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.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
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.
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