Pick Me Up Part II – Send Me Crashing

Wasn’t it a wonderful thing that I found that note yesterday? It sure was because life just turned 360 degrees on the Wheel Of Crazy Crap and the post-script to all that sighing and nostalgia has been retching and cursing long hair in the process of retching.

For the record, I never slept with the author of the wonderful note. No. Because I was 21 and full of such intense self-loathing that carnal contact required persons who despised me/themselves as much as I despised myself. And unless they were willing to climb to the peak of Mount Self-Destruction, hand in hand with yours truly, it was never going to be worth it.

Tch. All those Simone de Beauvoir pretensions. Aah, the good years.

So back to the good stuff – the retching. Its now a given in our lives that the minute the Viking packs his bags and we make out madly on the kitchen counter in lieu of farewell pecks my cheek, Murphys Law cheerfully bounds in through the front door and settles down on the couch with a cup of coffee and book. Might as well get comfy if you’re going to watch the show.

Yesterday, it started with a general queasiness as I was making dinner, intensifying queasiness as I was playing with the boys and the thrilling conclusion which saw me with my arms wrapped lovingly around white ceramic giving all I had to give of myself and my innards. Sweet stuff, Murphy. Here’s hoping you enjoyed your coffee.

And the panic. Of knowing that I was alone with the boys and that they needed me to do THINGS the day after. Lunches, bags packed, clothes laid out. EXACTLY ALL THE THINGS I was entirely inequipped to do in my paramecium like state.

All of this brings me to the part I appreciate the most in this exercise of childrearing.

The one where Murphy is still reclined on my sofa drawling, “Suck. It. The. Hell. Up. It’s not like you’re dying.”

I will argue that its perfectly valid to cuss at imaginary persons and rant about the Law of Frikkin’ Attraction at 4. a.m.

“What? I’m bringing this on myself? Oh, thats nice. Be nice to the vomitting woman. Oh, screw you too.”

I might have just forgotten my medication is all.

The alarm went off  bright dingy, grey and early at 06:30. And zombie-like, everything gets done. The lunches, the clothes, the schoolbooks in bags, the breakfast.

And because I just know that someone out there is going to think – and say – “Well, that because you are SUCH an awesome mum.”, I will beat you to it without an ounce of false modesty and tell you, ” No, I am SUCH a desperate mum.”

Desperate and not big enough to pull this off without hating every minute of it. Hating the neediness, the loneliness and the sadness that take over as I go about making life happen. The way it feels like I’m moving underwater and gasping for oxygen. The very Grrrr of having to ask for help again.

And suddenly it occurs to me that this.. EXACTLY this.. was the one thing I may have going for me in this whole Law of Attraction business. The one reason that we could have jobs that involve travelling and being apart for periods is this wonderful network of loved ones that we have around us. And even in my darkest moments, I know that there is no shame in asking for a helping hand here. Why? Because I would never hesitate to return the favour any hour of the day or night.

Phone calls are made. And I can hear my own voice – ragged, shaky and desperately trying not to be tearful. I’m sick. I really need some help with the kids. (That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.)

Before I know it, one of our dearest friends (and the Viking’s cousin) is at our door, cuddling the kids, playing with them, like there was no place he’d rather be. Like the roads weren’t treacherously icy and it had been a breeze to drive down the disastrous slope to our home and arrive in one piece. Out came the car seats from our car into his and the kids were off, laughing and squealing because ONKEL WAS DRIVIN’ THEM YO!

Soon followed up by messages ticking in offering food and comfort. The brother-in-law drops by the get the car unglued from the icebank it was stuck in, being all nonchalant and its-so-not-a-big-deal about it all. The mother-in-law firmly and kindly telling me that she would pick up the kids and have them for the night so I could sleep it off. Yes, she had nappies and change and spare brushes AND WOULD I RELAX AND EASE UP A FRIKKIN’ MINUTE?

Okay, she’s too classy to speak like that, but lord!! I was this close to turning myself over and spanking myself. And not in the way that’s making you grin now, sicko.

I slept and slept and then – good lord, didn’t I sleep enough? – lets clock a new 40 winks. THAT is how long I slept. And after munching murukku and pretzels and hydrating with juice, I feel half alive again. Half alive and relieved to the power of 10 that I can actually allow myself to get better without having to worry that my children are scared, insecure or unhappy elsewhere.

Fair enough, Murphy’s my friend. (Incidentally, he loves Malabar Monsoon coffee beans and seems to be in no hurry to leave). And I’ll grant him his spot on the sofa as long as the religion of What Goes Around Comes Around keeps throwing me a few brownie points here and there in the form of incredible family and friends.

Goddess bless and all that, y’hear?

 

A Pick-Me-Up

of the raindrops-on-roses and whiskers-on-kittens variety that Julie Andrews so throatily garbled about.

On my way out of the house today, already running late for my first meeting, and with two kids to drop off at different points, I grabbed the first notebook that came handy. Y’know – just in case I needed to take notes at the meeting or doodle the lyrics of a Green Day song to kill the boredom. What? You thought bureaucrats ALWAYS had fun? Ok, there’s the odd margarita in there but tsk tsk, you poor misguided child.

I make it to the meeting on time and just when I open the book and am preparing to look busy and involved, a yellowed sheet of paper floats with casual elegance, straight into my lap. I open it and then spend the next couple of minutes not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Instead, I settle for mildly strangulated and feign interest as is expected of me.

It was a letter, a note, written by a very dear friend – one of the bunch of us engineers/ humanities graduates/seekers of good fortune who had moved collectively to Bombay after having laid our sleepy little town in Kerala to waste. It is fair to say we grew up together in the streets of that grand lady and stood by each other through all the upheavals and the magic in our lives at that point. If I recall correctly, (and if he’s reading, he gets to correct me!), this was written on the local train from Churchgate to Borivli as a farewell scribble a few days before I was to leave Indian shores.

Reading it now, I’m overwhelmed, I’m embarrassed, I’m moved and I’m all Get-a-grip-and-don’t-rush-to-mow-down-your-husband-and-ask-WELL-WHAT-HAVE-YOU-DONE-FOR-ME-LATELY? I’m also wondering how much we drunk prior to this. Whatever the answer to that is ( ALOT!), I know we laughed a lot. I will always remember laughing a lot with this bunch of boys-turning-into-men and feeling effortlessly like one of them. I don’t think I ever thanked them for taking such good care of me while never letting on that that was what they were doing.

So before I lose my nerve..

Dear S,

You taught me so many things.. here are but a few..

You taught me

that one could live on cheese toast

that one is never too tired for anything

that one can look and leap and still get fucked

that if you want something, you have to reach out and take it

that hard work and nothing but hard work pays off

that when things are taken for granted, generally no-one has understood whats happening

that waiting for you can be a real test of one’s patience

that I should listen to silence

that there is someone who is always worse than me at the stove

to stand when I had fallen

You taught me

that good guys don’t always get fucked

that there is more to life than getting laid

that bad things happen to even the best of us

that one man’s music is another’s poison

that no matter how much you give, it’s sometimes never enough

that memory can be convenient

that its okay to cry

that its okay to ask for help

that sending exe files to people with scrambled eggs for brains is a waste of time

that nobody is perfect

that one could have zero logical abilities and yet be proud of it

that there are many smart people who are technolgically inept

that flattery gets one places.

that hormones can screw one’s life and be a very powerful excuse (when do I get to use it?)

that I should never trust you with directions no matter how desperate I am

that I should never trust you when it comes to rating movies

that there are still many books I have to read

And that the most important thing in the world is sometimes the human touch.

Lets hope I learnt a few. You changed my life.

Ditto, dude.

 

The Gift That Keeps Giving

Yesterday a man with a kindly face came and knocked on our door. It turned out that he was from the Red Cross and collecting money for the victims of the Haiti earthquake. Arvind came with me to answer the door and as I walked inside to find some cash, I hear Arvind questioning him loudly as to why he was collecting money.

I hear a low, patient response.

I see my boy dash inside, open the draw that safely housed his birthday money and then he dashed back to the kindly man.

“But this is 500 kroner….” (90 dollars), says the man at a loss, holding the note unsurely.

“They have nothing. They need this.” says my matter-of-fact, unsentimental 7 year old.

“Thank you,” says the man quietly, “You’re a very special boy.”

Somewhere between this exchange and the closing of the door, I splinter in pride.

Happy 8th year, My Golden Heart.

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

Edited to add: I needed to add that it wasn’t the fact that Arvind gave money or the amount he gave that made this a highlight for me. It was more the fact that he had processed enough from our conversations and discussions to stop caring about the vastly exciting world of Bakugan (if for a minute) and give his thoughts and his empathy to the plight of real people. So here is my real question:

Should we protect our children more from the media or less? I have always encouraged Arvind’s interest in the news and current affairs except when inappropriate pictures and footage are involved. Does exposure give them more empathy to situations like Haiti or will it in the long run, desensitize them? Climate change people – this ain’t gonna be the last of it.

How much is too much when they are 7 and 8?

Can we teach them about the world and tell them about wars, famine and natural catastrophes, without stealing their precious innocence? Without rubbing out their faith in a good humanity? Or is innocence overrated to begin with?

 

The Common Question

“Its the tautness of the energy, the looseness of the limbs and the depth of the smile lines around their eyes.”

 - On being asked about “my type of guy” – as if that would yield a physical description.

 

Random Thought

You know all the ways people assess long, happy marriages? If you and the dear ball and chain are – years down the line – still happy happies?

Why? I’m wondering – do people place such importance on companionable silence? Finishing each other’s thoughts? Being best friends?

Why does no-one talk about the husband, who 30 years down the line, will still growl deep in his throat as he reaches for his wife from behind, inhaling her hair?

That would totally make me happy.

 

Oh No He Didn’t – Again.

But of course he did – again.

Arvind: “Mamma, now that Pappa is back, are you going to make out? Like boyfriend girlfriend with tongue?”

WHAAAAA????

“Because if you’re really crazy about each other you have stick your tongues in each others mouths.”

*Parents paling*

What the hell are they teaching them in public school anyway??? And are we talking a touchy feely prevention talk at the age of 10 here?

Can I abdicate my role as guide, I’m wondering?

I’m going to spare you all the follow up questions, go to bed and let my friendly little ulcer fester now.

 

Civil Disobedience @ Home

One of the my key reasons for wanting to be a parent was the most obvious one really – the utterly sadistic pleasure of completely breaking a small person’s will.

Today Armaan staged his first civil disobedience movement. How? By sitting bolt upright in bed and refusing to sleep. And by staring me down. This was particularly rich given that his face was full of zinc cream dots (recovering from chicken pox) and he could easily have given Bozo the clown a run for his money.

I stood at the other end of the room, folding laundry. Uttering in the practiced smooth and placatory tone preferred by true sadists, “Sleep, sweetheart” and such niceties. My true inner voice was throwing the kind of profanities at the boy that would have kept him in therapy for life – as opposed to the mandatory 5 years he will need after living with me.

After a heroic hour of Gandhian salt-march-like gritty resolve with the occasional rubbing of eyes and smothered yawns, he ..well..toppled.

Toppled like a bowling pin, no less. Eyes shut, mouth wide open and will power worn to a nub.

A disappointing end to a great stand off.

Ma – 1 Toddler  - 0 should have been a whole lot sweeter!

 

Knowing

Arvind loves this bedtime story. The one where I tell him about how privileged I was to cradle him in my stomach for 9 months. How I loved every minute of feeling him grow and move and stretch within me. How his father would lie with his head on my stomach touching him and talking to him every night  as we delighted in perceived elbows, feet, hands and head. All the kisses that rained on the stomach that bore him. The songs I used to sing to him, particularly Come Away With Me and Beautiful Boy.

It is his favourite love story.

Tonight, post narration, his thoughtful head on my shoulder, he says this:

“So you loved me more when I was in your tummy than you love me now?”

My boy. Not just cutting close to the bone, but straight to the heart.

Of course I say, “Of course not.” And then I stare in the darkness at that naked half-truth.

The romantic notion of a child was easy. Loving the idea of my son was simple. That blank canvas was my great comfort. The intimate physical and spiritual relationship in utero that you couldn’t screw up with words, wounding looks and irreverant thoughts. The idea, the potential, the possibility of the perfect connection. See why romantics are doomed?

And now. Separate physical entities with strong personalities. Both headstrong and stubborn. Both moody. Both sensitive and tough. Sometimes hard. Always articulate. Hurlings words that splinter. Whispering words that warm.

I never bargained for finding my twin soul in my son – a son who outwardly could not be more different.

Yet we are the same. When we collide, its the armageddon. When we are one, the joy lifts us to another plane altogether. The blessing and the curse of that rarest of connections – the mirror to yourself.

It is harder to love someone who is so much you. Especially when you have not arrived full circle with the concept of loving yourself – warts and all. Sometimes it is easier to lash out at you, my love, than to haul myself up for a good look in the mirror. Sometimes the anger directed at you is no more than my incomprehension of myself. My frustration with those pieces of me that I would have loved to spare you, only genetics obviously had a different plan.

All those years ago, nursing those lofty notions of motherly love, I never realised that loving you – really loving you in flesh and spirit – would require such a rearrangement of my inner self. I never realised then that knowing you and loving you would be the single most important pathway to learning to love myself.

Epilogue: I forgot everything today. I forgot gym shoes, I forgot new toothbrushes, I forgot snacks. I sat defeated on the sofa and apologized to my son for being a terrible mother who forgets things. Without looking up, without taking his eyes of his toy, he replies in an even voice, “No you’re not. You are a wonderful mother. The perfect mother.”

*gulp* Yes, I know an undeserving compliment when I hear it, but it sweetens life nonetheless.

 

Still Here..

.. but life is spinning at some crazy velocity. Busy weeks, busier weekends. Its getting tiring planning posts in my head and never getting to write them down. Today is unfortunately no different. My body and mind are begging for bed, but I had to let you lovely people know that I am well – we are well and thriving – and (BAWWWWL) I just want to be writing again. And I will. Soon.

Working less was supposed to lead to more writing time. But a number of projects @ home have ensured that everything  - LIFE – is not only busier than ever, but also dustier and building-site like and in dire need of planning, logistics and management. These are strange words for us in the most organized of times, so we are little short of breath now:-)

While I get my act together, I want to share with you one of my favourite poems.

AMONG THE MULTITUDES

I am who I am.
A coincidence no less unthinkable
than any other.

I could have different
ancestors, after all.
I could have fluttered
from another nest
or crawled bescaled
from another tree.

Nature’s wardrobe
holds a fair
supply of costumes:
Spider, seagull, fieldmouse.
each fits perfectly right off
and is dutifully worn
into shreds.

I didn’t get a choice either,
but I can’t complain.
I could have been someone
much less separate.
someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm,
an inch of landscape ruffled by the wind.

Someone much less fortunate,
bred for my fur
or Christmas dinner,
something swimming under a square of glass.

A tree rooted to the ground
as the fire draws near.

A grass blade trampled by a stampede
of incomprehensible events.

A shady type whose darkness
dazzled some.

What if I’d prompted only fear,
Loathing,
or pity?

If I’d been born
in the wrong tribe
with all roads closed before me?

Fate has been kind
to me thus far.

I might never have been given
the memory of happy moments

My yen for comparison
might have been taken away.

I might have been myself minus amazement,
that is,
someone completely different.

Wislawa Szymborska

 

Turning Two

While the world was busy spinning on its old axis and everything flew madly about us – resisting gravity and sense, Armaan turned two on October 1st.

My most precious little baby decided that we were no longer worthy of the courtesy of utter babyness and metamorphosised into a full blown little boy. A little boy with curls, but still…

When I was pregnant with Armaan, I was not the happiest person. I balanced a teaching job with my regular job, worked incredibly long hours, travelled on all my regular assignments and  was so driven to be supermom. Hitting the ground running and all that. I was also a single mother (without help) for long periods of time with the Viking being gone oil platform-hopping.

When I look back on that time, I remember my stress levels, I remember desperately trying to make all the pieces fit and I remember my rage. My impotent, spluttering rage when everything wasn’t just so.

Like there are Bridezillas out there, I was Hormonella. And a nasty case of one too. It was such a 360 degree contrast to my sunny, worry-free first pregnancy where I was blissed out from the get go. Where the Viking almost looked at me as if I might have had a lobotomy – so carefree, so even-tempered was I.

When I look back on the Armaan pregnancy, he seems unbelievable.

I needed to learn a lesson and there it was in the form of this ever-smiling, delicious baby, who just needed the tiniest excuse to burst into peal after peal of laughter.

Little Boy, everytime you curled your finger around mine, everytime I breathed in your curls and soaked in the intense wattage of your smile, everytime I walked with your warm little palm in mine, I felt just that wee bit more released. I felt I could let go of all that I had held on to so fiercely, because you and your brother – this little unified assault of love – made it easier to do so.

I always thought that the second child sort of slipped in almost unnoticed, without really shifting the balance much. Maybe that happens with some. But you are the baby that changed everything. You shifted the core and completely altered the focus, the ambition, my sense of what I am striving for.

I did not know two years ago that I would happily decide to work part-time, working five hour days, so that I could hang out scrambling eggs and making banana pancakes on unhurried, delicious mornings with you and your brother.

I did not foresee how I would rush to your daycare every day, wanting to cover you in crazy kisses and needing to hear your incessant babble.

I could not have known that I would be so happy on my kitchen floor playing mechanic and HAVING NOTHING TO DO BUT HANG THE HELL OUT WITH YOU on a late afternoon.

I did not realise then that this time spent on the kitchen floor would result in a total re-evaluation of my life, my dreams and goals.

Through your eyes, it has become a clearer and simpler world. As the Indigo Girls song goes, “The hardest to learn was the least complicated.”

And now you’re two. And you talk like a waterfall tripping on acid – mixing languages effortlessly one minute, mixing up like crazy the next. Everything you say should be in FRIKKIN´ CAPITAL LETTERS WITH !!!!! EXCLAMATION MARKS because thats how excited you are about uttering your words and your sentences.

Like A Dog is not just A Dog. Its A DOGDOGDOGGIEEE – OMIGODOMIGODOMIGOD DIDYOUSEETHATGODDAMNDOG?

And the Dog is a technicolour dreamcoat of a bloody dog, no less.

You get the drift.

Its indomitable, inexhaustible cheer, curiousity and enthusiasm for life. Its entirely exhausting and occasionally it makes me grumpy and I curse you, but of course you are having none of that. You will chuckle, hug me hard and kiss me on the lips soundly and cock your head to one side and say, “MA-MMMMAAAAA”. You will wrap your arms and legs about me like a koala with a crush on a eucalyptus tree. And BOOM! The GrumpyMummy is a-deaded.

It had to be you, baby.

Cupping my almost-sleeping face in your gentle baby palms when you wake up in the dead of the night. Chuckling with delight and kissing me with abandon when you realise that I am not quite asleep. Stroking my cheeks and murmuring, “Armaan and Mamma chaachi (sleep) now, mmm?” and floating into sleep with your sweet, hot palm still on my cheek.

It had to be you, damn awesomest baby of them all.

Now, go storm the bastille of Two-dom.

The Boy In The Silver Shoes With the Moto-bite. He's all that.

Happy Birthday To You. Coolest song EVER hethinks.

Entertain me, serfs. Dolled up at daycare.

All about the bikes and rock n roll! Good thing I plan to practice abstinence till I'm 30! By that I mean, 40.

Ready to Partay. But not without Lala. Aka. Psychotic Being Known To Trigger Homicidal Tendencies

With Tante Christina

With Cousin Anna. She who taught him to sing, "Bad Boy Bad Boy Whachyu gonna do?"!!:-)

Edited to add: Sorry to have AWOL-ed for as long as I did, but mostly, very sorry if I worried anyone. Nothing more dramatic than the drama I can create in my own head plus an insane breakneck speed in the past month. Will blog about it (I think) and will at any rate blog more frequently. Thanks so much for your kind wishes and enquiries – and BINDU! – an award! Aww.

More than anything, I missed the connection with you all. It was tough to stay away!