That first day... of being away

So finally, that day is here. When you decide that it's time for the chick to spend a day outside the nest for the first time, with no one from home around her. It could be daycare, preschool, a long playdate... anything.  I can promise you this - that it will be heartbreaking for one or both of you.

It was K's first day at preschool. As I began this, I was sitting in a room off the hall where the school is housed (and she can't see me) and listening to her sob hysterically. Weird that, because on her previous visits to any school or playhouse, she has always been reluctant to leave and happily ignored me.

The thing with K is that she does not believe in genteel, ladylike sniffles. She lets it rip out loud, for the whole world to hear and she's done that since the day she was born. Of course, it makes the whole world think that you are the local axe murderer practicing on your child (while quite the reverse is true.)  

She seemed ready and interested so we decided that it would be good for her to get to school or a playgroup and socialise with other kids. She does get a fair amount of play with her canine sibling, but I somehow can't help thinking that it's not quite the same. Also, the puppies playing together are lovely but I draw the line at both of them playing with the same tug toy in their mouths. 

Anyway, getting back to K and her first day. The sobbing lasted (with breaks) for about 15 minutes. I know that a lot of my friends and readers would say "that's downright cruel". I agree, with some kids, it would be. With K, I am aware of her capacity to spout and shriek at a moment's notice and of her triggers (I want to wear yellow leggings, with a purple skirt and red hoodie, or else... WAH!. "Darling, it hurts my eyes, please don't" - *smack* the little fist throws the offending, (read, not-quite-as-eye watering garments) away, connecting with my nose on the way. WAH! "K, please be careful darling, you hit me there." Louder WAH!

You get the general drift. The point being, that I can distinguish (usually from tone and context) the reasons for her crying, and if it's the "I'm not getting that chocolate, so I'm distressing the neighbours three streets down by shrieking incessantly) then there are ways and means of dealing with it, not necessarily by Ma, who is often cast as the villain of the piece.

As it was, K did one of her lightning transformations into Miss Sunshine after those 15 minutes and became ridiculously twee and cute - enough to make a sensible mom throw up. And four days in, she has taken to school like a champ. (I just dropped her off that second day and went back to pick her up after four hours, with nothing worse than an accusing, "Where were you? You abandoned me" question. I might have felt much guiltier than I did - which was a whole lot - had I not seen that she was having a blast before she saw me.)

You may have a different story. In fact, you probably will, given how each kid is different. But these are kids, not cookies and there is no perfect age for ANYTHING when it comes to babies and kids, and grown-ups for that matter.

You've got to move it move it, you've got to move it move it...

Long silence - yes I know.

It was around the time of my last post that I received fairly momentous news with mixed feelings - we were moving to the US and I was leaving behind my life of four decades.

So while I worked on psyching myself up for the move (it'll be great, a change is good and all the other usual platitudes) I worked on K too. But there was (from her perspective) a far more exciting event looming on the horizon - her maasi's (my sister's) wedding.

And all the excitement revolved around what she was going to wear, the possibility (entirely in her head) of her wearing "lispistick", nail paint and sundry other items of makeup all of which made me shudder.

For the months leading up to the wedding, my entire conversation (read exasperated monologue) was something like this:

"No, you cannot wear your lehnga to sleep" (a lehnga is a rather dressy Indian skirt and top for girls and women - lots of brides wear lehngas)

"Put that sari down!"

"Do NOT touch that necklace - you've already broken four!"

(Trying to keep my tone calm and failing miserably) "Sweetheart, you do not wear lipstick all over your face AND YOU'VE GOT MY KOHL ALL OVER YOUR LEGS. *&^&%$#&^%^*& (I was hissing expletives under my breath by now)

Of course, the fond grandmas on both sides of the family insisted on ordering custom-made lehngas for her. PP and I had already bought a gorgeous one for her in addition to the sweetest little ready-to-wear sari. K had far more clothes for the wedding, than, I suspect, the bride herself. Four lehngas, one sari, and a whole new lot of winter togs which she sneered at. (They weren't skirts, you see).

All of this left me seething inside. There I was, doing my damndest best to try and give her a gender neutral upbringing and what does my two-and-a-half-year old do? Grind my principles into the dust.

This was particularly galling because I remember clearly an incident where a new officer who did not know our family well, commented to my Dad, "General Dubey, I saw your son at the sailing club - he was sailing quite well, for a young boy."

General Dubey, who was used to this by now, beamed through his luxuriant moustache and said in his best fauji accent, "I have no sons."

That was me in the distant past, getting a haircut from the army barber, hanging around in shorts, getting into fistfights. And here, in the present, was my daughter, the very antithesis of me. I was so upset.

However, some asking around friends who had daughters and a little bit of calm introspection led me to a few fundamental truths:

• Don't push it. The more you push any agenda - feminist or otherwise - the more your toddler will push back.
• Let them explore their own sexual / gender identity and develop it for themselves. It does not have to be what you identify with. It is possible to be a girly girl and still be a badass feminist.
• It does not matter if she does not become a feminist. She will still be her own person - not yours - and that's more important. Yes, she should make an informed choice and providing that information is your job.
• And the best one: it's just a phase.

So bring on the hyper-sexualised, hyper-gendered little kids and society. We will love you and try and hang on to a few of our own principles at the same time.

:)

Neck to neck

I'd say it's a losing battle - trying to force feed gender neutrality to a toddler. I have realised that the more I try and push it, the more she pushes back, till to my (well-hidden) despair, she announced (at all of 26 months) Mamma, I like pink, I don't like blue. 

I've no idea where that came from. And I'm not even going to try and find out. So I have let her be and even indulge her predilection for trying on jewellery. (I am ashamed to admit that my love for semi-precious stones and silver has led me to acquire a rather large stash of much-loved but rarely worn baubles.)

Things came to a head the other day when K wrecked a lovely turquoise necklace (bought for Dadi - grandma) by PP from a Royal Enfield biking trip to Ladakh. The subsequent scolding didn't seem to faze her too much beyond the initial couple of minutes and a few days ago, she proceeded to snap a favourite of mine - a lovely fluorite piece that I had made for myself some years ago.

The realization came to us that she wasn't going to quit raiding jewellery. For better or worse, she is currently a girly girl. So PP had a brainwave while I was out getting a desperately needed pedicure. 

He came back with a box tucked under his arm and proceeded to spend the afternoon busy with K.

Father and daughter were busy with loom bands - the craze among young girls today - and PP created a bracelet for K which she loved. I crocheted up a neck-piece that she could wear.

The downside is feeding this early obsession with jewellery. The upside? Hopefully she will grow out of it and hey - learning that things can be made at home rather than bought is good, n'est ce pas?

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. 

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.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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)

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

the holey writ

Religion is one of those strange creatures which I treat with a healthy respect, but usually at a distance. I must confess that I happily adapt the more fun aspects like festivals, mythology (to suit my own ends) the cooler deities, like Shivji - what do you expect, the Banaras bit of my heritage will out somehow) and food and handily ignore the rest. My religion doesn't define me.

When you have a child, you tend to think more about spirituality and religion and what have you. These are the big questions you feel. Fundamental grounding in philosophy that your child will take with her out into the big bad world.

Based on the indisputable fact that all of us have a spark of the divine and that God dwells in all of us, I took the liberty of drafting my own holy writ, or rather holey writ, given that a large part of the human experience revolves around bodily orifices and can be summed up in the three Fs: food, faeces and fornication . The best part is that it is 100% adaptable: Mine will change with my child's age and you can adapt it to your own individual needs. So here goes:

• Thou shalt feed at regular intervals. (This means no grizzling all bloody night long.)
• When older, thou shalt eat healthy food and not fuss about eating karela, tinda, homemade bread et al like thy father does
• Thou shalt sleep for at least four hours at a stretch every night without breaks for input or output.
• Thou shalt not treat thy mother's breasts as a teething toy. Thou shalt certainly not repeat thy chewing antics just to hear thy mother shriek. Not even if it is an interesting sound.
• Thou shalt not wait to pee or poo into a fresh diaper. Just do thy business in the old one, OK?
• Thou shalt not treat the contents of thy nostrils as a wonderful and precious substance, particularly not in public.
• When thou art older (old enough as judged by thy parents - OK - thy mother, since thy father is never going to think thee old enough) thou wilt learn about safe sex and informed consent and practise them.
• [I hate this - but it's probably the most important one] If anyone even attempts to molest thee, thou shalt scream blue bloody murder in the loudest voice that thou canst and thy parents will beat twenty kinds of crap out of the molester. This, I promise solemnly.

That's about it for now. I guess I can always add more as I go along. Fare thee well.
 

bunny thani

 

Once upon a time, (Did you say, when? Oh, about last week, and please don't interrupt the narrative flow, thank you) there was a bunny. It led a fairly blameless life (A world of vice and sin is pretty much a non-option when you are a stuffed toy, unless of course, you live in the pages of an Enid Blyton, where it seemed that toys got upto all kinds of hanky, not to mention panky).

 

So our bunny sat around looking cute, getting his ear chewed meditatively and drooled on a bit, till the Day Of the Chucking Out happened.

 

It was around the time that K had started throwing things at random, presumably to see whether they would make an interesting noise, bounce or do other fun stuff. It was also around the time that we decided to use her pram indoors and trundle her around instead of carrying her all the time.

 

The combination was fairly predictable. It meant a trail of toys, handkerchiefs, cushions and just general stuff being dropped to the accompaniment of happy squeals all over the pram trail in the house with Paranoid Papa yelling at all and sundry to "sterilise that damn stuff - do you have any idea how many germs these things are picking up?" He had a point...

 

But K was obviously ignoring the point and she proceeded to chuck Bunny out of the pram too. Now, Bunny is a much loved toy and like I said, hasn't done anything to deserve being dressed up (badly) like a Kishangarh painting. But Ghunghroo was at hand. And as the song goes, It all started with a broken sibling, in the words of the famous Rudyard Kipling. As older sibling (canine, but sibling nonetheless), he takes it upon himself to be protective and occasionally bullying, which in this instance, meant that he pounced on Mister Bunny and retreated with him to his fortress under the bed. he probably reasoned that either Bunny had gotten chucked because he was harassing K or because it was an accident. Either which way, he felt entitled to make a meal of him. Well-supplied with dog biscuits that he had been hoarding, he was all set to make a long session of it, till I dragged him out and rescued Bunny.

Since appealing to Ghunghroo's finer feelings does not work when he has his teeth into something, I resorted to putting the fear of Bunny into him (for the entirely selfish reason of cutting down on the laundry). And I did this, with deepest apologies to the ghost of the Maharaj of Kishangarh and his muse, who spawned the Kishangarh school of miniature painting with the famous bani thani portrait.

But you have to admit, that Bunny does look quite thani... And it worked. Ghunghroo stared rather apprehensively at the much-bedecked rabbit and well, rabbited out from there.