Delayed anniversary post

I can’t believe it’s been 8 years. 8 years of living together, fighting, laughing…well, to be honest the fighting and laughing has been going on much longer than that. It’s been an eventful year – Bojji was conceived and born, A decided to turn entrepreneur, we finally moved into the house of our dreams though unfortunately we don’t own it yet…

A, you’ve been my rock and more than that, especially this year with everything that’s been going on in our lives. I on the other hand have totally taken advantage of you, from leaving you in charge of the kids while I was traveling on work to having you do the bulk of the packing and unpacking of the house during renovation, dealing not only with the 3 kids’ tantrums but also mine. I even forgot your birthday this year. I promise I’ll try to do better next year.

At times I can’t believe we’ve been married eight whole years – our marriage seems much younger. At times it feels like maybe we were married at birth. It’s an incredible feeling to have one person who always understands you, even better than you do. Who always believes in you more than you do. Who’s always on your side and doesn’t even let you abuse you.

In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect partner for me than you. I always wanted to want someone but not need them. But you ruined it for me – now I not only want you but need you to be by my side every moment of my life. So, as the poet said, “Grow old with me, the best is yet to be”.

PS: Had to report this conversation.
A ( to Chubbocks): Tomorrow is mama’s and my anniversary – we got married on this date.
Chubbocks: You got married on Wednesday?

The Learning Instinct

Okay, had planned a mushy post on A for our anniversary today but am now not feeling the mush because of various reasons so here’s another post that I have wanting to put up for the longest time.

Puddi had been wanting to go to school for quite a while. Every morning, when all of us sailed off to school or work, she’d peer disconsolately down at us from the verandah, and plaintively demand to go to school. I wanted to enroll her in a parent-child program but knew I couldn’t go with her at such a heavily pregnant stage. So finally we enrolled her in playschool in November, after Bojjandi was born. It’s a new playschool but run by the same teachers who taught Chubbocks at playschool and we knew she’d really benefit from them.

She’s been going twice a week since November now, so it’s just about 14 classes or so – about 28 hours of school. She started out as this clingy little child who never got off A’s lap during class and didn’t open her mouth. But now she’s participating with gusto, requesting her favourite song during music time, speaking up to name the colour, shape or alphabet of the day. On the days she has school, she starts clamouring to go right from early morning. She replicates all the activities they perform in school throughout the day, be it singing the songs, the learning games or the ‘clean-up time’ song. What’s amazing is that we’ve never bothered speaking English to her – I speak to her in Kannada and A in Hindi – but just because the playschool is conducted in English, she’s been picking up so much of the language.

From a child who usually spoke in Hindi or Kannada, she’s begun composing long sentences in English. One can almost see the wheels in her mind turning as she gropes for the right word to express whatever she wants to say. It’s a joy to watch her blossoming and to experience how her mind is expanding. The more she learns – be it at playschool or from my mom who seems to have an inborn instinct for teaching little kids – the more she enjoys it and the more she wants to learn.

Chubbocks is similar – if there’s anything he gets interested in, he just goes after the subject, wanting to absorb information like a little sponge. He has a passion for dinosaurs, which started with A bringing him a movie called Dinosaur, and now he’s made us buy him several books on Dinos. He spends all his free time drawing different types of dinosaurs, reads up on them, knows the names of several different varieties and his latest ambition is to become a paleontologist. Earlier his passion was for tornadoes and again he loved going through a book which explained the phenomenon, asking us questions and discussing them until he understood the concept. Of course, if he’s asked to do any of this as a task assigned by us, he just doesn’t get up the enthusiasm – every time I’ve asked him to read in the afternoon, he’s either turned around and fallen asleep or chosen to spend his time drawing!

Watching these two and several of Chubbocks friends, whom I’ve known since they were all in playschool together, I come back to the conclusion that the learning instinct is inborn in human beings. Animals operate on pure instinct and nearly all their knowledge is inherited, but human beings are remarkable in that we come equipped only with the learning instinct. After that, it’s left to circumstance and later on one’s own inclinations, as to what and how much each one of us learns.

Unfortunately, that means that for those of us not fortunate enough to be born in the middle class at least, even this basic right is denied. The schools run by the government are so pitiful, the teaching level so pathetic even in the private schools, there is a complete lack of infrastructure by way of libraries or learning centers where thirsty little minds can drink in knowledge. And by and large the teaching methodology preferred is that of driving in what the teacher thinks it important for the child to know rather than stimulate the child’s curiosity and let it learn from a more wide-eyed and self-motivated perspective.

My friend’s daughter recently chose to take up IB, International Baccalaureate, at high school level because she was so bored of the commerce stream she had chosen. Ever since this girl started in the program, she has been so self-motivated even her own mother is surprised. She has to do several different projects for each course, they have interesting extracurriculars like drama workshops and model United Nations conferences, they have to prepare an independent paper, like a mini-thesis, for the course…it really equips children for a lifetime of learning. The traditional way Indian schools teach is intended to be useful only from the exam point of view – regurgitate and forget. And it invokes little desire in most people to continue a love-affair with learning. As for the children of the poor who really get the most unmotivated bunch of people teaching them for the most part, no wonder so many of them get bored and drop out of the system even when not forced to by the sheer need to earn a living.

One of my friends from college, Ravi, started up an NGO several years ago. He graduated from IIM A but his heart was never in the corporate sector and luckily, he realized where his vocation lay pretty early. So he set up in his own home, and started running tuition classes for the poor children who lived around – maths and English. As he went on, he realized that spoken English was a key requirement for them as even the brightest of them wouldn’t get a good job if he or she was unable to converse in English – sad but true. So he expanded to cover spoken English and later on, computers. Not programming but the use of basic Windows programs – Word, PowerPoint and Excel. Over time, he built up a base of more teachers – I helped him out for a couple of years when I lived closer to him – and had regular classes in batches. The biggest issue we struggled with was how to keep them interested and to help them built further on what they knew rather than starting each day as a blank slate. Ravi at least has managed to light the fire in many of the kids he helped, and now they want to study further and to run similar helping centers for other kids like them. But who helps out the rest of India?

Piecing it together

Helpful tip: Never have your third baby and renovate your home in the same year. It's incredibly stressful!

So...this was the year the Bojjandi chose to make his appearance, as a happy surprise for us. And, as it turned out, the tenants from the ground floor finally packed up and left and we decided to rent their place also, since we had outgrown the space we had rented 6 years ago, when there were just the two of us and no Chubbocks or Puddi in our lives, with their 3 tons of toys and other gear. Dad manages the house for the owner, who lives overseas, so he did a full evaluation of the ground floor and discovered that the previous tenants had done little or no maintenance for the past 7 years - from things as small as leaking faucets in the kitchen to a bathroom which was neither used nor ever cleaned in the entire duration!

So the contractor and his men moved in mid-July, claiming that it would just take them a month to complete all the work - from repair work to correcting water seepage to waterproofing the outside of the house to repainting all 3 floors. They started with the ground floor and managed to complete it by around mid-September. From telling us that they would let us know a week in advance of when they wanted us to move out of the first and second floors, suddenly one day they landed up brandishing their tools and asking us to vacate immediately. The move was chaotic, not least because I was working insane hours at work and heavily pregnant. poor A ended up taking the brunt of it, and our stuff got hastily moved out of their way- clothes were bundled up in old bedsheets or into the cardboard carton the new fridge came in, the kitchen stuff was spread across three rooms by our helpful household staff, all sorts of things were crammed into two rooms + the kitchen on the ground floor.

The contractor and crew didn't finish their work until way after Bojjandi was born - in fact, they just finished middle of last month, and have left delightful little surprises for us. Shower and other curtain rods are missing, doors which used to lock earlier are now unlock-able and so on. There were some things that they just couldn't do, for instance cleaning up the weird stains on the mosaic floor...Meanwhile we had our hands full dealing with three kids and were at my mom's place for the last two and a half months post Bojji. A did some of the unpacking and setting up whenever he could, including organising our massive library, and I helped at odd intervals, when I could spare the time between Bojjandi's two and a half hourly feeds.

We finally moved back Sunday and I've already been back at work half days from the 1st of Dec. So we're back to hunting out spare moments when none of the three kids want attention and we're not wiped out and needing rest ourselves to piece the rest of the house back together. It's beginning to come together room by room and it's also amazing us how many things we (especially the children) have, because we sure didn't pay for most of their stuff...On the plus side, our efficient old live-in maid who'd gone away to her village for many months, is now back with us. I'm looking forward to the day when we've finally put away every piece of the puzzle in its rightful place and can heave a sigh of relief and joy. But the thing is, in Delhi, that's never a day of final reckoning, given the constant change of seasons...

Mumbai Aftermath

It's already more than a week after the terrible events of Bombay. And I'm still trembling inside. The day after the Bombay attack started, I kept Chubbocks home from school, unable to let him out of my sight ( Of course, by afternoon, dealing with all his pent-up energy, I was wishing I had sent him after all!). But how long do we keep ourselves safe by cocooning ourselves at home? Can I afford never to send my kids anywhere - school, playground or birthday party? I wonder if Chubbocks' school, a prominent one, has any safety measures in place and whether they plan to conduct drills in what everyone should do in the event of an attack. I can't help but remember the Chechnyan attack in Russia, where they held a school hostage and killed so many children. It felt bad enough then, but now that I'm a mom, I feel a visceral grief even imagining the possibility.

I work in a large office complex, with hundreds of people and several large offices around. We have some form of security check going on, but I wonder how well-trained these people are to actually be able to recognise if someone is carrying something dangerous. They check our identity cards in the morning and let us in, not checking our bags. But the terrorists in Bombay did have some form of identification, as did those who carried out 9/11. Each time I come into office, I say a prayer that I'll be able to get out safely and go home to my family.

It's not as if terrorism on Indian soil is something new. Way back in the 80s and 90s, Delhi was one of the first victims. All DTC buses used to have a sign behind the seats asking people to keep their eyes peeled for suspicious unidentified objects which could be bombs. My friend was visiting from Chennai and his hair stood on end when he read that the first time, and he spent the rest of the journney with his face below the seat, looking around for suspicious packages. Over the years, we've even developed a thick carapace and carry on...

But no longer. 26/11 has exposed the total lack of intelligence, security, coordination and concern on the parts of the administration and the government and left all of us feeling exposed to danger in a worse way than ever before. On 26th Nov, it was Bombay, today or tomorrow could be any other city in India, any other venue, and we all have no way of knowing or keeping ourselves safe except to cower within our homes forever.

I've never been the kind of person who worries, mostly I am happy and optimistic. But in the last week, I've grown a new nerve or something which just constantly worries for the safety of family and friends. I know it's not going to help and that it's not in my hands to prevent such a thing from happening, but I am worried each and every day until we're all safely back at home. And bizarrely, as someone who always eschewed fatalism as the philosophy of the indolent, suddenly that seems to be the only attitude which can help us lead life as normal. Que sera, sera, Insh'allah, who can prevent destiny...

Bojjandi's Homecoming

I've been so busy that posts are coming out weeks after the events but never mind. To me, it's more important to record the moments some time. We were dying to shake the dust of the hospital off our heels by the time we'd been in there three days. Even though it felt like a min-vacation for A and me with Bojjandi. No other kids to feed and take to the bathroom and put to bed, no house to be cared for, no servants asking for instructions...just the three of us with the added benefit of a little bell that would instantly produce a nurse for Bojjandi's potty cleaning and so on, our laptop and a bunch of videos if we felt like watching them. But still, 3 days of peace was quite enough.

We wondered how the kids would react to Bojji. Chubbocks has of course been through the drill of new sibling before. He kind of knew what to expect and had reacted well when he visited us at the hospital. Puddi on the other hand had never seen or dealt with a small baby. The one time she bvisited us at the hospital, she seemed to have visceral memories of her stay there earlier in the year and shivered all the time. She barely seemed to recognise us, never mind take cognizance of the fact that there was a baby in the room.

The hospital finally let us go only by 1 pm, and our slow and careful drive home to avoid jolting me and the baby had us arriving only by 2. As we drew up, I saw that dad had made a lovely and creative "Welcome Arman. The 3 As" sign on the door, made out of Ashoka leaves with silver foil in the center. The kids were dancing with impatience, and it felt wonderful to be ushered in by Puddi on one side and Chubbocks on the other. Mom did a traditional aarati otuside the front door before we came in. A was busy taking photos of oru arrival home, and it was an indescribable feeling to have the three kids cluster around me.

We parked Bojjandi in the bedroom and headde straight for lunch since a and I were starving. Manwhile, Puddi and Chubbocks couldn't bear to leave the bedroom where Bojjandi was and were in there under the supervision of our maid. Puddi and Chubbocks both fought over who got to have the baby on their laps and eventually both of them took turns nursing Bojjandi. That afternoon afetr our naps, Puddi and Chubbocks danced in again. Puddi surreptitously tried to feed Bojjandi some of the cheeselings that she was eating, while Chubbocks gazed at him with rapt attention. "He's cute", was his thoughtful verdict. Since that day, the two kids have adjusted amazingly well to Bojjandi's presence. Chubbocks prances in in the morning while leaving for school to say "Hi, Bojjandi", and is thrilled to put his finger into Bojjandi's firm grip. Puddi spends the day clambering laboriously onto our high bed and petting the baby, asking to hold him. She's already told him her favourite Lion bedtime story. She's been evry understanding abotu all the time I spend closeted with Bojji during his feeds and even wakes up from deep sleep at night to say, "Baby ro raha hai. Dudu dedo" ( baby is cying. Give him milk).

I guess at some stage further down the line there will be the usual sibling fights, which are starting between Chubbocks and Puddi. But the nice thing so far is that while they may fight each other, they always gang up against us. I'm guessing the same thing will continue even after Bojjandi joins the gang!

Updates and Milestones

The one-month update for Bojjandi is a little delayed thanks to diwali and a spate of viruses - attacking both me and my laptop. One month down the road as mother of three and I have to say, managing three kids isn't more difficult than managing one. All you need is...three pairs of eyes, three pairs of hands, three times the patience and understanding...Oh, and temporary deafness! There are days when it gets a bit too much for me, to be honest, especially on nights when Bojjandi has resolutely refused to sleep except curled up next to me and suckling through the night. I need my space and the peace of mind of knowing that if I roll over in heavy slumber, no one's going to get crushed. I wonder how women like grandma used to handle it in the old days when they had four or five kids in quick succession, and husbands were only responsible for bringing home the bacon. But, I guess, this too shall pass...

We took Bojjandi for his one-month check-up end of last week. He's gained a decent amount of weight and one inch of height. His newborn clothes seem to be fitting a little better, he's no longer floating about so much that you wish you could put him in a life jacket. His eyes focus, and he makes solid eye-contact. For close to five minutes one evening, his gaze steadily locked onto mine, and I felt we'd started getting acquainted at last. He actually put out a half-smile at me the other day, not a gassy one. He looks around interestedly in which ever room and recognizes my voice and my smell/ touch. The minute I pick him up, he stops wailing, no matter how frantically he was wailing a second before.

I find myself relishing each and every bit of contact with him, particularly on the days that he's slept through the night. Of course on days that he's kept me up, I'm to be found flipping through the directory looking for boarding schools for newborns. But on the other days...I love the feeling of his limp, sated body flopping on my shoulder as I burp him, the little hands holding my shoulder. I love watching his alert eyes flit across the room, seemingly observing everything and making notes. I love the warm body snuggling into mine when he lies next to me for the afternoon feed, his little toes tickling my stomach. I love the indescribably soft baby skin of his cheeks. I love the gossamer touch of those tiny, beautiful, pink little fingers. I love the occasional coos that he's starting to make. I love the little coughs that signal hunger, as if he's politely asking for his meal, not wanting to interrupt me...

Maybe it's because he's the last baby I'm going to have, but I find that time is flying by too fast. Five weeks of my maternity leave are already over, and all too soon, I'll be gone part of the day, back to work. I know I'll enjoy work and the fact of doing something that does not involve potty or milk, but I also know I'll miss him like crazy. People who have limbs amputated feel phantom pain. I know I'll feel the phantom pleasures of imagining the baby's touch on my face - and then real pain when I realise I'm at work and he's not next to me.

It's a hard transition for women to make. You go from holding the baby right inside yourself for nine whole months, feeling every kick and flutter, to having him suddenly ejected..but at least he's right near you to start with. When I look at the future, it seems to hold a series of 'letting-go' moments. From leaving him for four hours a day to leaving him for nine...To leaving him overnight, when I travel...To leaving him for even longer. Then you let him go out of your safe cocoon of home into playschool and school. The circle of friends takes over and takes precedence. Other ties and interests take over and you only hope the ties that bind him to you and the home and family he was born to are strong enough to keep bringing him back time and again...

It's too scary to contemplate for the moment. I'm going to rush back to my room and pull my newest and last baby close for a tight hug!

My Birth Story

When I had Chubbocks, we had no idea he was going to arrive so far ahead of schedule. I checked into hospital for a BP problem and a week later, a good month before he was due, he was being yanked out of me. With Puddi we knew about 3-4 days before when the surgery might take place. With Bojjandi, we got to choose the date, since it was going to be a Csec for sure.


A took the Friday and Monday before the surgery off, since we also wanted to try and re-settle our under-renovation house. Well, we didn't make too much headway, given how tired I was feeling. The day before the surgery was weird. We went to see the Ob-Gyn in the morning, suitcases in the car boot, and were told that everything was proceeding as per schedule, and that we could check in right away if we wanted or do so in the evening. Not wanting to spend any extra time in hospital, we came right back home so we could hang out with Puddi and Chubbocks some more.


Just before leaving for hospital, we witnessed a beautiful sibling moment between Chubbocks and Puddi which made us feel even better about the new baby to come. Puddi has been wanting to go to school for some time, and as soon as Chubbocks came home from school that afternoon, she hoisted his backpack on her back, wore his black school shoes and wanted to set off. Our maid, who's somewhat hard of hearing and consequently speaks at the volume of a drill sergeant, followed her as she marched to the gate and was loudly telling her that school was closed for the day. Puddi burst into tears and Chubbocks came flying into our room to report that the maid was 'scolding Puddi'. Then he flew right out to the gate, put his arm around Puddi and told her, "Don't cry, Puddi, I'll take you to school. It's open for you." He then fixed us with a gimlet eye and commanded A to take them for a ride around the colony, so Puddi would think she had gone to school and back.


We then dropped her to my mom's place, him to a birthday party and proceeded to the hospital. As usual, it took close to an hour before we could get into the room ( for a hospital review, check We Are Like This Only tomorrow). The room was quite nice, as they go, and A and I settled in for a quiet evening. We'd brought along our laptop and a selection of DVDs so Romancing the Stone set the tone or our evening.



The surgery was scheduled quite early the next morning, at 7:30 a.m., so I had been woken up at 5 a.m. to have a bath and the rest of the proceedings. A went in for his bath and he literally came out a bare second before they hauled me off to surgery. For some reason, the attendant told him he was only allowed to come as far as the elevator on our floor so that was it. But on the OT floor, I spotted a couple of people not looking like attendants hovering near the gurney behind me in the corridor, and let's just say I wasn't too happy, what with my al-fresco condition and the fact that various attendants were non-chalantly shuffling the lone sheet that covered me off and on. I know giving birth isn't the most dignified of processes but does it have to be this crude? It turned out that visitors were allowed down to the OT so I shot the attendant my best dirty look as they wheeled me in.


I was prety apprehensive about the spinal anaesthetic which my Ob-gyn had insisted on, especially since it hadn't worked the last time and caused all kinds of problems. However, thankfully it worked this time around and I couldn't feel a thing though I was conscious. I didn't want to even accidentally see anything reflected in the large, shiny light above my head, so I kept my eyes closed, mostly, and alternated between reciting a prayer "Namah Shataaya", planning out the decor for our book room and fantasising about our planned holiday next year in Tuscany, with my sister's family and my parents. Of course, little did I know that this part would be a true fantasy since our savings and investments were about to melt down to almost nothing in the next few days. I did see the baby about an hour into the process, though all I registered was a pink face and lots of downy hair.


The surgery seemed to take surprisingly little time, and soon the doc was calling A from the phone in the OT to say everything was fine and that she'd be up in a few minutes to brief him. I wanted to speak to A myself and reassure him. Poor A had had to go through the waiting period alone, since his parents hadn't come into town and my folks who were supposed to join him at the hospital that morning had gotten delayed by our tantrum-throwing kids. Not to mention, I had been very scared of something going wrong during surgery and spooked A by recording a mushy and morbid message for everyone on the video-camera the previous evening. A technician behind me lent me his cellphone and I called A, and promptly made a booboo. I told A some technician had lent me the cellphone, and the technician leaned over me and informed me coldly hat he was no technician, he was the anaesthetist. I was sure glad the surgery was over and I was out of his hands.


They moved me into a recovery area, where I was overtaken by a fit of shivering as if I was on an ice-slab. I could barely summon up the energy o speak but managed to signal the nurse that I was cold and about half an hour later, they finally brought me some 4 woollen blankets. About 3 hours since the process started, I was wheeled into my room, chatting with A and my folks and waiting for the baby, and feeling mighty glad for the spinal anesthesia process. Sometimes the doctor is right, after all!

What's a Bojjandi?

Thanks to everyone who wrote in with congratulatory messages. I would post individual replies except that Bojjandi has an uncanny way of knowing exactly when I'm logged on to the net and picks that moment to send up a wail.

Lots of people wanted to know what's a Bojjandi. A Bojjandi is someone who...

looks exactly like Edward G. Robinson when about a day old...

who gets super-excited and waggles his head on his spindly little neck before pouncing on his milk like a hungry eaglet...

who wants to poop and feed at the same moment, causing some confusion for his poor parents who don't know which end to attend to first...

who doesn't even fit into newborn clothes yet and floats around in them as if he's wearing a lifepreserver...

who psyched his family by turning onto his stomach this morning though he's barely 3 weeks old...

who's already got his sister and brother fighting over who gets to keep him in their lap...

who's also lucky enough to have his great-grandma in attendance...

who fits right in to a family that houses a Chubbocks and a Puddi...

ANNOUNCEMENT

This is A (BEV's husband) guest posting to announce the birth of our son, Bojjandi (who in the way that babies have, threw a googly - we were expecting a daughter, but of course we're thrilled!).

Mom and baby are doing fine and BEV will be back to posting, albeit sporadically, in a few days.

More Suppandis

My present domestic help is far from being the only Suppandi I have come across, and some of the stories are too good not to share. Years back, at my office, we had a security guard named Pyarey Lal. A thin, weedy-looking specimen with reedy voice to match.

Once one of the girls in office had complained that the cab driver had tried to act fresh when he dropped her home late at night from work. So the head of the office issued a diktat that if any girl worked later than 8 p.m., one of the security guards would escort her home in the cab. One night, I was working till about 3 a.m. editing a film. It being winter, the night was bitterly dark by the time I finished work so I called up the guard from the studio and told him he'd have to drop me home. Of course, with my luck, the guard on duty was Pyarey Lal.
"Who said I have to drop you home?"
"The head of the office"
"How far is your place?"
"Half an hour"
"Goodness gracious, you expect me to travel back alone in a taxi at this hour of night after dropping you home? No way!"
I figured in the case of an attack, I'd be better equipped to defend myself if I was alone rather than have him with me!
*************************************************************************************
One of A's clients had an irritating habit of calling after 6 p.m. on a Friday or the eve of a holiday to load him up with work on his days off. One week, A was rather fed-up and when she called, instructed Pyarey Lal to tell her he was not in office. Of course, this was way back before mobile phones, blackberries and emails.
Pyarey Lal had an earnest confab with the client and turned to us with a worried face:
"She's saying it's urgent."
"Please tell her I am not in office and you have no way of contacting me."
Pyarey Lal goes back to the telephone...
"Sir, I told her you are not here but that you have got the message and will call her in half an hour!"
*************************************************************************************
Once A was in his cabin having a discussion with a colleague about some client issue. The colleague strolled out to freshen up and hadn't returned for a good 15 minutes so A poked his head out of the cabin and asked Pyarey Lal: "Where is S sahib?"
Pyarey Lal: "He is sitting in your cabin talking to you!"
*************************************************************************************
Then there's the famous CPWD or Central Public Works Department, which used to be responsible for the maintenance of our house back when dad was in government service. One day, dad and I were heading out of the house when we saw a CPWD worker diligently working away at the hinges of our front door.
Us: "What are you doing?"
Workman: "We are replacing these old doors with new ones, as per the department order."
We looked around and didn't spot any new door lying there.
Us: "So where's the new door?"
Workman: "My job is to take out the old doors. That's the job of another department. They'll install the new door within 2-3 days!"

Cross-posted at we are like this only

Baby Update

Babies are unpredictable little critters! You may have plans for them but they have a mind of their own right from the womb. I'm due the middle of next month, and while I had few hopes of being able to go full-term thanks to past history and the fact that this too would be a C-Sec, I had discussed possible dates with my Ob-gyn and figured sometime around the first week of October. So I was all set to work till tomorrow and then take a few days off to prepare and to rest up and enjoy my two brats before going into surgery.

Well, this weekend put paid to that. I get a pregnancy-induced liver condition, cholesthiasis, which basically means the liver turns toxic. There is medication to mitigate the effects, but one of the annoying side effects of the condition is an uncontrollable itch. The soles of your feet itch, the palms of your hands and all kinds of un-gettable-at places, and the point is scratch as you might, the itch doesn't subside and you even find yourself scratching unconsciously and being unable to sit still for a moment. We had anticipated it this time too, because if you get it the first time, it's a 99% possibility of getting it the second and third times around. So my doc had been giving me medicine for it all through but Friday night the cholesthiasis broke through all the defences of the preventive medicine. I've been itching like a monkey hunting lice ever since, unable to sleep and elbows and ankles sore with scratching. the first time I got this itch, I was discovered one morning around 3 a.m. sitting in the bathroom scratching the soles of my feet with the clothes-washing brush. The only thing that prevents me from repeating that this time is the lack of a clothes washing brush in the attached bathroom.

So now, depending on whether I think I can maintain my sanity till Tuesday, the baby is going to pop on Tuesday next week. If I think I may go insane from the itching before that, the operation is likely due Thursday. But Chubbocks has a performance in his school assembly Thursday morning, which he has been mighty excited about for the last month and I think it'd be a shame for me to rain on his parade. So then I'll beg the doc for one more day and haul myself in to surgery Friday. Until then, if you come across a 5'5" woman the size of a house who's scratching herself like she's got fleas, come say Hi!

Tales of Suppandi

Suppandi is the mythical hero of a series of funny south Indian traditional folk tales. Suppandi is a simpleton who inevitably gets things wrong and makes the weirdest and funniest mistakes. A couple of posts back I had mentioned my maid who appears to be a near-relative of his and one of my blog readers said they used to call their old maid Suppandi. I've decided to adopt the monicker for mine, as she fits the bill so well.

Yesterday, Puddi was to spend the night at my parents' house. I asked Suppandi to bring her pajamas, bottle and a diaper. Suppandi brought the items one by one - but of course - and laid a trail of them all across the drawing room. "No, put them in a bag". "Bag?" "Yes, you know - bag? Plastic or cloth one?"

Suppandi went off and came back with a cotton bag and Chubbocks pajamas, and promptly started putting his pajamas into the bag. "No, Suppandi, Puddi is going, not Chubbocks, so you need to put in Puddi's clothes and stuff." She took out Chubbocks' pajamas, laid them on the arm of the rocking chair, then promptly started folding them and putting them back into the bag.

"Suppandi, Puddi is going. You need to put in Puddi's Dora pajamas, which are lying here on the table, her diaper and her bottle. Chubbocks is not going; don't pack his stuff."

Pause. Chubbocks clothes come out of the bag and go back on the arm of the rocking chair. Pause again.

Chubbocks clothes are again taken off the arm of the rocking chair, folded and put into the bag. That's when my BP spikes to a dangerous level. "Suppandi, I just told you three times in the last five minutes that you need to pack Puddi's things and not Chubbocks!"

Suppandi withdraws with Chubbocks pajamas and bag in tow and fails to return. Eventually, my parents carry Puddi's stuff home in their hands.

*************************************************************************************

Later last night...

I was in the throes of agonizing pelvic pain yesterday thanks to the effects of the hormone relaxin. I had been unable to sleep all night or during the day, no amount of analgesic gels had helped and I had literally cried with pain. I decided to try a hot water bottle at night and since our house is still in a shambles due to the move, sent Suppandi over to my parents' house to borrow theirs.

"Suppandi, can you heat a steel pan full of water? When it is hot, please pour the water into the red rubber thing you just brought from my parents' house."

Suppandi goes away with a puzzled look on her face. A and I decide discretion is the better part of valour, so we ask her to show us what she got from my parents' place. She comes back with a small steel box full of kesar which my grandmom had given me a few days ago to have with milk!

"Is this what You just brought back from my parents' house? Where's the big red rubber thing?"

Suppandi goes away looking totally bamboozled.

Finally A gets up, goes into the kitchen and hands her the hot water bottle which she has kept upon the kitchen counter in plain sight a few minutes back!

What makes a home?

It's funny the things that come to mean a home to you. I would have thought the people, the memories...well, it is those things, but it's also a whole lot of animate and inanimate objects, and that's what surprises me. We're in the throes of getting the house we live in refurbished. It's a rented house but we've never thought of it as such and thus never hesitated to spend out of our own pockets or put in time and effort to do things a certain way. When we moved in, we decided on a slightly strange living plan. On the first floor, we have a small drawing room ( enough to seat about 6-7 people) and 3 bedrooms + a kitchen. On the second floor, we walk out onto a marble-floored terrace and then there is one really large room, one medium sized room and one additional kitchen/ storage which is quite small. I decided that I wanted the largest room to be our bedroom and turned one of the first floor bedrooms into the dining room, one into a family room and one into our 'messing room' - the room with all the wardrobes so we needn't have heavy wardrobes taking up space in any other room. Upstairs was our bedroom, a storage room for odds and ends and the guestroom/ bookroom, until the kids came along and usurped it for their bedroom.

We'd lived in luxurious government bungalows growing up in Lutyens' Delhi, with the last one being set on a half acre plot in the heart of town, with 100 trees on the perimeter of the house. My bedroom window looked out into the boughs of a neem tree, we had a front lawn and a huge paved-over party space on the side with a bamboo bar and a kitchen garden at the back. yet those were the years that I was busy with my career, a hectic social life and dating A, so the garden existed in the periphery of my life. It was only once we moved into this house that I realised I needed that touch of greenery.

The terrace garden started, innocently enough, with some motley potted palms which I would water in the evening. Then over time, I began getting interested in gardening and read a whole assortment of books on what I could do with a container garden. I started studying about plants, not in a botanical way but simply about the names and species, which did better where, which flowered. I read about garden design. And slowly the motley collection began taking shape as a terrace garden. In the winter, I'd get a whole lot of seasonal flowers planted, ready for spring. I got fragrant plants and night-blooming ones, ones that were perennially blooming, creepers, foliage plants, cacti, bonsai...Once I picked up 100 different types of succulents, intrigued by this species - unfortunately my gardener did not understand the variety and killed off all but two.

The garden became a living, breathing part of the home...and it became a critical part of the spirit of our home. Visitors to the first floor often wondered at how we managed to live in such a cramped space - and then we'd proudly escort them up to our terrace garden. The nondescript brown iron door opens on to a veritable tropical paradise, with color and fragrance, light and movement - and suddenly the house is transformed into a place of surprises, secrets and delight. It is such a lush green space that one feels vaguely surprised to look down and not find grass beneath one's feet. We've made a habit of morning tea in this space whenever the weather is cooler, and I've sat out with my kids during the rain, watching it pour down upon my plants, watching the plants spring up joyously and raise their faces to the deluge. The kids have swum in their plastic wading pool there. Birds have nested there and left their nests behind as a gift for us. A and I have sat out at night, drinking in the scent of raat-ki-rani and madhumalti and jasmine and watched the moon rise over the house. We have loved this unique, private space which made us feel as if we were on an enchanted island far away from the world, because neither of our neighbours uses their second floor. No television, no neighbours, just us and our magical realm...

And now the terrace garden has to go. Apparently the marble floor leads to seepage upon the walls of the house, and since we don't own the house, we can't make structural changes which would allow us to keep the terrace garden intact. If the house belonged to me, I'd get a landscape architect to break down and recreate the terrace floor such that no seepage occurs ever again, and while he's at it, plant a lawn. But sadly, it doesn't. So we have to dismantle the garden. We are moving down to occupy the ground floor as well so we do have a small patch of lawn in front and back where the plants can go. But the place of magical delights, the secret garden of fantasy that we had built up here will be no more. I know there are worse troubles at sea...but my heart is breaking with each plant that I move out of its accustomed place and down into a conventional space.

It seems I can keep a small selection of lightweight, seasonal plants up there. But to me, that's like replacing a jungle with a strip of manicured lawn. The longing for a home of my own, that I own and can take decisions about is growing upon me, brought about by this. Because an emotional investment in a rented house is like having an affair with a married man - ultimately the commitment lies elsewhere. I find myself withdrawing from this house that suddenly seems to be constructed of four walls and a roof, nothing more, and not wanting to pour more of my heart into doing up the new spaces we are moving into. We're moving out of the enchanted kingdom and back to the real world...

Still a baby

There are times when Chubbocks seems like he's already turning into an argumentative teenager. And then thankfully he lapses back into being my first baby - still naive, still soft and sensitive...

His class in school has a stuffed toy class mascot every year. This year it's a panda named Tennyson. Each child gets to take Tennyson home for a night and then get his or her parents to write up what they did with the toy. Chubbocks got Tennyson home one day last week but completely forgot to tell me about it when I asked him what he did at school. His response to my question was the usual laconic, "I played", and then he was off to the park and so on. Later that evening, just as his dad was putting him to bed he remembered Tennyson and pulled him out of the bag. He was too sleepy to help make up any story about what he did with Tennyson, and I have to confess the book of stories some of the other moms had filled in was intimidating. the stay-at-home moms had gone all out with plasticine models, paintings and detailed stories while thw other working slobs like me had barely had time to pull together a one-page write-up.

Well, I'm not a writer for nothing so I made up some stuff in line with what Chubbocks usually does once he's home from school and we were off to bed. Around midnight, we were woken up by Chubbocks asking for his abba. "What happened?" "I'm feeling bad that Tennyson will go back to school tomorrow and I won't have him anymore" says Chubbocks with a woebegone face. Given how blase he'd been all day, this was a turnaround for the books! We quickly made space for him and tenny to curl up in our bed and Chubbocks hugged Tenny to him all night, brushing his teeth in the morning and feeding him cornflakes before taking him back to school!

Many thanks to my friends and fellow bloggers Neera , asaaan and Dipali for giving me this award. I entered the world of blogging sometime last year on a whim, starting off with my travelblog, as I thought that would be a great way of recalling holidays especially years later when the photos might not bring back details of all the fun moments we enjoyed. Then I started off my opinions blog and a food blog and then this one on life with kids.

Though I love writing, I'm terrible with keeping diaries, and I have beautifully designed babybooks for my kids which are sadly blank so I figured something that makes it convenient for me - just type and it's all done - may be the easy way out. It was more an outlet for me and a way to preserve memories, both for myself and for my kids - after I had them, I discovered how important it is for moms to remember all the details about their kids. I'd pester my mom for details on everything about me and my sister - the pregnancy, what we did at each month, when we learned x, y or z and get frustrated when she couldn't remember. But as Chubbocks grew up, I realised for myself how easy it is to forget - each phase is so all-consuming that the previous stages are forgotten or recalled only if you've been lucky or smart with a camera. When I saw newborn kids after Chubbocks was a year old, I used to think they were super-tiny and that Chubbocks had been much larger when born, only to realise later that he'd weighed less so had probably been as tiny or even tinier! So, to cut a long story short, this blog was really to ensure my kids didn't cuss me out when they had kids of their own years later!

I didn't realise at the time how compulsive blogging could become or that it would ever lead to anything further. But after a wonderful online shower organised by Tharini earlier in the year, I've discovered a whole community of online friends who're always there with a willing ear (eye?) to rant to, to answer all kinds of questions or just to lend a supportive shoulder. And many of them have turned into offline friends as well. I'd like to say a big thanks to blogger as well for being so easy to adopt! And to pass on this award to some bloggers I've enjoyed in the last year, in no particular order:
Sujatha whose blog I love and whom I'd love to return to the world of blogging;
Dotthoughts who has a spirited son like mine and who's always thought-provoking;
Asha who blogs about food and brings an enormous enthusiasm for each and every festival, event or meal that she prepares for her family;
Boo who always has a funny take on what happens;
Beth who's fallen in love with Bollywood and whose reviews are always interesting - funny, thought-provoking or really incisive;
Aspi, whose wicked reviews of India's reality shows and movies are hilariously rib-tickling ;
Noon whose posts are so wonderfully heart-warming.
Here's looking forward to disovering more wonderful blogs and bloggers over the next year!

Rules:
This award is for blogs whose content and/or design are brilliant as well as creative.
The purpose of the prize is to promote as many blogs as possible in the blogosphere.
1. When you receive the prize you must write a post showing it, together with the name of who has given it to you, and link them back
2. Choose a minimum of 7 blogs (or even more) that you find brilliant in their content or design.
3. Show their names and links and leave them a comment informing they were prized with ‘Brilliant Weblog’
4. Show a picture of those who awarded you and those you give the prize (optional).
5. And then we pass it on!

Progress Reports

Got about a month to go before baby # 3 turns our world upside down, as per the doc. Can't wait to pop it out, methinks - more due to my growing discomfort than excitement at the new arrival as of now. It's been rough the last couple of weeks as I grow increasingly larger. I've outgrown my maternity wear! And wish I could wear my comfy, worn out old nighties all day, even to the office.

I had to make an emergency run to the nearest FabIndia to stock up on some affordable maternity wear to tide me over the next few weeks. Some of their stuff is nice and comfy but i need to remember to try on everything I buy from there - some of their clothing looks okay on a shelf but hideous on. I had an all-day conference at office on Friday and decided to get into the maternity dress I had just bought. Guess what? The dress is really, really long - longer than mid-calf but not ankle length which is funny and makes you look weirdly proportioned, especially when your ankles have ballooned due to pregnancy. Asked A if it looked ok, and just to be supportive he said yes. Then I asked my friend and colleague who'd come over to ride along to the conference - does this look like a housecoat? At her reluctant yes, I had to go back in the house and change.

Finding it increasingly harder to sleep, what with my back and pelvis aches and my stomach getting hard and bloaty every night - no amount of Eno seems to help and I spend half the night pacing around waiting for the bloat to go away. The weather has been pretty horrendous - hot so you need the AC full blast all night, leaving me with the sniffles. Am hoping the sniffles and cough go away soon - am shuddering to think how it'll feel to cough or sneeze with stitches in my belly :( And of course I can't believe I'm still nauseated. I have to keep eating every couple of hours or else I'm hunched over the basin, and I'm getting really tired of eating. During Chubbocks' pregnancy, I just couldn't bear to eat anything except bananas for ages, and then I lost weight during the first trimester so the doc had me stuffing my face. We'd nicknamed Chubbocks Pate, since I felt like the stuffed goose - I think this baby has me heading the same way!

On the plus side of sleeplessness, have come up to level 12 and 7500 points on brick-breaker on A's blackberry. Maybe I'll borrow the blackberry to keep me busy during delivery!

What with the house still under renovation and the workmen dragging out the schedule, I've almost no bandwidth to think about the new baby. The only thing I'm hoping to manage is to shop for baby clothes this weekend since I sent off all the baby clothes I had to my sister after Puddi was born, in the fond belief that I would never need them again. When Chubbocks was born, we arrived at the hospital with a suitcase full of clothes for me, but none for him, since I had checked in a week before he was born for pre-eclampsia. When Puddi was due, determined to redress the balance, I went to hospital with a suitcase full of stuff for her - clothes, bibs, diapers, bottles - but forgot to pack clothes for myself. This time I'm hoping to get it right - I knew there was a reason we were having a third baby!

Speaking of first and second, Chubbocks is really making strides in his swimming classes now, and swam by himself in the 5 feet deep area on Sunday, under the watchful gaze of the instructor. It's wonderful to see his growing confidence and enthusiasm for swimming classes. No matter how thrilled our own achievements may make us, there is nothing comparable to the thrill of seeing your child master something - the pride and confidence in his or her eyes.

His answers about what he has done in school remain laconic as ever, though he has plenty to say and ask about all kinds of unrelated matters. "I played" is his stock answer. His review with the current class teacher is coming up and I hope she'll be more eloquent than he is. His teachers from nursery seemed to be really fond of him and I remember that every time we went for a PTA meeting, the two of them would start giggling and laughing when it came to Chubbocks, which made us feel he was doing all right. His current teachers haven't made much of an impression on us so far, so I'm looking forward to the PTA meeting - hope it happens before the baby!

Puddi has become naughtier than ever and the best way to make her do anything we want is to forbid her from doing it. "Don't come and kiss abba - never come and sit on abba's lap" will immediately see her scrambling onto abba's lap and covering his face with her kisses. She's also learning English of a Tutti-frutti variety, mostly from hearing Chubbocks talk. So she keeps coming up with sentences which are grammatically correct but which she doesn't understand in the least! Five times a day, she asks, "Can I have a Toffee?", mouth all deliciously pursed up - but has no clue what she's asked for or what we have granted permission for when we say yes. She shows signs of having gymnastic inclinations and clambers up our inlaid Planter's chair like a monkey, holding on to its back. I wish I knew where one could enrol her for gymnastics lessons. With all the discoveries she's making about the world around her, her energy levels are sky-rocketing so it's become a real task to get her to sleep at night - she keeps getting more and more active as the night goes on. Good practice for # 3.

And last on our updates, I had a real Birbal moment at home yesterday with our latest and most gormless domestic help. My mobile phone was ringing and I couldn't get up. I asked her to fetch it, so she comes back and tells me it's in the bathroom.
Me: "Please bring it here"
After an interval when it kept ringing and she hadn't fetched it, I went out of the playroom to see what was the delay. I found gormless hunting for it in the living room, despite her having just seen it in the bathroom!

Fathers and fatherhood

Yesterday I was chatting to my soul-sistah, whom I've now known for 17 years and with whom I've gone through singlehood, boyfriends, marriage and motherhood. Her husband too is an old friend, from the time the three of us met up at bschool. If you were to look at her life externally, she has everything to be envied for. She's gorgeous, talented, bright, has two lovely daughters, a superbly run and gracious home and an extremely good marriage. She's a high-powered exec at an MNC bank which appreciates her work so highly that they've given her a deal in which she has been able to work from home for the last 5 years - pretty rare, I can tell you. Her husband is doing brilliantly at work, just got promoted, is a nice guy despite raking in moolah like it's going out of style.

Here's the problem - everything connected with the home or the kids is her department. It began innocently enough because he had a job in which he was constantly required to travel, but somehow over the years, it's become the course their relationship has charted. He thinks his job as father ends with taking them out once a week, and that the rest of his weekends/ spare time should be spent getting in some much needed sleep and R&R. Fine, no one grudges anyone R&R, but hey, how about someone giving his wife the same right to R&R? His solution - hand the kid stuff over to the domestic help! That's something my friend just is not happy doing, so she runs herself into the ground managing everything - job, home, kids...

It's not unusual to find women having to cope with this, be it in India or overseas. Women do end up doing the bulk of housework and childcare regardless of whether they are SAHMs or WOHMs, and regardless of how well they may be doing at work or how stressful their jobs may be. Somewhere in the whole feminism and equal rights debate, it became understood that the woman who was equal was the superwoman who got to do her job and the man's job, while men, having granted women the right to kill themselves from overwork, happily basked in being called 'liberated'.

This attitude is something that really bothers me, especially when I see it among my male friends, because many of them are pals from bschool. They saw a whole lot of us women beat out all kinds of competition to make it into the same hallowed portals of education, they saw us work as hard or harder to perform at bschool and at work, they treated us as equals back then. But suddenly, after the M word ( marriage), they go right back to the parental generation's attitudes about who's responsible for what in the household, and women are left holding the baby, the bathwater and the job.

A and I faced a pretty major decision early this year when we conceived our third child and had to take a call on whether or not we would go ahead with it. Having decided to be gung-ho about it, I find a lot of my friends calling me 'superwoman' because I've managed to have full-time job along with the 2 kiddos we have. But honestly, I would never have been able to be in the position of wearing my underwear over my pants if it hadn't been for A doing such a fantastic job as father and husband.

No matter what I decide or do, he's always right there, not just cheering me on but taking on whatever additional load needs to be taken on so I can make my way easily. There was a time when I had to quit working and stay home, though our finances were at bankruptcy point - but there was never a grumble from him. Nor when I decided to work part-time for 3 years. In the interests of my being able to work, i realised something had to give in the system, and that something was a home that was spick and span. I'm not a neatnik by nature, and add to it being away from home and kid all day and the last thing I want to spend my time on when I'm home is cleaning up - I'd rather hang out with the kids and teach them how to make paper planes. A is a neatnik and I'm sure it bothers him when the house is a mess, but he's absolutely ok with my sense of priorities.

He takes on a huge load of parenting as well. I'm not saying it's a chore and not fun but the fact is that he willingly does it for his kids, both because he believes that's his role as a father and so that I face less pressure. Whether it's getting Chubbocks ready for school or telling the kids bedtime stories, washing potty-bums, changing diapers, feeding them or walking a wailing baby up and down outside the theatre when I was desperate to watch a film, he's done the whole lot. Worrying about their health, being the strong man during their vaccinations while I cringe outside the doc's office, sharing the task of taking time off when they're ill, taking them to the park...all this is part and parcel of our life together. I never have to think twice about leaving the kids in hs supervision or leave instructions about their well-being. He's so involved in the process of raising them that he knows what to do.

In fact, there are times when I think I'm taking advantage of him and not doing as much as I should in the process of raising the kids. Despite his humongous commute ( 50 km each way, every day), his very senior job and the fact that he puts the bread, butter, jam and cake on the table, while my contribution amounts to maybe a dhania patta, he takes my need to work, and his role in building our life together as seriously as mine. We operate very much as a team in building our life together, including bringing up the kids.

What makes me sad is how many men, even in this day and age, carry a poker up their a@#$ when it comes to their roles in personal life. There's such a strict division of labour and both the men and the women in those relationships end up losing out on a much richer bond that they could have with each other and their kids. And if they do occasionally step out of the self-defined boundaries into an active role, it's almost like a favour they are doing for their spouse, not something they feel they should want to or enjoy doing for their own children.

I have great memories of my childhood, when dad used to be an involved parent - telling me bedtime stories, some of which are now passed on to my kids, taking me to various docs for my asthma treatments, taking us out to Children's Park or India Gate, bathing me or my sister...just the regular gamut of activities that are routine occurrences in daily life, not a series of specially orchestrated events designed to demonstrate that 'dad cares'. I think I would have been in for a rude awakening if A hadn't held similar views to dad's on how to be involved as a parent, and I suspect many women I know have gone through this shock when their hitherto egalitarian relationships with their husband progressed into parenthood.

Thanks, dad, for being involved. And thanks A. I don't know if the kids realise it now but they will have a lot to thank you for when they grow up. And thanks for being a genuine life partner!

Girly genes

I was a tomboy growing up and sorta always assumed my daughter would be one too, and a slow bloomer, just like moi. Well, Puddi's full of surprises, so every day when I get home, the first thing she wants is for me to pull of my dupatta so she can wear it like this:

and take off my earrings so she can flaunt them like this:



and insists on getting her hair done before going to the park:



Oh, well. As long as she keeps up the monkey business on the side, I'm ok!

I-Day

I'm a patriot. I make no bones about it, even while I loudly criticise whatever I see fit to criticise in the state of my country. And I think it's important to me that my kids learn to love and appreciate their country of origin, wherever life may take them in the future. So, for me, it's important to celebrate occasions like Republic Day and Independence Day. This Jan, I even had Chubbocks sit and watch the Republic day parade, which I remember as a child inspiring me with awe and love.

On I-Day, the colony we live in usually has a flag-hoisting. The folk who show up are mostly either the over 60 or under 10. Those of us in the middle rarely make it, except for the stray couple here and there. A and I have made it a point to attend the flag-hoisting, which is typically followed by the national anthem. Some years, a contingent of the tykes has gotten together with one of the older ladies to prepare and sing some patriotic songs. Since we've had the kids, A and I are all the more determined to make it for the flag hoisting, so we were there this 15th as well, bang on time at 9:25 am.

We ensured that we were all in desi costume, A in a red kurta, Chubbocks in a white chikan hurta and puddi and I in gher-wala skirts. (I must have looked like the Big Top of a circus, at my current girth!). As usual, about 15 oldies were there, along with the head of the security guards and some karamchaaris, as well as about 15 kids of various ages up to 11. Only 3 couples of our age had turned up including us. At exactly 9:30am, the program began with the kids getting the honour of hoisting the flag. One of the old ladies with a melodious voice was waiting to lead us into the national anthem, but the head of security bumbled and started off, to the tune of the Hanuman Chaalisa! That tells you about the quality of education dished out at govt. schools, I suppose.

Put off by his timing, various people started singing the anthem at different times, creating a loud and disharmonious rendering of the Jana Gana Mana...But it still sent a shiver down my spine. Even more, the tape of Vande Mataram which played in the background made me stand straight and tall and feel proud of my country and all that it has done and accomplished in the past, and could do in the future. It sounds crazy, but every time I hear Vande Mataram or the phrase Jai hind, I get an automatic infusion of the patriotic spirit. We've been telling Chubbocks stories about the freedom struggle, though I don't know how much if it he gets at present. But I sure hope all three of my kids grow up with the same deep love for the country flowing through their veins as A and I have.

Kids and empathy

Our kids come pre-loaded with so many wonderful programs, I wonder who thinks them up, how one finds out what all is pre-loaded since someone up there forgot to pack the instruction booklet, and I also hope and pray one will be able to enable them to use all the programs properly. Chubbocks, from the time he was little, showed signs of being a gentle, sensitive type. He used to get upset if anyone spoke in a loud tone around him and in playschool, the minute he saw another kid crying or looking unhappy, his face would immediately mirror the expression and he's want to go over and comfort the other kid, ask what's wrong and so on.

It used to discomfit me at times, having become suitably adult and used to trying to ignore signs of distress in random starngers unless asked for help. Then I realised it was actually a wonderful ability to be able to empathise with other people, and that if only we encouraged kids to go up to each other and openly seek/ offer comfort and a listening ear, the world would be better off. I started encoraging him to go right ahead and express his empathy. Now he's become a 'big boy', full of Ben 10 and Pink Panther and 'fighting evil people' and such-like. But even now, if we ever scold Puddi, his eyes well up and he immediately reaches across to comfort her and yell at us, "She's only a little kid".

Puddi shows signs of being a much more rampageous character, never quiet for s second when she can create mischief instead, busily spilling water all over the house for people to slip on, stealing candy from the fridge and so on. But she too shows a caring spirit and especially if Chubbocks ever cries, she immediately reaches out, gives him a body hug with a 'Solly, bhaiyya'. Yesterday, Chubbocks had fallen on top of the wrought-irom side table and fallen down. His dignity was hurt more than any phsical harm but he started bawling anyway. Puddi couldn't stand it, and it was heart-warming to watch her cup his face in her little hands and say, "Don't cry. Kya hua?"

I hope they always have this spirit of reaching out and sharing each other's distress. That embodies the spirit of raksha-bandhan and sibing love to me. But I also see a lot of other kids in the park or at Chubbocks' school who don't seem to have this spirit, and in fact, delight in making other kids cry. And I see kids who used to be similar to Chubbocks in playschool who have now grown up to be much more 'hardened', for want of a better word. And I wonder why, and what happened. Did they wind up watching too much TV? Were they told to wisen up and not be 'such a baby'? Does no one - maid or mother - encourage them to go up to playmates in distress and offer a comforting word or hug? Or did they, in the process of growing up to the age of 5, just lose the ability to understand their playmates' hurt or humiliation and react to it sympathetically? At the risk of my kids being called 'softies' or worse, I sure hope they manage to preserve this ability all their lives.

Pregnancy Update

Now am properly in third trimester, but can't believe there is soo much time left still. Have become unbearably large and liable to overbalance at any and all times, even while sitting down ( as my pic will justify - and this is from giant blue egg day - much before had reached current size).

From proud possessor of over 50 pairs of vertiginous high heels, am now reduced to living in 3 pairs of flats. Can slip anywhere, anytime.

Permanently hungry - but unable to eat more than a few morsels when in front of food.

Permanently in the loo - want to tape pillow to backrest of toilet seat and move in forever.

Can get tired from just breathing in and out.

Pelvic bones aching - feel like the legs will pop out of their sockets any day now. Upper back hurts from supporting ginormous belly.

Barely fitting into maternity wear - will soon have to rent-a-tent from the tentwalas in the neighbourhood.

God - you have to be male. Only a male could have thought up such a tortuous way to get a baby into this world. And how thoughtful of you to make sure women got to do all the carrying. I guess you knew if you left it up to men, earth would still be ruled by dinosaurs!

My Debbil Woman

Puddi has well and truly hit the terrible twos. Until then, she was a high-spirited sprite. Now she's a strong-willed little brat who has a daily battle with dinner. God knows why the first signs of rebellion always have to do with food - her brother was the same, and has only recently begun to eat like people again, otherwise he used to eat less than an ant needs to stay alive ( touch wood). So this chile, who used to gobble up her food and ask everyone who came to the park for their snacks, as if she was a starvation victim, now turns up her nose at dinner every single day. It doesn't matter what's cooked for dinner, whether it's her favourite dahi-chawal, pulao, rotis with ghee, sandwiches, parathas...everything's passe.

Of course, having been through the process once, I try and stay cool about it. But day after day of not eating dinner surely can't be good, especially when the little girl wakes up in the middle of the night complaining about stomach-ache brought on by the empty stomach. So yesterday I decided to take on the battle, little realising that this would be my Waterloo. Started off by giving her pulao and dahi. The dahi got eaten up while the pulao was stirred around the plate and smeared on the table for good measure. Got someone to take away the plate and decided to initiate Puddi into the art of time-outs. I gave her 2 minutes of time out standing at the balcony door and looking out at the dark night outside. Two minutes are up, but Puddi is quite happy to be standing there - she thinks it's a new game and says, "Puddi nahi hai. kahaan chali gayi?"

Gah! Bring her back to the table, and this time mix the dahi into the pulao, hoping that'll do the trick. Nope, not even one morsel goes through those rosebud lips. I decide on another time out, in her playroom this time, leave her in and shut the door. Peer in half a minute later to see if she's upset since I don't hear any noise, which is usually a sign of danger. Nope - she's sitting on the mattress looking around the room, cool as a cucumber. Okay, drastic measures are called for, I think and switch off the light. No reaction. I bring her out since I panic at the thought of her sitting in a dark room.

Try again - this time plain dahi-chawal. No response. Give her a time-out on the balcony this time. Put her out and watch anxiously through the window. The child doesn't move a hair, she happily stares around at the dark night sky, the tree outside, the broken flowerpot...I give up. Bring her in, clear up dinner and let her putter around. She plays happily, while I slump, defeated, arms locked behind me in Napoleonic imitation. I'll have to exile meself, methinks!

Just to give you a glimpse of how much attitude she can throw:

About a Boy...

This is a rambling post about Chubbocks, my first baby who's not such a baby any more.

Chubbocks has been quite amazing the last few weeks. Now when he gets dressed to go to school, he looks like a proper little schoolboy, not my little bhondu ram any more. Last weekend, his swimming lessons began. He has always loved water and I remember one time we took him swimming when he was two, he instinctively moved his arms and legs in the correct manner. But we haven't managed to be regular at the pool, between my various pregnancies and the weird summers we've been having in Delhi, more rain than sun. So when the school announced swimming lessons on weekends, we were overjoyed. All the more because last summer he fell into the deep end of the pool when we were on vacation ( details on my travel blog) and even though I pulled him out in about half a heartbeat, he has been too scared to venture inside without his water wings.

Of course, we arrived at the lessons to find the school had made a mix-up and that he was scheduled for a lesson between 3-4 pm though they had told us 4-5 pm. Anyhow, they agreed to hold the first lesson late for him and 3-4 other kids that day. He was a mixture of thrill and fear as the lifeguard lowered him in. For the first couple of minutes he clung nervously to the ladder, too scared to let go even when the instructor took hold of him. Then I encouraged him and in he went, to hold on to the side and practice kicking. I don't think this was what he had envisaged when told about swim lessons - he had thought he'd be put there doing fancy strokes in the deep end. But he was quite excited about it all the same and game for the next day's lessons. The next day, the instructor got him to try an overhead stroke...it was a hilarious sight. Our pal had obviously seen me or other people swim overarm so he busily imitated the side to side head movement but so fast that he looked dizzy, while completely forgetting to kick his legs at all. After day one, his arms and legs were aching and I told him that was a sign that he was building up his muscles. So of course, the rest of the weekend, we had to measure his biceps every five minutes or so and comment on how big they were getting. he's quite excited about the rest of his swimming lessons and I'm hoping for warm weather weekends, for the first time in my life, so they can go on apace.

He's also getting to be a big boy so on Sunday when I had to go do the grocery shopping for the month as A was laid up, I roped him in to push the second grocery cart around. I had to forewarn him that he wouldn't get to ride in the cart shaped like a car since I needed him to help me shop. He was amazingly good about it, steering his cart carefully all over the store, lugging packages back and forth to load it up and not once complaining about either being bored or tired. It was, on the other hand, shocking to see how rudely people in India treat kids. Forget anyone smiling at the plucky boy helping out, but people had no compunctions shoving their carts alongside, bumping into him and not even saying sorry, pushing his cart away and carrying on. At one point, he was coming out of an aisle, and an old gentleman was coming the other way. We had right of way since we were heading for the cash till, but this rude old guy, who must have been a sextagenarian at least, pushed his cart at Chubbocks' cart really hard, so the little guy almost fell, and pushed him all the way back into the aisle and rudely brushed on past. I've been brought up with a respect for the aged and a belief in being polite to them but in the past couple of weeks, this is the second instance when I've noticed that they aren't any more polite or well-mannered than the average Delhi-ite.

On Friday evenings, Chubbocks stays over at my parents' house. This Friday he came over to retrieve the book he had brought home from the school library. "It's very funny, mamma", he said, and sat down to read aloud the entire book to me. He has read one Ladybird beginning reader before but only with help, so it was thrilling to see him read this all by himself, with the right emphasis and intonations - I got goosebumps. Then, yesterday, we sent him up to bed in his room while we finished up our meal. We went up a good fifteen minutes after him to find him busily reading aloud to himself from a 'Caillou' book. It's a good 10-12 page book, and he was on the penultimate page when we reached. He looked up shyly, blushed but carried on till he finished it before he curled up for the night. I can't find the words to explain how amazing it makes me feel to see him reading all by himself and showing such a joy in the act of reading. For both A and me, reading is the breath of life, so it's nice to find evidence of heredity. More than that, I find myself thrilling in advance at all the wonderful adventures he has ahead of him in the world of books...It won't be long before he's reading this blog and cribbing or blushing about whatever I've said...!

Heard around our house...

Puddi's a big fan of the cartoon network show Krishna, in which a lot of the dialogue is in Bhojpuri-type Hindi. The other day I was busy and not paying attention to her.
Puddi: Mamma
Mamma: no response
Puddi: Mamma
Mamma: no response
Puddi: O Maiyya!
Got me to my feet alright!
********************************************************************************
A has a habit of never having his mobile phone available to me- it's always either busy or 'not reachable when I call, to the extent that I have his name saved as 'anotavailable' on my mobile phone. Last night he was at it again, when I was trying to figure out what flight he was taking back from Mumbai. A couple calls later I was irritated and telling Chubbocks (the child reared on tales from Indian mythology) so.
Me: If abba calls I'm not going to answer it. He never takes my calls.
Chubbocks: Mamma, if you keep getting so angry, you will turn into a demon.
************************************************************************************
Still later...
Chubbocks: Good people turn into bad people when they are angry and then they become demons. Then you have to kill them.
Me ( with a gasp): So if I become a demon, you'll kill me also?
Chubbocks: No. Then there'll be no mamma. I'll just give you a hug then you'll stop being angry.

Things to be Thankful for...

Maybe it's a vestige of one's first encounter with the world of numbers, but 100 always seems like a big milestone - bigger than 200 or 1000 - in my mind. And for the milestone post on this blog, what better than to thank God for all the wonderful things in my life?

My son Chubbocks: beaming boy wonder, wordsmith par excellence already, greedily learning to read the most complex of words...

Day before I had promised Chubbocks that he could have Maggi noodles for dinner yesterday. So when I reached home from work, he immediately reminded me of the promise. Tired though I was, I couldn't refuse, so I set to and made him a bowlful, with carrots, beans, onions and potatoes and my own mix of spices since we had lost the spice mix which came with the pack. His face was a picture of delight, with the 'shining from inside' look coupled with bashfulness that it gets whenever he is thrilled to the marrow about something. Each and every bite of the Maggi was relished with much gusto, much smacking of the lips, and much 'yummy, Mamma's. What astounded me was how much joy could come from such a small little indulgence for him. And I am thankful that he is still so unspoilt that an occasional Maggi or pizza dinner can give him such a thrill.

And Chubbocks is learning to read. We often play a game in which I write sentences on his doodle pro and he reads them or he writes them and I read. Yesterday, as he ate up his noodles, I wrote to him:
'I enjoy playing with you'; 'It thrills me when you read'; 'I am very impressed with your reading'; 'I love you very much'...and was more than amazed when he managed to read each and every word correctly. It's a far cry from the 'Pat and Cat' books that 5 year olds typically read, and I'm already having visions of him starting to enjoy the William books in my collection...

My daughter Puddi: looney tune, boogie meister, eyelash batter to surpass Angelina Jolie...

Puddi is going through her Terrible Twos. Good eating habits are the first to go at this stage, and sure enough, from being someone who couldn't get enough food, she has become picky and uninterested in her food, making mealtimes a battleground. Sometimes we do succeed in getting her interested - like day before when big brother Chubbocks fed her a spoon of dahi after each bite of roti - but otherwise it's a fight for control. Her resistance to instructions is growing - any time we tell her to do anything she doesn't feel like doing, the response is an extreme 'nahi karegi, kabhi nahin karegi' ( won't do it; I will never do it). For instance, when she woke up at 4 am the other morning, crawled into bed and kept babbling. A and I: "Keep quiet Puddi!" Puddi: "Keep quiet nahin kalegi, kabhi nahin kalegi". She finds a new reason to chortle every day, and her latest trick is to cover her mouth with one fat little hand and giggle, big eyes full of mischief. She loves playing with crayons and our drawing room walls now have blue lines to match the furniture. She enjoys books, and is forever curled up peering at the 'kinna' ( Krishna) book. Sleep has now become her enemy and she insists on staying up till her eyes are falling out of her head. And then when finally sleep is overpowering her, she'll look up trustingly at her father and say, "Abba, scat my bat" ( scratch my back), with the sure expectation that Abba will immediately do her bidding and send her off to the Land of Nod...

The baby to come: who will hopefully thrive despite my insane schedule and come out happy to meet us all, and be as innocent and fun-loving as his/ her siblings, enjoying our benign neglect and chaotic household...

My parents: a lifeline

I remember way back when I was expecting Chubbocks. I didn't know I was pregnant, just that I would come home from a day's work and collapse bonelessly, unable to so much as make myself a cup of tea. And go straight to my folks' house, where dad ( since mom was away on holiday) would not only make me a life-reviving cup of tea but also feed us dinner. And when I had to go on bed rest, mom had to cut short her vacation and come rushing back to take care of me. I never needed to stop for a moment and think about whether I was putting her out, I could just ask her and rest assured that she would do it and be there for me.

With my kids, my parents have been their primary caregivers at times, when I've been caught up at work. Mom is the one who comes up with fun games to teach them counting and colours, while dad indulges them in horseplay and tells them the stories he told me as a kid. They help feed them and look after them when I'm traveling or working late, worry as much as we do when they fall ill and delight as much or more in their antics.

My sister M and soulsister M:

With whom I've survived heartbreak and heartache, tequila and sunrise, marriage and childbirth...with whom my connection grows stronger as we grow older...with whom I can argue, differ, bicker and yet come back to share a glass of Roohafza...

And A: my Rock of Gibraltar, the wind beneath my wings...

Who believes in me more than I believe in myself, who loves me despite my temper and mu untidy ways, wilfulness and extravagance...who loves indulging me and can always find an excuse for my bad behaviour...who always encourages me to fly and is always ready to catch me if I fall...who has uncomplainingly taken my place for the last 2 months when I've been traveling and working late and managed the kids beautifully...who still thinks I'm beautiful, with my pot belly and grey hair...

I wonder what I did to deserve all this? It must have been something good...

Date Night

A and I have been so busy with work lately that life has been hectic. Add to that the ever-present guilt of being working parents with limited time to spend with the kids, and a chatty chubbocks on summer vacation, and the going away of our live-in maid and suddenly one day we realised that it had been ages since we'd been out anywhere, just the two of us, and managed to have a conversation of more than two words without the kids butting in. A and I love hanging out together and have usually managed to make the time to do so, so we felt all the more deprived. It seems bizarre that we spent seven years struggling against various odds to be with each other, and now that we officially are, we have no time to spend with each other!

Luckily, an invitation from the French embassy coincided with our finding a potential live-in maid. We roped in mom to let the kids sleep over, with maid in attendance, since she is so new I couldn't leave the kids with her with any peace of mind. And once the kids were off to the park, we began titivating ourselves prior to our date with each other.

I pulled out my new petrol blue Wendell Rodericks chiffon shirt, bought this summer, since the event said the dress code was formal; and my maternity pants. A pulled out his favourite Hugo Boss suit and a dashing red tie. I pulled out some of the stops with make-up, using all the stuff I had recently splurged on at MAC. Sadly, my shoes had to be my sensible work-style blue pumps rather than any gravity defying stilettoes since at my current size and girth, mother earth loves to embrace me at any unwary step.

Finally, looking like a handsome elegant man accompanied by a giant blue walking egg, we made our way out of the house. It felt a little strange to be do dressed up this early in the evening, but we had to be there at 7 pm so we swanned out conspicuously among the gangs of neighbours taking leisurely strolls in their sweatsuits.

The function was the conferring of the Legion d'Honneur upon Yash Chopra. Many politico types and some socialite types were spotted at the do. We snagged good seats and then, realising we were ravenous, fell upon the canapes that were circulating - quite delicious. The function itself was short and sweet, with a nicely made AV tracing Yash Chopra's cinematic oeuvre and pictures of him and the stars of Veer Zaara causing a stampede and riot in Paris during the premiere. Maitre Chopra made a heartwarming speech, and then it was all over. I ensured that A met and congratulated Mr. Chopra, since Deewaar is his all-time favourite movie - the man can recite all the dialogues in his sleep! - and then we headed out to dinner.

Italic has often hosted our unplanned outings, post a quiz or some such, so we headed there, since it has great food and is convenient. A live singer was playing some of the oldies which never fail to make you sing along - Imagine, Tie a Yellow ribbon, Country roads and so on, and A and I joined in with great gusto, unheeding of any distress we may have been causing fellow-diners. It felt great to be out again, just the two of us, not mentioning the kids except in passing, enjoying some music...being ourselves, A and P, not mom and dad. It brought back memories of the years when we were dating, when we had tried out practically every restaurant in town and yet hardly noticed the food, we were so busy falling in love with each other.

Back home, the contrast to our dating era was obvious and welcome. Instead of heading off into different directions, we got to go home with each other, cuddle up and watch our favourite Tv program, sa Re Ga Ma Pa, sing along to whichever songs we knew and go to bed snuggled into each other. And be able to say "I Love You" to each other in person, instead of over a cellphone call. And to be ok with turning over and going straight to sleep...hey, I am 6 months pregnant!

Life is only going to get more hectic in the coming months. A has a lot more commuting to Bombay coming up, we have a third kid on the way and if it's half as chatty as the other two, A and I will be lucky if we can say two words to each other once a fortnight. And of course, the close monitoring a new baby needs and our incremental guilt will make it harder for us to get away. But we've both firmly resolved that regardless of the guilt and the logistical hurdles, from now on, regular date nights are on the menu!

Chubbocks' pithy comment

The other day I asked Chubs, whose school term began today, "Are you looking forward to school?"

Pat came the answer, "No, I'm looking backward to my holidays!"

**********************************************************************************

We chanced upon Jurassic Park on one of the Tv channels. Chubbocks has had dino-mania for some time and insisted on being allowed to watch it. "You'll get bad dreams at night", I warned him.

"No, mamma, I always say my prayers so God will look after me. Anyway, dinosaurs died long ago, so they can't catch me!"



PS. will blog about the delhi blogmeet soon - swamped right now.

A little dirt...

Work had been completely crazy for the past several months so finally since it started becoming more manageable since last week, I got to take Chubbocks to the park again. Ever since our live-in maid went off on holiday, he's been cribbing that he never gets to play as long as he wants because the other maid brings him home by 6:30 pm so she can leave. I also figured it was a good opportunity to figure out what exactly was going down in the turf wars on the playground and help Chubbocks out of his heartbreak.

It worked out quite well - when the kids saw this rotund momma bowling to her kid, they all crowded around to watch the circus and it was a short step from that to getting more of them involved in the cricket game, so by end of the week we wound up playing with quite a few other kids.

I was usually the only mom there - all the rest were typically supervised by maids. One day, we found a whole bunch of baby snails in little conch shells spread out over the canna lily bed. I and the kids crowded around to watch, and the kids took out a few snails to examine them better. You would have thought they'd touched a BOMB or something, the way the maids reacted. They screamed, shouted that the 'keedas' ( insects) would bite the kids, that they would get their hands dirty and carried on till we had a full-going crowd gathered. The poor kids looked most upset at having their exploration cut short - one snail had finally emerged from the shell and started crawling over a leaf! I explained to the maids that snails were harmless and wouldn't do anything to the kids. Since I was the 'memsaab' there, they couldn't argue but shook their heads dubiously and kept trying to drag their charges away.

A little later, we found a little centipede rushing along. It was beautifully striped, and with its many legs, rushing over the ground like an express train. Between the fast movements and the stripes, it looked as if a ripple was moving across the ground and I and the kids were watching it in fascination. Until the maids brigade pounced again, hollering and carrying on. One of them even tried to stomp on the poor little thing, at which I lost my temper and shoved her back. Again I told the bunch of them that this was a harmless worm, and also asked the kids not to touch it in case any of them were allergic. The maids were too scared to pay much attention and kept trying to physically drag the kids off, who meanwhile were protesting and asking me to help.

On Monday, when I accompanied Chubbocks to his dance class, I found a mother who had come there to pick up her two kids, aged 8 and 5, with a maid in entourage. The maid was responsible for carrying the kids bags and water bottles, because how could the poor things have borne the weight? The 5 year old started scrabbling in the mud when she found an interesting pebble. Promptly the maid started pulling her away and saying your hands will get dirty. The mother also chimed in saying you'll get mud all over your hands.

Some months ago, Chubbocks had gotten into this 'cleany-clean' routine, where he would refuse to paint with water colours or get a tattoo done because 'it would make him dirty'. To my mind, that was an awfully unnatural attitude, and I got very upset about it. What's wrong with a little dirt? What's wrong with kids getting their hands dirty and making mud pies? Why is it so bad for kids to learn to explore the world around them freely and observe nature in all her myriad forms? Why do kids not get to jump into puddles any more?

Yesterday my maid said she'd brought Puddi home early from the park because the ground was all muddy and Puds was enjoying scooping it up and playing with it. I promptly told her that the next time she saw Puddi playing in the mud, she was to go right along and letting her do so. I encourage Chubbocks to jump into puddles after every rain - heck, I do so myself, expensive shoes or not. We're always watching out in our little garden for unusual leaves or flowers, or insects that are doing something, and picking up ladybugs to admire their beautiful colours. Chubbocks loves to watch ants busily scurry home lugging enormous pieces of food far larger than themselves clutched firmly in their mouths.

Being tidy is one thing, but taking cleanliness to this level is frankly quixotic, at this age. Kids should learn to be free, to explore, to tumble down and fall and pick themselves up again, to see the pictures in the clouds rather than learn to keep their hands clean and colour inside the lines. I remember the old story about Krishna, and how Yashoda once found him eating mud. She promptly scolded him and he denied doing so. She asked him to open his mouth so she could check...and when he did, she saw the whole universe in there...