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?

umm - mum mum and more

I get "you're STILL nursing?" quite a bit. K is 25 months old and latched on for good (PP often comforts me, saying that she might just wean before it's time for college) I don't complain (not really, not excepting my routine five times a day - but then I like to whine, so it's ok)

Despite the downsides - the occasional bout of incessant nursing, inevitable biting, and the twiddling / tweaking (which I loathe), the sudden tugging at top in public) there ARE benefits to nursing a toddler for a mom. I am not even getting into the benefits for the child: nutrition, health and bonding. Those are a given. 

The first of them is pure entertainment:

Witness K taking a break from nursing to explore what the dog is eating, deciding that it's not interesting enough for her to try and eat and running back to find that Ma has hurriedly yanked down her t-shirt and is trying to work on her report. K, wearing the kind of smile that adults do when acknowledging a piece of mischief by a child, pokes around inside the t-shirt: मम - मम, कहाँ हो? ओह, यहाँ घुस के बैठे हो? बाहर आओ, एक बात बतानी है| (Trans: mum-mum, where are you? Oh, are you hiding here? Come out, I have something to say to you.) She then proceeds to share her philosophy of life and toys with the mum-mums.

The second is an object lesson in how you have been born solely to cater to a little dictator:
Mamma, यह वाला मम मम चाहिए, Mamma वो वाला मम मम चाहिए. Mamma ऊपर से पीना है, नीचे से चाहिए. Mamma ठीक से मम मम पीना है न. (Trans: Mamma, I want this mum mum. Mamma, I want that mum mum. Mamma I want to drink from the top [of the t-shirt] Mamma, I want it from the bottom [ this means, pull the tee up]. Mamma, I want to feed properly.

The third is weight maintenance:
Let me tell you about amount of thick cream (from my mom's cows) and jaggery that I consumed with plump round chapatis; or the endless rounds of kachori-sabzi, jalebi, lassi, paalak ki chaat, golgappas, tamaatar ki chaat, dahi vada, kulfi that I had this summer in Banaras. Fortunately, it doesn't show too much, because my lil' milk monster siphons most of it off.

There are actually lots more benefits: but these happen to be my favourites... what're yours?

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.