Tuesday 16 December 2014

Doing that thing you do...

I love my little one to bits - I truly do. 

However, and this is a big however, there are some things she makes me do, and does herself, which I tend to doubt in my saner moments (which are relatively few).

Singing in a voice to terrify the hordes of Hades, with faces to match.
"This is the way we brush our teeth, early in the morning" (heavy metal screech)
[repeat in pseudo Mezzo-Soprano]
Why? Only way I can get her to brush her teeth morning and night.

Playing "inga inga" (ring-a-ring-a-roses) with "Dubya" (Ghunghroo bhaiyya) being dragged around on his leash about twenty times a day. 

Explaining to her that she can't have the moon (de do), the doctor's sons' photo (bhaiyya de do PISS) the plane in the sky (de DO, Icha, de DO), the Metro (Tain DE DO)...

Showing her the potty and trying to demonstrate with an understandably snappy Dubya how she can use it.

I just pretend that I am catatonic and can't see when:

She gets friendly with someone and starts demanding "mum-mum". If they don't understand, she gropes in the vicinity of their breasts. At least she is gender-neutral about it and it has happened only with family so far.


Shouts for "pitty mamma" in the playground with a gadzillion other mums looking on, smirking. (Oh, I'll get you for this, PP - YOU taught her "pretty mamma").

Pipes up "Shupput" at PP while calmly stacking her blocks. (I know, I know - my fault entirely for asking him to shut up about something silly, in her hearing)

Hollers "Aunty nhaai-nhaai" in the cinema hall every SINGLE time Katrina Kaif takes a shower (she took several of them) in some forgettable film. No more movies for you, kid.

Yells across a market when she sees two kids walking with icecream cones "I-keem de do. DE DO PEES" and doesn't stop till they are out of sight. 


Wednesday 3 December 2014

The saga of the bunny ears (in iambic pentameter)

Moonlit was the sky, and the babe asleep,
With hope in my heart, I approached the bed
She shifted and smiled, and snuggled in deep
Fondly, I leaned in - then my heart's ease fled

For there, in her sheets, lay the proof of pee
Dry covers on the side, Oh My, Oh Me!
The new mattress soaked, and the days wintry
The icing on my cake of misery

A wailing and gnashing of teeth arose
What manner of diapers are these? I shrieked
I spent good money, and stripped them - God knows
On pockets, AIOs, duos, I freaked

Organic wash cycles, essential oils
With vinegar for stripping, I did toil
I sun-dried, I ironed and smells did foil
And this, my reward, brought my blood to boil


No faint-heart, a solemn oath I did swear
I would crack this if it effing killed me
Disposables were not for her night wear
I would stand my ground firm, and fight not flee


So I asked around and then asked some more
The CD group helped and came to the fore
Hemp fitteds they said, I ordered four (ok - it was two but that doesn't rhyme, alright?)
They came by post and the packing I tore

I prepped and tried them as soon as may be
Alas and Alack, it was not to be
I tried again, with a pocket and plea 
It slipped in the night, left me all sniffly

This time, I thought, I would pull out all stops
Let the pee come, I would show it my chops
I stuffed the fitted into the pocket
With bunny ears out, it was a poppet

I added inserts, double snapped the ears
Fitted the legs and sent up a prayer
Slept and woke with a modicum of fear
Roved the whole bed with a slight manic air...

Hallelujah! I had won I had won!
My perfect all-night cloth diaper was here
It was bulky but good for a night run
I could finally sleep without any fear.


HOW TO DO BUNNY EARS:

warning: this may not work for chubby babies

Step 1: Lay out your fitted with all inserts

Step 2: Add additional insert if desired

Step 3: Lay out any regular pocket diaper

Step 4: Stuff fitted WITH inserts INSIDE pocket aligning such that closing snaps of both fitted and pocket are on the same end and the closing snaps of the fitted are sticking out "Bunny Ears"


Step 5: Place diaper on baby after undoing riser snaps for ease. Snap fitted "ear" on to pocket.












Step 6: Overlap pocket snap on the fitted to snap ahead of fitted
Step 7: Repeat for other side

Monday 17 November 2014

Of snarks and boojums

"For the snark was a boojum, you see."
 
I remember this line striking me straight to the heart when I first read it. Nonsensical though the poem was (or maybe something quite else dressed up as nonsense) I have never quite reconciled myself to the "children's literature" tag that Lewis Caroll's writing bears. As an adult, I have found myself weeping over sweetness in passages in Sylvie and Bruno and quoting from Alice in Wonderland.
 
So, with an active toddler at hand, I find myself wondering whether I should treat her like a baby or as a miniature adult? I find myself often leaning towards the latter and this is a conversational sample :
 
"What would you like to wear?"
 
K (pointing) "De"
 
"Red with bright blue? Are you sure? Isn't that a little, well, loud?"
 
K (insistent) "DE"
 
"Are you absolutely sure?"
 
K (yelling now) "DE DO" (Gimme)
 
(Giving in) Well, you really can't resolve everything by shouting, you know. No shouting, please.
 
K (volume check scream) "AAAAA"
 
"No shouting. It's not nice"
 
K (volume reduced) aaaa
 
"No shouting."
 
K (volume further reduced) aa?
 
"It's still shouting."
 
K (final defiant squeaky shout) a
 
(sigh) OK. Missi-missi (massage) time.
 
K (cheerfully) mum-mum (feed me)
 
"Mum-mum after missi after nhaai-nhaai (bath)- ok?"
 
"MUM-MUM DE DO"
 
"What do we say?"
 
"PISS" (In case you're wondering, that is 'please')
 
"OK"
 
"OK",
 
(interlude for nursing, massaging, dragging her back by her ankles to be massaged, taking away the phone, telling her that the dog does not need a massage, wrestling to turn her over, tickling toes, saying 'no' about ten thousand times...)
 
And now, after her bath (from which I typically emerge shivering because I have been soaked to the skin, especially on shampoo days - I HATE shampoo days), we have another conversation.
 
"What do you want to eat? Oats or ragi?"
 
"Os - agi"
 
"Pick one - oats? ragi?"
 
"Os - agi"
 
"OK - we'll do oats"
 
Oats arrive, generously studded with raisins. K grabs the spoon.
 
"aapey - aapey" (I want to eat by myself)
 
I tuck the towel around her (she hates bibs) and resign myself to the inevitable.
 
After half-an-hour of rhapsodising over "kishim" (kishmish / raisin), sneakily picking them out of her oats to eat and generously sharing her oats with the wall, bedcover and "Icha's" hair, K is ready for some play time.
 
"Do you want to play with blocks?"
 
"aa"
 
"Try, they are really interesting. See this one? It's red."
 
"AAAA"
 
"No shouting. Just say no, thank you."
 
"o. Tank-oo"
 
"How about a kissy for ma?"
 
(presents her cheek obligingly. I have given up trying to explain the difference between taking and giving: even her words for them are the same: "De do" serves even when she wants to give you something)
 
"OK, now Ma is going to do some work. So will you sit here and play quietly, please?"
 
(All hell breaks loose for about five seconds)

"That was not nice. You hit Ma. Ma ko chot lagi (Ma got hurt). Please say sorry."

(mumbles) "towwy"

"And a kissy?"

(extends cheek again)

(long monologue on how it is not nice to hit anyone, interspersed by mumbled 'oks' by K. Enter PP eating chocolate)

DE DOO. DE DOO PISS. DE DO. CHOCKIT DE DO.

(interlude for tantrum, distraction, appeasement)

And so it goes. But coming back to snarks and boojums. It is true that all boojums are snarks. But hey, all snarks are not boojums, and so it's good to go a-questing for snarks and their promise of happiness.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Thursday 9 October 2014

Cognito Ego Sum... with apologies to Descartes

I think therefore I know I am...

... a nursing mum
- because when I get into the back seat of the car with my canine son who has just had a surgery and is responding to the fading anesthesia by hallucinating, howling and wriggling, PP asks, "are you going to nurse him to settle him down?"

... going to stop taking K to the movies
- because every time the heroine in a rather disastrous flick we watched, would take a shower (she took enough showers to officially qualify as a card-carrying member of the hyper-OCD club), K would joyfully yell, "Aunty nhaai-nhaai!" (Aunty is having a bath) for the edification of all the other movie-goers.

... a WAHM (work at home mum) 
- when I realise that it has actually been a full ten days since I stepped out of the house and grocery shopping becomes the highlight of my week. (Wow! I am going to buy masalas and veggies - yippee!)

- also when I am nursing during calls with K clambering onto my shoulder and trying to nurse upside down. I usually blame my internet provider for low speeds and refuse to do video calls. 

... a pet parent
 - when both my children want non-essential attention / petting at the same time and I mix up their names while yelling at them. 
 - when both my puppies scratch and knock at the bathroom door - the SECOND I walk into the loo for a 5-minute read / check mails on my phone (yes, that's the only place I get a modicum of peace these days.) 

...a toddler parent
- when a serious conversation with other adults in the family includes phrases like "daalu singh" (dal) "ot hai" (it's hot) "bye jaana hai" (going out) "ninny-noo-noo-ni" (sleepy)

...thinking politeness might just be overrated
when "pees" (please) becomes K's weapon of choice from her armoury of charm (which includes wrinkling her nose and grinning winsomely)

Monday 22 September 2014

Bheja Fry

"Beta, who developed the theory of relativity?" 

"Ein-Tine"

The proud nani is crowing over her two-year-old grand-daughter's skills while I agonise over what I am doing wrong with my 16-month-old, who can barely identify her nose.

"I really like the way this play-school operates. They teach Einsteinian theory through blocks."

"The mum-toddler classes that I attend does a comparative analysis of Kant, Hegel and Nietzsche." 

"MY play-group is taking advanced classes in the Japanese tea ceremony as an activity."

I look around at all these wunderkinds who can presumably expound new theories for the destruction of the Indus Valley Civilization and the creation of Black Holes in the same breath and go on to compose an entire set of raginis in the next. I feel overawed and embarrassed for my poor baby, who has just begun to identify her family and a few everyday objects. I am determined to embark on a new course of study to better myself and her. 

Day 1: I begin to furiously research playschools and pre-schools. We will consider only those that have an impeccable academic and co-curricular record. I make a short-list of schools that offer krav-maga, comparative literature, advanced calculus and zumba. After all, I don't want to overload the little tyke. 

Day 2: K and I begin rehearsing for the interview process. Her part consists of looking cute and not making "I want to go potty" faces. I am stressed, though. About what to wear (I can't come across as too casual or too formal) how much of my work to talk about (You're a gender activist and communication consultant? Stay away/ How lovely?) how much emphasis to give to the home atmosphere? In addition to brushing up my admittedly weak General Knowledge (I watch the Alia Bhatt video for tips) I am getting PP to give me a crash course in Industrial Chemistry. 

Day 3: We go for the interview. Only one parent is allowed and PP has frankly funked out. (He claims exigencies of work, but I can tell. Besides, he claims, I have the flexibility to schedule my work a bit. Ok. OK.) I take a deep breath and we walk in to the gate; K hanging on to my finger. The guard at the gate asks me my name, address, mobile number, blood group and Mensa score. I don't have a Mensa score. He gives me a flat look. No Mensa score. No entry. I try and argue and threaten him but he is firm. I am not even sure I possess an IQ after trying to juggle everything in my life. Mensa? Really? 

Day 4: The next school only accepts parents who own at least 5000 square feet of luxury condo space in any major metropolitan city in the world (If it's a Third World country, the space requirements are upped to 15000). Apparently this is so that the child has ample space for physical activity and privacy for introspection. D-uh. We own NO space anywhere. Strike Two.

Day 5: The third one demands that mums be able to look like models straight off runways; hold down a corporate job (VP in an MNC at the very least); cook and bake like a Cordon Bleu chef; handle all relationships including extended familial ones with the ease of a trained psychologist; socialise at least four times a week and spend 24/ 7 with the child. No go. On all counts. 

By now I am desperate. I contemplate taking up teaching so that the brat can be admitted to the same school. But I shudder at the thought of trying to cope with so many kids. I have my hands full with one. All admiration for pre-school teachers, but no aspiration. 

And then a soft cheek rubs against mine... "Ichaaa. Lub-you." (Translation: Richa, I love  you) and I wake up. Thankfully reality is slightly better than the nightmare. If only for the moment. 

Tuesday 16 September 2014

hand-me-down; pull-me-up

There is all the nostalgia and emotion associated with wearing or using baby things that have been in the family or with friends for generations. Beyond that, there is the (admittedly virtuous) feeling of satisfaction that I get in not adding to the mindless consumerism/ eco-waste already present in our world. 

The fact that it is economical does help. 

I was a little appalled when I saw the prices (and utter uselessness) of most baby stuff. The five star baby-buggy that PP and I saw when we were shopping for a pram, cost more than I sold my car for and it should have been able to sing lullabies and change diapers at the price. I think parents, particularly first-time parents, get totally suckered by the avalanche of not-so-subtle, guilt-provoking advertising specifically targeted at them.  

Then there are the designer clothes. I felt positively ill when I realised that someone I knew had spent close to ₹100,000 on a garment for her four-month-old who would wear it for all of one grand season. Sure, it's great to indulge your kids and I respect that, even if I don't always agree with the form it takes. But one lakh for a few months? For a babe who actually can't be bothered about what s/he is wearing as long it's comfortable and warm/cool according to the weather?

So I was very happy to take on and pass on stuff. Between two friends whose kids had outgrown their things, I got car seats, blankets, a much-loved bunny and other toys, bathing chair, rocker, high chair, baby carrying ring-sling and wrap, nasal aspirators... My best buddy gave me the cot that both her kids slept in and a pregnancy book that I was the third mom to use...Another two friends gave me a bunch of very useful books.

In turn, I have passed on cloth diapers, feeding pillow, baby sling and wrap, books, mobiles, nappies, clothes, toys, to three other young mums. Old saris found a new lease of life as nappies and clothes for K; Carefully preserved baby clothes were pulled out - mine and  PP's  - for the obligatory airing and wearing.

Do we really need to buy so much new stuff? Yes, there are some things that you want to buy new. But there are an equal, if not more, number of things that can be happily passed around. It's not as though a baby has time to wear them out! 

I already have my eye on these lovely, traditional gararas that my honorary niece has outgrown  and am waiting for K to grow into. 

When things are shared around, they create a sense of belonging and closeness. Especially since everything has it's own history. Such and such cot was made like this and we painted it in this colour, originally... Or such and such sari was bought for the princely sum of 200 rupees by so-and-so and "you just don't get work like that anymore". 

I remember totally lusting for my older sister's clothes and later, for my mother's saris and a lovely, ancient jacket that was older than me and belonged to Dad, which I wore for the longest time. 

So go on, spread the love a little. Beyond your immediate family is great - you end up extending your family through sharing, caring and building memories together. 

On that smugly virtuous note, adios.

Friday 5 September 2014

if looks could kill

"I'm preparing her for the real world."

"That hair looks so ugly, no? Let's get it removed for you."

"You people don't take care of her. She has become so tanned in the sun."

All of this is pretty normal if you're the mother of a girl. Concerns about appearance override pretty much everything, even health. As though that is the passport to a good life. So you have seven-year-olds getting their eyebrows threaded; 10-year-olds getting waxed; four-year-olds wearing lipstick and nail paint and 13-year-olds getting the works - everything from bleach downwards. 

Parents obsess about their children's weight - not because it's a health issue, but because they "don't look good." When exactly did "well-groomed" translate into hair-less, wrinkle-free, shiny, plucked, powdered and painted, botoxed, fair, size 0 bodies? Kids not going out to play in the sun  - not because of heatstroke - but because they will tan?

I would have tanned too - or rather my hide would have been tanned for me, had my parents even suspected I thought about my appearance to this degree when I was a kid. I would come back from sailing camps, tanned and skin peeling  - till where my shorts and tee covered me. 

(I was mortified when I went to the swimming pool after that - anyone would be - wearing that kind of skin contrast :D ) hair bleached and roughened by constant exposure to sun and salt. Or when I was on this camping trip in the mountains and despite the shades and sunscreen we were ordered to wear, I looked a bit like a raccoon in the reverse by the end of it. 

The point is, looks weren't really a big deal back then. Being well turned out was. Which basically meant that you had to be clean, with your hair combed neatly, and not wear torn or stained clothes. And precious little of that ever happened, because one was too busy romping around. And I don't once recall my mother clucking over the impressive collection of scars that I acquired, other than to say that it would make a nice break for me to have a scrape-free knee once in a while.    

My first experimentation with make-up (kohl and lip gloss) came on the sly,  when I was 15-16. Despite never really having bothered with make-up beyond kohl, I do understand wanting to look good or wanting a change (I just bought, of all things a RED lipstick - my first lipstick purchase in a decade or some such - hush - more on that later... But please be judicious in using the stuff since most lipstick brands, including the reputed ones, contain vast quantities of lead). 

I certainly can't claim to be immune to wanting to look good. Far from it. Yet I do feel a sense of responsibility, especially now that I have a daughter who is likely to (hopefully, later rather than sooner) want to subject herself to the trauma of hot wax, threads, the instrument of torture called blackhead remover, harsh chemicals and whatnot, all in the name of looking good. 

Then there is that entire other obsession with body shape - wanting to aspire to photo-shopped bodies which nature never made or intended. Wanting to "fix" parts of your body so that it fits in with a media-hyped image of what the body beautiful should be like.

And of course, being Indians, we have an entire industry dedicated to make you "fair". With ads promising you everything from a good marriage, to a better job to social stardom and a whole new self-confident persona, it's a wonder that we bother with working at anything... why not just buy a bleach or a fairness cream and turn your life around? 

Of course the media is to blame. But as adults, don't we recognise it? Why then, should we perpetuate these myths and ideas of beauty amongst our children? Just because our generation fell prey to these, does not mean that we should lose the next one to them.

And if undermining your child's natural confidence isn't reason enough for you to stop: think about this. Most of the commercial skin and hair-care and cosmetic products on the market are pretty toxic. It might be idea to turn to your kitchen to see what you can rustle up. There are also really safe products like those promoted by Krya which I, for one, use regularly.  

And please, I am not advocating turning into a slob. But there surely exists a happy mean between what we've become and what we can comfortably be. 

Monday 1 September 2014

Drama mama

"Ma angry. That is not nice."

The brat winsomely pokes her index finger into a nostril and offers it for my inspection after an exploratory journey within her nasal passages. 
***

I am sitting with K on my lap and engrossed in some work. Irritated at not receiving attention, she slaps me. I glare at her without saying anything. She begins humming nonchalantly and patting me (pretending that was what she was doing all along) while grinning like a particularly mischievous monkey.
***
We are at "Nani house" and I am trying to explain to K how nani is my ma, just like I am her ma. I put my head in nani's lap. She pushes nani away. Nani tries to explain that she loves both of us. I try the same. K is having none of it. She slaps herself on her knee; yells "CHOT" and tries to force a few tears out. 

The thing with K is that she has been able to cry tears from the day she was born. (Till that time, I had no idea that babies didn't actually cry till fairly late in the day.) Thanks to her over-developed tear glands, anyone not familiar with this, who has ever seen her cry thinks she is being traumatised brutally and I am a terrible parent. This was in play, even as a two-day-old, when she landed up in the neo-natal ICU under photo therapy lamps, thanks to a bout with infantile jaundice.

The nurses there, all fairly experienced in handling newborns and premature babies, would say to me, "Ma'am your baby has the loudest cry in the entire NICU. Please come a little before your feed is due. Poor thing cries so hard, she has tears running down her face."

Full marks for survival instinct. Extra marks for emotional blackmail. Even Dadi who is fairly inured to K by this point, melts when the poppet sheds a few tears. "Beta, zaar-zaar ro rahi hai. Kya hua?"

"Nothing mamma. I refused to let her have my specs."

So the struggle to raise a child who is somewhat un-spoilt, continues amidst much drama. I think she secretly practices twee faces in the mirror. There was the down-turned mouth just before she cried as a baby. There is the wrinkled nose with wide grin and upturned face now. And the "Peeese?" (Please) that she has mastered. Please note that "sorry" has not been included in the vocabulary despite much drilling.

The effect is pretty impressive when she unleashes her current arsenal on an unsuspecting audience. Everything from offering a favourite toy to force-feeding people (you know she is a typical Punjab-UP product in this respect) to shyly putting her head in my lap and blowing kisses... Come by some day and you'll see what I'm talking about :)



Wednesday 27 August 2014

All fall down

I recently told my dearest friend that she was one of the weirdest people I knew (which probably says a lot more about me than I want it to.) Point being that weirdness qua weirdness is not necessarily weird. It can be someone's normal.

All kids are weirdly normal in that sense. In my case, I used to shamelessly brag about my impressive collection of falls, fractures, and fevers.

The memory of a hot summer afternoon in Jaipur is etched clearly in my mind. Restless as usual, my 4-year-old self trotted up to our terrace and started swapping tales with the boy on the other terrace (which was linked to ours by – of all things – an 8-inch-wide cement plank) One thing led to another and as we bonded over sand and water on our respective terraces, he shared his dream of building a sand-castle, if only he had enough sand. He did have water on the terrace, but no sand. I had some in the corner of our terrace and decided to contribute to this noble vision by ferrying some across.

The only trouble was that we were both on terraces of first floor apartments, which meant running up and down several flights of stairs with a handful of sand. I figured that the smarter thing to do would be to take a shortcut and use the cement plank to cross.

Did I mention that it was a two-storey drop to the ground below the cement plank? No? Ah well.

So me being the sucker I always was, (You have the sand, you bring it across. I can’t carry water.) I carried sand in one hand and slid my bum across the plank with the other. And then slid back for the next handful. Except that I got cocky and impatient after just a single round of this. I ventured out with a double handful of sand – which of course, meant that I didn’t have a hand free to hold on to the aforesaid plank with – and promptly took a tumble to the ground.

It was probably thanks to the diligent fauji fellows who had watered the ground that day, that I still have a brain (of sorts). That, and the fortuitous miss – there was a massive stone about half a foot from where I landed. Of course I yelled my head off. What four-year-old wouldn’t?

However, I had calmed down enough by the time we were on our way back from the doctor’s, to sagely inform my worried mother, “Don’t worry. Bachchey toh girtey rahtein hain (Kids are always falling down)” After which I acquired bragging rights based on a black tooth.

Then there was the time I was showing off my general fearlessness of water to a younger kid and jumped into the shallow end of the pool, twisting and cracking my foot. This one did damage my street cred "HOW did you manage to get a fracture in the pool?" Like I was trying for one or something...

Or the two times when I forgot myself in a daydream and found my foot squished within the spokes of the rear bicycle wheel. 

Or the one on the badminton court or the one on the basketball court or... (yes there are more...)

So why is it that when K has a fall, I am alarmed out of all reasonable proportion? Yes, she is is still an infant. But that doesn't explain why the sight of even a little blood anywhere near that tiny terror stops my breath. How did my parents keep calm when I cycled back home (twice) with what turned out to be a fractured foot? How did they not go completely bananas when I fell from the terrace? Or ran a fever of over 106? Or came down with asthma attacks so severe that I was in the ICU for days together? Or any of those things that seemed to happen to me with alarming regularity?

When she tumbled from the bed while playing recently, I was outwardly calm but completely panicked on the inside when PP pointed out the nosebleed. She settled soon enough while PP and I checked for concussion, vomiting, responsiveness and the usual hysterical drill that we go through every time she has a fall and hits her head. She was fine and we harvested the bloody booger a couple of days later (yeah, I know, gross! But why are you reading this if you're not up for a little baby poo and mousies (our word for boogers).

Keep calm and parent on. And admire your parents anew every day. And thank them for not raising you to be paranoid. 

Thursday 21 August 2014

Chaandi ki saikal (sic) soney ki seat/ aao chalein darrrling/ challlein (sic) dubble (sic) seat

Ahhh - just a great feeling to just go (sic, sic, sic - bam dhishoom wham) after an exhausting few days between travel, work, the bumble bee, and whatever else I do to regularly lose my sanity. 

So the song (yes, the title of this blog really was a song - back in the day... which day, might that be, you ask? I stare down my regrettably non-patrician nose and say: the day - and think to myself in parentheses [you boor!])

Ah yes, the song... talks about a silver cycle, with a seat of gold and Romeo inviting his beloved to ride "double seat" with him. Very hummable it was too in a distinctly earworm-ish fashion... From the 1991 film, Bhabhi, starring none other than Govinda. 

The reason it came to mind recently, was because of K's current obsession with cycles. As she was spinning the pedals on our family cycle (PP went and bought a car-cycle rack and all - how sweet... especially when I spent two hours trying to figure out how to fix the damn thing and we almost never cart it around with us) it came to me that just like a cycle wheel, which goes round (Yes, I am Einstein, before you get clever) our lives pretty much spin in the same way. 

No matter how much we think we have left our childhoods behind, and how there is never any going back, something happens to trigger a memory and there you are, mentally flash-backing through a speeded-up time-lapse. Things change but still stay the same. 

When I was a kid (admittedly a cocooned one thanks to a childhood spent in Army cantonments across the country), public transport was not even a blip on the horizon for me. Sure, there were holidays where we all piled into cycle rickshaws and autos, even ikkas and tangas and the like on the way to Ye Olde Ancestral Village, but it was never something to be factored into one's daily life. The bicycle ruled at home, else you walked, or got a ride with Dad or tried to look pitiful while doing the 3-km trek back from the sailing club into a headwind, wearing wet clothes and squelchy shoes, hoping that some kindly student officer on a bike would offer you a ride home... 
The sailing club at the College of Military Engineering, Dapodi, Pune
So, virtually no exposure to public transport, because the need wasn't there. Moving to Delhi was a different matter. I clearly remember how a lot of other officers would commandeer army staff cars for school pick-ups and drops or even if they had to visit a friend's. Dad was a made of a different metal. 

School was walking distance initially and when we moved to Central Delhi, there was a school bus. Delhi also meant that nearby swimming options were limited. I had turned up my (admittedly non-patrician) nose at the then bean-shaped pool in the DSOI claiming that I refused to swim in a "puddle", so I was carted off to the Talkatora stadium with its Olympic-sized pools, where I had to pass a swimming test. That done, I ventured to ask Dad (who had done the carting off) about my daily commute to the pool from Dhaula Kuan where we lived. Would he drop me? No, I don't have the time. Would he give me auto fare? I can't afford it. Then? Take the bus. A bit daunted (I was 14 and something) I asked him which bus? I don't know. The bus stop is conveniently located just outside the enclave. Find out. And thus began my love-hate relationship with the Delhi Transport Corporation. By the time I was 15 and had my first summer job (another story - jisme drama hai, humour hai, magar koi romance nahi hai) I was a pro. I travelled all over Delhi in buses from the then unimaginably remote Anand Vihar (this was a quarter of a century ago, people) to Kishangarh village which was so deserted, it could be downright scary - no Vasant Kunj existed in those days. 

College meant yet more buses to and from my college hostel in North Campus. And to visit the parents at home over the long weekends, there were the long-distance buses from the Inter-State Bus Terminal.

So when a lot of people look horrified that I prefer to take the Metro over driving a long distance, I am a bit taken aback. I have even heard condescending statements like "That's very brave and err... ecologically conscious of you - I can't do it," accompanied by "poor thing, she can't afford it" looks. I ignore those. But when it comes to insinuating that I am being a careless mom for taking my toddler on the Metro, I am honestly in two minds about whether to have a hysterical laughing fit on the floor or blow up right there. 

Really? Even the PP agrees with me on this one and he is as paranoid as first time Papas come. Our daughter is not going to be some wallflower who has to be driven everywhere. She will learn to cope with public transport and not see it as a form of slumming. Yes, it's not safe. Our world isn't. So, I put it to you, should I equip her to deal with it? Or should I just shut out the big bad world? For how long? There are no easy answers. 

But while I am trundling around the little pampered miss in her car seat at the back or toting her in a carrier in the train or elsewhere, those decisions are mercifully still a while away, even if the questions aren't.





Thursday 10 July 2014

Fruitful thoughts

There they were: all glossy and smooth, nestling in cardboard boxes. "Frauds," I felt like sneering at them. "You are just a glossy advertisement dressing up as the real thing."
 
They were shiny jamuns and bers. Shop-bought, obviously. Seeing them and in the recent context of this piece on me by the Alternative, it came to me with a pang that my daughter is unlikely to grow up thinking that fruit can just be picked or shaken from trees.
 
 
The first time that I saw the humble jamun and ber all dressed up in cardboard boxes, I felt a shock. These were the spices of childhood pranks and certainly never meant to be sold.
 
There was a venerable ber tree on the Golf Course in the Roorkee cantonment. I remember that my 10-year-old-self with my best friend and partner-in-crime has suddenly acquired a deep interest in golf. Bored of the putting green, we wanted to play "real" golf, so we were shepherded out of the way to a safe practice tee with a bunch of old balls and a caddy who was more in the nature of a minder.
 
The aforesaid tree stood there and a lucky accident with the club and ball materialised into a bounty of rich, tawny bers. Of course, the chipping practice was re-scripted at that very second with each ball going straight into the tree despite the remonstrations of the hapless caddy. What can I say? We were brats bent upon our ber fix. Having exhausted both, our stock of golf balls and the caddy who was haring hither and thither after them, we proceeded to greedily gather our harvest.
 
Since I knew carting them home would earn a reprimand at the least and confiscation at worst, we decided that, for safety's sake, they were best stored in our tummies. And yes, the tummy-ache and sore throats the next day were totally worth it.
 
 
Mulberries (shahtoot) and jamuns used to be the pickings of lazy afternoons, meandering through grounds; guavas were picked straight from the tree, with the tender leaves serving to soothe a mouth sore; mango tree branches were a source of sour green kairies and were my favourite lounge after my reading nook in the amla tree hammock which was accessed via an Enid Blyton-ish adventurous rope ladder; Strawberries were picked directly from the patch... even our summer vacations in the village translated into me having a tiny charpai slung on a long rope from the massive desi aam tree - it was there that I spent much of the afternoon, swinging in the shade, reading and languidly reaching into the bucket below for yet another mango cooled by well water...
 
K loves fruits. Adores them. She crams her mouth full of them. But something pinches my heart when I see her do that. With the world becoming the way it is, and our lives turning to fruitless directions, there is little chance that she will learn befriend of fruit trees, recognising their best climbing path, have conversations with them, treat them as confidantes after life's little heartbreaks as I did.
 
So, today, my darling daughter, I have a wish for you. May you know the joy of fruit trees, have a relationship with one, nurture it with your love as it nurtures you with its fruits. And yes, they do taste a darn sight better than the shiny cardboard boxed variety. 
 

Friday 23 May 2014

got myself a crying, talking, sleeping, walking, living doll...

...except the last bit. Doll is a four-letter word. My daughter is oh-so-much-bigger than four letters can possibly encompass unless they are love, life and the like.
 
At a year old, she is showing signs of spunk and independence that make me petrified ("what am I unleashing on myself?") and proud.
 
Witness the latest today: The youngest attendee at PP's "bring your child to work day" she is too young to actually participate in the musical chairs and other activities for the 3-8 age group, but not too young to gamely toddle off toting a balloon, falling all over the place, unsurprised when said balloon bursts in her face...
 
But what made my feminist heart secretly burst with pride was when she approached the cut outs of super heroes. She determinedly pushed Superman over and though I rushed to her side with all the appropriate clucking noises, I was delighted. Superheroes are silly vigilantes who don't know enough to wear their underwear on the inside. Sure, I love them too. Like men love Barbie dolls.
 
Speaking of which, I promptly passed on the first Barbie she was gifted. Seeing one sets my teeth grinding, creating a rather interesting percussive effect. PP's first toy purchase for her was a rather cool remote controlled car which we have loads of fun with. Some of my favourite clothes for her come from the boys section.
 
It's a struggle to try and constantly be aware of doing enough and not too much. I don't want her to miss out on all the enjoyment of being a girl. Yet, I certainly don't want her to morph into a beaded bag toting, lipsticked six-year-old wearing miniature versions of adult clothing like so many young girls I see around me. 
 
So we work at it. When Dadi says "ladkiyon waale toh kaam hi nahi karti" I am delighted and tell her so because said ladkiyon vaaley kaam entail genteel behaviour. 
 
So when there is a video in which Halle Berry talks about how her baby girl breastfed like a proper little lady versus her new son who wades into it and says, boys and girls are so different, I go uh-uh, you ain't seen mine.
 
She will feed sitting in vajrasana, standing up, in downward dog, tummy on my face, lying across me, yank my clothes... you get the picture. 
 
I am happy and I hope K will continue to go after what she wants in life without worrying about being called domineering or bossy or whatever it is women get called when they are determined.  

Sunday 13 April 2014

fed up and fulfilled

It's funny how people adapt. At one time, I wouldn't have dreamed of breastfeeding publicly, but as I write this post, we have fed

in the hospital: delivery room, NICU, doctor's room, waiting room;
at home: in every damn room
in the car, on a boat, ferry, plane, train (mercifully not on a two-wheeler, but I suspect that was only because she fell asleep - she likes scooters)
at the beach
in the park
at concerts, dance performances, movies (and a couple of times at relatively informal meetings)
at the mall
at a mandir
at practically every restaurant we've been to since she was born
at the airport


while eating, sleeping, reading, working on my laptop, on a call, struggling with crochet/ tatting/ knitting

while contorting myself so that I can bribe madam to stay enthroned on her potty

sari-shopping at a traditional gaddi, her mundan, twice at a wedding mandap (in case you were wondering, the wedding was not mine. It was, respectively, a friend's and a cousin's)

dinners/ lunches/ meets at friends' places, open markets (like Dastkar)...

The list carries on and PP sometimes gloomily predicts that we will be sending her off to college while still at it. Sometimes I get the same feeling but I do know that this phase will pass all too soon and though I hate to admit it, I will feel bereft when it does.

In the meantime I have resigned myself to her head-butting, insistence on being nursed to sleep and assertion of ownership over what I mistakenly assumed were my body parts. There are rewards of course. Nothing quiets a squalling baby faster than a quick nursing session and I take shameless advantage of that.

Is this a pitch for breastfeeding? Yes and No. I love it, yet I believe that every mother makes that choice for herself and her baby.

It is as my wise friend who happens to be a lactation consultant told me. There is motherhood beyond breastfeeding - this is just one aspect of it.  

Friday 3 January 2014

to sleep, perchance to dream

It is some ungodly hour in the early a.m. K is in her current favourite nursing position: head-butting me on all fours, while wrestling with an (to her mind) inert and recalcitrant milk source. We are both half-asleep - me less so - though she has the amazing capacity to perform incredible acrobatics, all while fast asleep. Suddenly we are both jerked rudely awake.

PP (Paranoid Papa, for those of you who are new here) who normally does an excellent imitation of a goods train through the night, has suddenly woken up doubly: both to the world and to his Papa duties. He has a lightning flash insight and yanks K off me, only to face two irate women: me because K was attached to her milk source and now has two rather sharp teeth and K because she was disturbed during her head-butting nursing session.
 
PP weakly blubbers: I thought she was climbing over you and going to fall off the bed.
 
We grumble and go back to non-sleep for me and more head-butting for K.
 
This is pretty much a typical night for my 8-month-old.
 
She protests at being put to sleep loudly enough that the neighbours think I am a cruel, heartless mother, "Beta, usko doodh pilao.Bhookh lagi hogi" Oh yeah? Beta dudh pilaos the entire frickin' day. The winsome brat just does not want to close her eyes. She opens them in panic everytime they are drooping shut with an "Omigod! Two seconds of the world just went by me" panicked expression on her face.
 
When I do manage to get her off to La la land, she contrives to kick her way out of her zipped up sleeping bag (which I thought was so great because we wouldn't have to bother with blankets and quilts that she could kick off - HAH I say) and go exploring in her sleep, giving me panic attacks when I wake in the middle of the night and can't feel her next to me.
 
When I wake up bleary-eyed every morning to set her on the potty, I assure you, it's not voluntary. She has either twisted my nose or yanked my hair or lovingly tried to claw my eyes out. Ah, the joys of motherhood!
 
P.S. Apparently, sleep crawling runs in the family. PP, in his own infancy, managed to fly off the bed and suspend himself in the mosquito net over the side while fast asleep.