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.
 

scatalogically yours, in the world of poo

Ever wondered what every single new parent is obsessed with? Input and output. And with the output, often more than the input.

The problem is that while milk comes in one standard colour and texture (it's white and wet) baby poop has these crazy variations ranging all the way from "yellow with seed-like bits" to red, black, "explosive green" and white! And you can wipe that horrified expression off your face right now - you did know what scatological meant when you started reading this post, didn't you?

The downside of being the internet generation is that we are the internet generation and think that search engines provide the answer to everything from relationship troubles to haleem recipe hunts. So it was with poo.

I actually found this great poo gallery which I've looked up a number of times, particularly after a memorable week when K was latched on 24/7 and shooting nasty green squirters across half the room when she wasn't nappied. The only way I survived it was betting with myself on how far it could actually go. It turned out the cause was oversupply which is something my mum, MIL and grandmum had never heard of.

I tried pointing out gently that the "humaarey time par toh yeh sab nahi hota thha" (none of this happened in our generation) argument didn't quite cut the ice in this case. This is one argument I won since it turned out that she didn't have a cold or infection like the mothers insisted.

In the meantime, Paranoid Papa made us do rounds of the doc. In his enthusiasm, he clicked photos and insisted on carrying a soiled nappy to the doc. I quietly "forgot" the nappy and smugly informed the doctor that he had me to thank for it. The pathetic look of gratitude on his face was indescribable, especially after PP had shoved the photo under his nose. (He has a damn neat Nokia Lumia 925 and it takes absolutely brilliant photos - unfortunately in this case)

PP then proceeded to enlarge the photo, "See this bit here, should that be there? And that slimy bit there?" ignoring the hunted expression on the doctor's face as he gingerly tried to edge away from the phone while trying to make encouraging, soothing noises.

He was too polite to shriek, but he did sanitise his hands with what I felt was unnecessary vigour. "She's absolutely fine. And you know, I really think she's growing out of my care - I am after all, a neo-natologist and..." We both fixed our four-eyed stares at him and he subsided weakly. "That is, of course I'd be glad to see her but you really don't need to bring soiled nappies to me. An SMS will work just fine."

And you know what? It really does. I always get a prompt response from the doc. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the unsaid threat of poo.