Category Archives: Armaan

Turning Four

Armaan turned four on the 1st of October.

This of course means that the crazy, technicolour, LSD trip that is Armaan has been around for approximately 1460 days, which honestly does no justice to the life that the kid packs into his being. I mean – DAYS? These lame parameters of measurement, I say.

Had I been the sort of mother I everyone wants me to be, I would have posted this the night before, with the usual quaint anecdotes about the wonderboy he is. As it stands, I am glad that I am neglectful (also read intuitive) and a patently bad mother. Why?

Because on the day he turned 4, certain evil, green elves (and since I have no evidence AGAINST said elves, I am running with this) entered his head and performed a life-altering lobotomy, changing his personality in distressing ways.

a) For one, the WHINE, dear God, THE WHINE. The unbearable I WANT and WAAAH and clearly we were put on this earth to harsh his frikkin’ mellow. This from the Artist Previously Known As Sunshine, whose farts smelt of roses. This is where Life jumps in with a “Muahahaha, Imma bite your butt”, because we have always adored not just his happy ways, but the inbuilt decorum the child seemed to possess, which made him look on in horrified silence when other children melted down in stores or threw fits of rage. I may even have worried that Armaan was suppressing his true feelings sometimes.

Now of course, I wish he would SUPPRESS the hell up. Because he simply has to learn that Mommy dearest splinters into furious smithereens in the face of continued resistance because she is mature like that.

b) His relationship to food has become bizzarre. From sipping our cappucino to eating our sushi to chomping down spicy mutton, this child was what the universe owed me after Arvind, who played the lead role in Everything You Make Positively Revolts Me. For the past week everytime I bring a vegetable within a metre’s radius, my inner warning system sirens “You fool, you complete twit!” and I know I have drawn blood and I must pay. Pay dearly.

“NO VEGGIES!! DON’T WANT MEAT! Only pasta. And yogurt.”

His entire diet is now reduced to beige coloured carbs and a dollop of turkish yoghurt. He flounces away from the table (something he earlier TOTALLY judged) and has to be brought back firmly. Luckily, the evil elves have not coached him about the shattering side-effects of consuming fruit. With a kosher list of about 5 items, life – it’s just the bloody gift that keeps giving if you know what I mean.

c) Them Nights of Fury. He is enraged about having to wake up to pee. He is furious that I am not beside him every minute he sleeps. We gave him the benefit of the doubt. Must be coming down with a virus, we said the first couple of nights. Virus in HIS BRAIN, I might have muttered resentfully, on the 4th night.

“I suspect our son is possessed by evil.” I moaned quietly into my pillow last night as his screech rent the peaceful night.

So on this day, 6 days into his fourth year, I am blowing out a candle and making a wish to get my baby back. The one, who still irrepressibly comes through in fits and starts of bright colour. Only, I want him ALL back.

The boy who nuzzles my neck and adores his mother’s “ticklishy”. Who has perfected the art of making me read book after book with him with a “Wummore. Wummore” set to a blinding smile. My co-pilot in the kitchen, cooking, stirring and tasting everything with absolute gusto. Hell, I just want his HAPPY back. And his absolute adoration. No pressure:-)

I want ’em elves gone. And while they’re moving out, Mamma needs mojitos. Then maybe I’ll write that seriously gushy post. In the meanwhile, my two favourite pictures with Armaan from 2o11 so far. And the picture taken on his birthday – an Indian summer birthday in October in Norway. A picture that will make you disbelieve absolutely everything I have written in his post. *sigh* It was before the elves. Really.

I IZ FOOOHHHH.

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The Thursday War

“Mamma, is it Friday today?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s Thursday.”

The tiny little body stiffens as the fury whirls up within him.

“But Friday is Take A Toy day. And I HATE Thursdays. Thursdays smell like farts. I hate Thursday so much that I will paint it pink, stamp on it, break it into many, many pieces and flush it down the toilet. And then Thursdays will drown in the sea forever.”

Anger Management à la an-otherwise-peaceful and happy Armaan.

Clearly all that Roald Dahl is having an impact.

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Days Of Our Lives

Someday, in the not-so-distant future, Armaan will no longer say, “VUNDERSTORRM” with unconcealed delight when there is a (you guessed it) thunderstorm.

Someday in the future, I may no longer have the incredible pleasure of his cheery company while I’m making a perfect bolognese sauce from scratch – and he chatters continously, stirs the crockpot, chews a bay leaf for size and tries to guzzle the red wine.

I love these moments with my baby.

So I’m going to give myself a minute to hate a future that may not include them.

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Melt Report

Last Friday, I trundled into Armaan’s daycare to pick him up and my self-proclaimed Angen Fnuff  (Angel Fluff) flung himself off the swing and into my arms with the velocity that is solely reserved for little boys made of shiny, shimmery dust.

I can attest that that is the singular most fantastic feeling in the world. Even if you love sex. And chocolate.

Once we were all snuggled and re-united, I put him down so I could have a quick chat with his carer about his day. A little girl, A, on another swing began to cry at this point to be let off the swing.

Before the carer could respond, Angen Fnuff was there, helping her down gently, carefully and dusting her off.  He then bent way down to look her in the eyes and asked, ” Are you okay? Don’t cry, ok?”.

He. Patted. Her. Cheek. You GUYYYYS!!!!

She looked up at him with her adoring eyes and gave him the tightest hug ever. He rubbed her back.

Such a colossal amount of sighing was probably almost inappropriate on the part of the two adults witnessing this display. But our hearts were..well.. wrung.

I am going to keep a box of kleenex ready for when this boy brings his love home.

And if I was two, I would doubtless have a crush on him too.

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Mi Casa

Arvind: Mamma, why are you staring at me? Stop staring at me.

MGM: *wistfully* I’m trying to remember you forever this way. Your last day as a first grader. I’m taking pictures in my mind.

Arvind: Mamma, you know you’re a bit wierd?

MGM: No baby. I’m WAY wierd. I’m plenty wierd.

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The Viking is co-building/assisting in re-building our garden patio. It promises to be a Beauty of the Burbs. I’m thrilled to death about this, but most of all I am thrilled because suddenly my dirty and totally infantile mind seized upon all the fun I can have with my “decent” lad and bejeezuz – the number of permutations and variations of lame-ass one liners with the words “nail”, “screw” “hammering” and “bending over”?

5899 at last count.

The man is hapless in the face of his insane wife calling him YET again with her latest pervy giggly.

He is SO hot for me, peeps.

The Polish workers are probably rolling their eyeballs like GET LAID ALREADY.

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The World Cup has been the perfect time to a) nurture an interest in football and b) pull out our Flags of the World book.  Now that school is out and we can geek without school interference, homework and such excrement, its all about flags, countries, capitals, nationalities and currencies.

I am mostly alarmed by how much I have forgotten over the years. Time for Mamma to brush up on her ejukayshun, dudes.

Now that we have ONE pedagogical activity in place, I can serve him beer for the rest of the vacation and we can laugh ourselves silly everytime we say Pyongyang.

Like PYOOONNNGYANNG.

Yeah, you had to be there.

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We are trying to teach Armaan numbers. Since he went all DIY with his potty training, our hopes were high and the magnetic board was dug out.

“Here’s the number 2, Armaan”

“No. It’s blue (B-noo).

“Yes, its a blue number 2”

“Not two. B-noo”

“Yes yes. Blue. But a number 2. Like One. Two.” I can hear my voice rising a pitch in the midly hysterical way a parent’s voice is raised when they suspect their child might be shtoopid. Less gifted. Whatever.

Luckily for Armaan, he could not give a sod. He cheerfully swipes the board clean and delights over the magnetic pieces lying strewn around.

So delighted that he breaks into an impromptu Michael Jackson dance.

“It’s all good,” I sigh, “We just have to give him more beer is all.”

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Waking

I will never get this on film, so I have to try in words.

That moment, that thing you do when you stir in your sleep,

When the dream and consciousness both fight to possess you

And you turn into my warmth.

The feathery touch of your tiny fingers reading the map of my face,

the braille of poxmarks, brows, lips and nostrils

the slow motion of lips curling and settling into a smile of peaceful recognition.

The casually languid stretch, the purrs.

All feline, all mine, this cherub child.

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Home

I wanted to do an entire post about why I love to travel and get away from home.

Till I stumbled upon a post about why I love to come home again.

Armaan, He of the Widest Grin, has a f.l.a.w. Yes, its a funny way to write that word, I know, but this is my unbelievably perfect baby we are talking about and well.. I can’t put it out there so.. so there.

Anyway, the f.l.a.w. is the inability to apologize. To say sorry and give a hug. Now, this is only difficult when he is the thwacker/ the puncher/the pincher. He’s only two and half, but he has recognized the most fundamental of truths.

Apologizing is the biggest bitch when you are the wrong-doer. The one who hurt someone.

In other situations with other evil-doers, he’s empathetic and all over the hugging, the comforting and the pat-pat like he invented it.

In Casa de Where-The-Hell-Was-Prevention-When-I-Needed-It tonight, there was eye poking. The kind where the Leetl one socks it with his pointy finger to the eye of the Beeg one. Because he needed to learn a lesson or something.

Wailing ensues and we admonish Armaan sharply.

” Say sorry.”

“Si unnskyld.”

The bilingual berating fell flat and Armaan wriggled adorably, giggled inappropriately and stuck out his arms to us.

“Take me. Take Armaan. Wanna cuddle.”

“No,” we insist, because we are goddamn heroes made of iron and steel, “Not until you apologize to your brother. Say sorry.”

Standoff time.

After 5 minutes and using up the Gawd-I’m-so-damn-adorable-how-DO-you-stay-mad-at-me card, he turns to the Quivering Lips. The Moistened Lashes. Lower Lip threatening to quiver all the way into his perfect chin.

He takes us for total amateurs, really.

This goes on till Arvind, past tears now, sits up and speaks gravely.

“Armaan, I know you don’t like to say sorry, so just give me a hug, ok? And we’ll pretend this never happened. Come to me.”

Armaan, past the initial “Dude, think another think, yo” indifference crawls over pillows into his brother’s arms for a hug.

And then, “Sowwy, Adoo. Sowwy.” we hear him whisper ever so softly.

” ‘S okay.” says Beeg.

If I’m ever lucky enough to croak in peace, then I want this moment to remember. The way it tugged, melted and re-set itself into my lining.

I want to remember how much I loved their love for each other.

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