him, I am touched by myriad emotions.
At times his air of fragility and vulnerability annoy me, make me angry. Nobody should be so weak, so defenceless. How will I protect him, not just from the rest of the world but even from me and my moods?I watch him reach for a toy and fail to grab it – it is beyond his reach. He struggles, screwing up his forehead in concentration, wriggling his little body this way and that. His tiny rump sticks up in the air – he has just taught himself to start crawling backwards. Sometimes his forehead bangs down on the mat in weariness or frustration. Finally he figures out a short cut – he pulls at the mat till it folds up, bringing the toy within his grasp. I am amazed at his ingenuity.
As I massage his body, I feel the softness of his skin - softer than cream or butter or down, smoother than silk or satin. I can’t help myself - I kiss his tiny dimples at the elbow, the almost invisible one on his left cheek. I kiss the deep lines in his thighs and the little indentations in his feet. His curling eyelashes almost touching his eyebrows. His chubby fists. His rosebud mouth, down the pale nipples to plant a raspberry into his belly. His rounded rump. His wispy hair, flying in the breeze. I try and imprint a visceral memory of his body as it is right now since none of his photographs or videos seem to capture him the way my eyes see him. And my eyes will not be able to recall this moment of his life like my body can.
His smiles light up not just his face but my day. He laughs with his whole body and I can feel the knots in mine loosen up. I love the confidence he has that if he cries in a particular way or makes a certain noise, someone will not only hear but interpret the sounds and be there instantly to supply his needs and wants. I wish he could always have that certainty.
I marvel that his perfect body came from my imperfect one, that half of his intelligence and his genes came from me.He is like the long vertical stroke of the letter ‘I’, which joins up the two short parallel lines. Before he came along, my husband and I were the two parallel lines going in the same direction but still independent. Now he has taken a part of me, a part of my husband and his own particular magic. And joined the three of us into an interdependent unit. He has made us a family.
(Cross-posted from we are like this only)
After my son was born, since I was woozy and passed out from the sedation, everyone else in the immediate family saw him before I did. And even when I saw him I didn’t feel what I expected – a gush of love so strong and powerful that nothing else would compare. My husband seemed to have bonded much faster than I did.
Through the first couple of months of endless feeding and cleaning I guess my son and I took our first tentative steps (obviously metaphoric in his case) towards understanding each other and maybe liking.My son is six months old now. And today as I watch him, I am touched by myriad emotions.
At times his air of fragility and vulnerability annoy me, make me angry. Nobody should be so weak, so defenceless. How will I protect him, not just from the rest of the world but even from me and my moods?I watch him reach for a toy and fail to grab it – it is beyond his reach. He struggles, screwing up his forehead in concentration, wriggling his little body this way and that. His tiny rump sticks up in the air – he has just taught himself to start crawling backwards. Sometimes his forehead bangs down on the mat in weariness or frustration. Finally he figures out a short cut – he pulls at the mat till it folds up, bringing the toy within his grasp. I am amazed at his ingenuity.
As I massage his body, I feel the softness of his skin - softer than cream or butter or down, smoother than silk or satin. I can’t help myself - I kiss his tiny dimples at the elbow, the almost invisible one on his left cheek. I kiss the deep lines in his thighs and the little indentations in his feet. His curling eyelashes almost touching his eyebrows. His chubby fists. His rosebud mouth, down the pale nipples to plant a raspberry into his belly. His rounded rump. His wispy hair, flying in the breeze. I try and imprint a visceral memory of his body as it is right now since none of his photographs or videos seem to capture him the way my eyes see him. And my eyes will not be able to recall this moment of his life like my body can.
His smiles light up not just his face but my day. He laughs with his whole body and I can feel the knots in mine loosen up. I love the confidence he has that if he cries in a particular way or makes a certain noise, someone will not only hear but interpret the sounds and be there instantly to supply his needs and wants. I wish he could always have that certainty.
I marvel that his perfect body came from my imperfect one, that half of his intelligence and his genes came from me.He is like the long vertical stroke of the letter ‘I’, which joins up the two short parallel lines. Before he came along, my husband and I were the two parallel lines going in the same direction but still independent. Now he has taken a part of me, a part of my husband and his own particular magic. And joined the three of us into an interdependent unit. He has made us a family.
(Cross-posted from we are like this only)
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Why this Blog?
First off, I have to confess, I'm not a very maternal person. When I was in college and later, I rarely went gooey eyed over other people's kids, even if they were cute. I liked chatting with them when they were a little older - say 3 or 4 - but just for a bit. I never imagines I'd be so ga-ga over my kids that I'd blog about them in two places!
Life really changed when my son, little A was born. I wasn't ready to have kids when we conceived. like the majority of first born kids, he was an accident and then since we were older first time parents ( for India anyway), we went through with it.
My husband A on the other hand has always loved kids. Even when we were dating, when he looked all goo-goo eyed over my shoulder I knew it wasn't a pretty girl but some baby he was staring at. He was thrilled by the prospect of becoming a dad and had been ready for it for ages.
I didn't instantly fall in love with my son when he was born, either. It took a while for me to understand him and relate to him as a person rather than as a baby, and I have blogged about it at my other blog and will probably post it in here one of these days.
However, over time, I don't know how but he and later his sister, little a, have crept into my heart and created such a huge space for themselves that it surprises me. Every day when I call and hear my son's voice on the phone, my heart melts a little. Each time my daughter sways her hips from side to side or manages to say 'mamma', I turn all mushy inside. It's almost impossible to explain to people who don't have or don't want kids, the immeasurable joy that they bring in along with their dirty diapers and crayonned walls. I mean, did you ever think you'd change stinky diapers as a matter of course? Anyone whose potty-filled diapers you change and still hug and kiss at the end of the exercise has got to be special, right?
I was trying to find a metaphor for life with versus sans kids and came up with it yesterday, which explains the title of this blog - life without kids is like half a rainbow - missing so many hues.
Life really changed when my son, little A was born. I wasn't ready to have kids when we conceived. like the majority of first born kids, he was an accident and then since we were older first time parents ( for India anyway), we went through with it.
My husband A on the other hand has always loved kids. Even when we were dating, when he looked all goo-goo eyed over my shoulder I knew it wasn't a pretty girl but some baby he was staring at. He was thrilled by the prospect of becoming a dad and had been ready for it for ages.
I didn't instantly fall in love with my son when he was born, either. It took a while for me to understand him and relate to him as a person rather than as a baby, and I have blogged about it at my other blog and will probably post it in here one of these days.
However, over time, I don't know how but he and later his sister, little a, have crept into my heart and created such a huge space for themselves that it surprises me. Every day when I call and hear my son's voice on the phone, my heart melts a little. Each time my daughter sways her hips from side to side or manages to say 'mamma', I turn all mushy inside. It's almost impossible to explain to people who don't have or don't want kids, the immeasurable joy that they bring in along with their dirty diapers and crayonned walls. I mean, did you ever think you'd change stinky diapers as a matter of course? Anyone whose potty-filled diapers you change and still hug and kiss at the end of the exercise has got to be special, right?
I was trying to find a metaphor for life with versus sans kids and came up with it yesterday, which explains the title of this blog - life without kids is like half a rainbow - missing so many hues.
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