Category Archives: love

Lost

Tequila shots lined up on the grimy, grey mosaic floor.

“How many for you to take your shirt off?”

“As a matter of principle, three shots after yours comes off, so I have time for a  fuzzy SWOT analysis.”

The pleasurable burn of  tequila rushing through her, his hands through her hair, her face in his unwavering palms.

Move in with me. Stay with me. Be with me.

Her face stilled by shock, unregistering. The darkness of her neck as she flings her head back, laughing.

Not more than a heartbeat or two and the steely chill sets in his eyes, reflecting all that is irreparably rent. The weight of his defeated arms hanging by his sides.

Not more than a couple of seconds lost to her disbelief and mirth in the minute that changed their lives forever.

Tell me not to go, she whispered against his lips months later, as GoodBye Central bustled relentlessly behind them.

Why would I do that, he laughed, easily planting a kiss on the top of her head.

Hopeless seconds when she would greedily memorize the softness of those lips and his leaden heart would lock her scent away forever, in the minute that sealed their loss.

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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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Downside

The bitch about having two boys is being unable to say, ” You. You’re my favourite boy in the whole wide world. There will never be a boy like you.”

This is why I whisper it in the dead of the night into their sleeping ears, hoping that they can hear me in their dreams; hoping they know I’m there; hoping that they know that their mother’s heart is expansive enough to carry both of them in unique chambers of unending, spilt-over love.

This is also why there should be a computer programme that could have figured out how to give you one of each.

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He Did It – Part One

MiM tagged me to write the 5 best things the Viking has done for me.

Also known as What Have You Done For Me (Not) Lately. Like most men, he wanted me write at least one point about him being a sexual powerhouse, the motion in the the ocean of lurrve and all – but seriously. What kind of gal does he take me for? This will stay a chaste zone save for all the swearing thanksverymuch.

That man in the corner of my sofa? Yup, that would be the Viking, moaning that he doesn’t want to be portrayed as a super nice Tom Hanks type who never gets to see any action in any scene – save for some tongueless kissing courtesy Meg Ryan.

Anyway, starting at #1.

18 January 2003: The Viking and I wheel our one day old baby into a paediatrician’s office. He walks in, barely looking at us, barely seeing how drawn we look, how achy we both are. I can barely feel my legs after a horrendous tear and the kind of episiotomy that made me feel like I’d been hand-sown with gunny.

He picks up my sleeping son’s left arm, holds it for a few sceonds and then drops it.

It drops like lead. Like its nothing at all. Like its dead.

“We don’t have to worry that he’ll be a discus thrower,” he says in flat monotone as he scribbles in his chart.

I think I hear a crack and I don’t know if it was my heart, or my brain exploding. Oh wait.

My brain was screaming, “Who are you? Motherfucker M.D?” Thats right. How silly of me to forget.

But my body, utterly debilitated by “natural” childbirth, by this tide of ferocious, almost incomprehensible love for this little hurt baby, just gave.

And the hand resting gently on my back suddenly became a strong pair of arms just coming out of the pitch black of the room and to scoop me and my misery into a tight embrace.

He’s going to be fine, just fine, our boy is the most beautiful baby in the world and he’ll be just fine, I keep hearing a calm voice intone through the ragged sobs that are gagging me.

Those arms and that calm voice kept me pieced together through those days and months of darkness – of dealing with my anger that wouldn’t give. My anger at my body that had let my baby down. My anger at a so-called God. The entire medical fraternity who were dickheads. Or motherfuckers. (As you can guess, I had a real thang for that word. I think it cured me. And as it turns out I was spot on regarding my instincts about their incompetence. He was finally operated at the Royal Grace in London by a Swedish specialist.)

Those hands, those arms again when I rose to my full piddly height and screamed at a three orthopedic specialists, “This is our son. Our baby. Not your fucking guinea pig.” Steadying me, calming me.

Those arms that held me and reminded me day after day that our son needed no-one’s pity. Only one arm? We would teach him to live with that and live well. Whatever happened, we would believe in him. We had to be his strength. Limitations wouldn’t define him, this gentle man said, just as his limitations hadn’t stopped him. See, the Viking is severely dyslexic. Like couldn’t-talk-till-he-was-5-dyslexic. They never thought he would finish school, leave alone ace an engineering and a management degree.

My tears, my sadness were an affront to the human spirit, he kept saying. All one had to do was to check out something like the special olympics to know that no-one could predict what a person was capable of. But if we didn’t believe it, then who would teach him to believe in himself? We had to believe.

Tough lesson for the Faithless woman who thought Grace was in a dungheap.

So there. Number One on What Have You Done For Me (Not) Lately.

He was a mountain of faith in our little boy, in me, when I was No Faith and All Fight. Fortunately there was more in him where that came from;-)

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Vocabulary of Lauw

Every family, I suppose, has its personal vocabulary of love. In my vocal family, my linguistically inclined, goofy and much-adored Neppi (Lakshmi, my grandmother, whose name was bastardised by us to Neppi when bro and I were tots) went one better and created a new language for goofball lauw specially designed for her babies.

We’re into the third generation and its still kicking. My babies, as if they aren’t awash enough in love (and their grandfather’s nonsense ditties) find themselves nestled and snuggled and blanketed by this ridiculously lovable babblespeak. 

And in this little nest, snuggles my favouritest word of them all.

Undachaai.

Unda=Round/ball-like 

Chaai=babyspeak for sleep

Undachaai is when the little family is curled on the bed and nestled together like a ball. Undachaai signifies a heaven of coziness and optimal conditions for great sleep.

Undachaai is making it nearly impossible for us to quit co-sleeping even though Armaan aims yet another swift kick to my arse pushing me to the very edge of the bed as I type.

Damn you, wonderful, wonderful undachaai.

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Two Guys, A Girl And A Plan

Once upon a time, there were two brothers.

And there was a girl. An excessively beautiful girl who was a mere 7 months old.

Both brothers openly coveted the girl. She became The One. This passion wrought great fear in the hearts of their guardians.

However, being temperamentally different, they found their own unique, indomitable way to approach their ultimate goal.

The older brother, born in the sign of Capricorn (with liberal lashings of Aquarian dreaminess) worships the girl. He carries her around gently and is content to tend to her every whim. He holds her on his lap for an inappropriate number of minutes and quietly pronounces to his distressed madré that she is quite lovely. In his usual, matter of fact way. He watches over her with indulgent devotion as she lies on the mat trying to slurp her delicate feet. He arranges her toy basket systematically and reports to the parents’ that they need new batteries for a couple of them. He is concerned that her tummy hurts. Does she require water? He checks out her car seat. You can never be too sure. He wishes to protect her from sun and wind and a number of other elements he can’t quite name.

The Mother, who is wigging out a gradual pace, stands agape wondering:

Who done gone growed this boy up to be so thoughtful, decent protective an’ all?

Yes, I talk funny when I’m stressed.

And the younger brother, you ask? Ah, you refer to the Libran philanderer.

He pulls out every little monkey trick in the book to impress the parents of his LoveObject. He mouths their names with a cute lisp, he dances with abandon to the beat of Daddy Cool, he all-falls-down after Ringa Roses and laughs with his face turned sunniest side up. He’s on a mission – and a roll.

Once the parents of LoveObject have been methodically disarmed, he proceeds to the rug where LO lies, flips a leg over and then proceeds to lie on her and kiss her roundly on the lips, to the eternal mortification of his guardians.

“Don’t even think that thought, young man.” says LO’s  concerned father as he physically removes the scarlet lettered lad from his ward’s body parts. But hark! What is that look in his eyes? Is it a tiny spark of admiration at the daring of the whippersnapper?

The guardians despair. Their youngest, a reprobate? A Casanova drunk on whole fat milk?

The stage is set. The dice are loaded. Will these chewed nails survive another 16 years or so to witness the final denouement?

O Time, be kind.

p.s. The girl is a Scorpion. Yes, you wanted to know that. Come on, I know you’re dying to pull out your Linda Goodman bazooka’s! Hit me, baby:-)

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Ten Years Later..

… you still walk to the left of me, I still slide my left palm into the rear pocket of your jeans, and you still pat my bum before you slide your arm around my waist.

… I never finish my chocolate fondant. You love it more.

… Your precious artichokes land up on my plate. I love it more.

… We’re still excessive foodies and an excellent five-course meal with suitable wines leaves us both rapturous. Ten years ago, we were content being rapturous over fresh oysters at the $2 Vietnamese seafood shack in Melbourne because that was about all we could afford.

… We still have a long evenings worth of talking and discussing and hand-holding in us.

… And hours of companiable silence while we sit outside our favourite French bakery, drinking coffee and reading our respective papers.

…We have zigackly the wonderful babies we wished for back then.

…We have learnt to appreciate the almost insignificant moments and gestures, the irreplacable value of mutual acceptance and after all our trials, we’ve still ended up tilting towards an almost foolish optimism for the future.

… I’m still the chalk to your cheese. The Miss Piggy to your Kermit. (And our amphibious piglets are proof!)

… Whaddaya know? The shoe still fits.

**************************************************************************************************************If If I had figured out iMovie, this would be based on our footage. But since I haven’t, I give you another lovable, nutty, chaotic and bickering couple. And one of my favourite songs from my favourite series finale.

Indulge your sentimental woman, wouldjya?

To us, love.  And many more years of being mad, merry and married.

*Series finale of “Mad About You”. “You Give Me Love” by Faith Hill.

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