Happy 11th EO

Dear EO,

I don’t think I ever told you this.

When I was a few weeks pregnant with you, I went for my first USG with your father. After the doc switched on the screen, he pointed out this little tadpole with a beating heart. He then turned the volume up and I heard this urgent, whooshing sound like a tiny fire engine rolling through shrubs in the land of Lilliput. It was your heartbeat. I started laughing, soundlessly, my belly trembling with so much love and joy that my doctor even exclaimed to your very perplexed father, “My God, she’s shaking so much!” I admit, I cried a little too.

That’s when it hit me...how happy I was to be getting you; how much I wanted you. And when you finally came, I couldn’t take my eyes off you and when they finally put you in my arms, I just refused to let go. I was greedy and selfish and wouldn’t share the perfection that is you with anyone...not with your tamma or dadu, very grudgingly and grumpily with your manuku, daduku and yes, even your baba. I had been accused time and again for not sharing you and even though in my head I knew everyone was right, but my heart and my arms just couldn’t bear the thought of parting with you even for a few seconds.

Sometimes, I did worry whether I was thwarting you. Whether my oak-tree presence in your life stunted you...

But, my beautiful boy, thankfully my rain cloud like nurturing, couldn’t thwart the sunshine that is you. As far as nature went, you took after your baba and in this I am glad. So very glad. Your bright, friendly, sunny nature just oozed out of every pore. You’re confident, can make friends easily and that two with both genders, talk up a storm and you make yourself at ease wherever you go. You adjust, you accommodate, you allow for flaws and lapses in those whom you love.

So, in other words, despite having a Mamma Bear like me, you shone. And continue to shine. And my prayer for you is, that you always do.

As always, a year of unforgettable experiences. Being the kind of Mamma that I am, I just want to hug you and cuddle you and squish you all the time. Thankfully, you still love the cuddles. Luckily, we’re a cuddle-bunny family...again, something I am immensely thankful to your baba for. So yes, I am so grateful that you not only love and enjoy being hugged and cuddled, you also demand it. But of course, all this is at home and it’s quite alright by me. But having said all that, I also know that you are growing up. You have always been curious by nature and I’ve always encouraged you to come to me with your questions and thankfully, you do. So, yes, last year, for the first time, we had The Talk. I felt like dying a little bit inside, but I knew it had to be done. And I remember being grateful and relieved after it was over. I feel blessed that we share these lines of communication and I hope that they are always open. Right now, they are and that’s why you don’t shy away from telling me anything... What I’m trying to say, is that you also shared a super big secret with me – your first crush! And, as promised, your secret’s safe with me – I haven’t told anyone! Not even your baba!

You still have a huge appetite for reading. Your love for ACK, history and mythology endures and you’re current favourite is the Percy Jackson series. You’ve finished the first series and your grandmom is gifting you with the second series and in case you get book vouchers for your birthday, you’ve already decided you’ll buy the third series with those! Phew! That’s a lot of love! You and I are always getting into these Harry Potter vs. Percy Jackson arguments and the battle continues... You’ve also recently taken to reading newspapers. I have mixed feelings about that since I know what kind of rubbish is printed these days as well as the reportage of all the gruesome and violent events all over the world, but it’s difficult to censor them, so I let you read and then I answer yiur questions with as much ease and calm that I can muster.

You started karate classes again after a gap of five years. This is because of your love for all things Japanese, especially sushi. This love is as strong as your love for all things Spanish, especially FCB. You’ve even been trying to teach yourself Spanish for a while now! You love food. You love GK. You’re crazy about dogs and it’s thanks to you that I know share my home with a big brute of a golden retriever called Puppito.

You’re well-read. You’re dramatic. You’re sensitive. You want to know everything about everything and just can’t stop talking.

You’re precocious. When I try to distance myself, I see that. I also see that it’s difficult for you to make lasting friendships and it worries me. It breaks my heart. But I realise that it’s only because other boys your age just don’t know how to relate to you.

Oh I worry about you constantly. About your sweetness. Your gullibility. Your clutziness. Your talkativeness.

But someone once told me that God keeps an eye out for the sensitive ones. Well, I guess I’ll just have to place my faith in that.

I don’t think I will ever tire of saying this to you, my son, my love, my pride and joy – I am blessed to have been chosen to be you Mamma.

Happy 11^th, my darling, precious boy.

Love you forever and always,

Mamma

Boy Talk

Boy talk:

Tale #1: Saturday. 30th August. I take my younger one to school for his spelling bee. We're ten minutes early, but the boys are already being sorted into different lines, class-wise. I figure out the Class 3 line, tell him he needs to go there & ask him if I can give him a kiss for good-luck. He smiles at me sweetly and sheepishly, and politely says, "Please mamma, not in front if my friends." And thus breaking my heart ever so slightly, he walks away to take his place.

Lucky for him he was polite and said "please" otherwise I'd have grabbed him and planted a wet, slobbery, noisy one on his cheek in front of the whole school!!

Tale #2: Sunday. 31st August. Long drive back home. The Bro suddenly asks me about regular dental check-ups for the boys...something which we, as kids, were subjected to while growing up in America. The YO helpfully pipes up that he, along with his entire KG class (which means three years ago), was taken to a dentist by their teacher when they were learning about "Our Helpers", or, different professions. "You know mamu, we even went to an eye witness!"
Stumped by this piece of info, there is a two second silence and before I can share my attempt at the deciphering of his statement, the elder one sternly corrects him,"Uff YO! You mean an optimist!!"

Yes. My boys were talking about an optometrist.

This Brotherly Love

Today was a lovely day. I finally got to take my boys, the MIM, my MIL, Maa-Janani and the Bro out for lunch to a cafe that I'd been wanting to for quite a while now. Beautiful day, beautiful place, beautiful people. My people.

Rain clouds in the sky. Drizzle and green. The start of Rath Yatra too. Such a perfect day.

Then the EO does something that makes me unhappy and terribly sad. I don't tell, but I don't mince words in telling him about my disappointment. And I cry. All this in the car as the boys, the MIM and I are going to a friend's temple to pull the Rath. To make matters worse, the EO has a history test tomorrow and he fumbled miserably while answering my questions.

We come back home. My pressure has plummeted. I somehow help the YO get his stuff together for school the next day and then lie down. The EO sits down for a relatively late night of studying. At bedtime, the YO comes and lies down next to me since his brother is studying in their room. 

It's dark. My phone goes 'zing'. There's a message. As I read it, the light from my phone spills onto my little son, who is lying on his back, his eyes closed, his hands folded in prayer. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"I'm praying to God so that dada does well in his test."

I added my little prayer to his. God, please protect their love for each other. 

Home Sweet Home

After a four-days-and-three-nights stay in Bombay, I came home to my boys on Friday. They were there, at the airport, all three of them -- the MIM, the EO and the YO. Breathless with excitement to see me. I saw them as I pushed my trolley over to the conveyor belt where our baggage was being off-loaded; my little one sitting in his father's shoulders...

I hurried to get my luggage so that I could hurry in back to them. Having caught a glimpse if me, my YO was extremely impatient. Standing next to him, bobbing up-and-down with excitement, my EO. The moment they saw me walk out the gates, they ran over to me, the little one through a maze if legs which he deftly manoeuvred as if on a football field. He threw himself into my arms and I picked him up and held him close while the EO wrapped his arms around me. We stood in this huddle of love, a mother and her two sons, on the middle of the airport exit path, with weary travellers passing us by in their urgency to get home or to a hotel, not caring a whit about what anyone thought. 

Heaven, for me, is without a doubt, in my sons' arms, where the love I feel is purer than mountain air.

--------------------------------------------

A friend of the MIM's sent him some old snaps if ours, taken in Bombay just before we got married. We showed them to the boys and this is what the EO had to say:

"In this photograph, Baba makes Hrithik Roshan look like dung and Mamma makes Angelina Jolie look like pee!"

I'm gonna try and remember this every time I look in the mirror.

Of ‘Kashmir ki Kali’ and ‘Midnight in Paris’

Of the different degrees and shades of CSA that I faced, the part that has left the worst taste in the mouth is that fact that all three of the perpetrators were known to the family, known to me. And that is of course the most horrifying fact about CSA – that in 50% of the cases, the victim has been abused by a person that s/he knew and believed s/he could trust.

This was the case with me.

I wrote about the abuse I faced the very first year that CSAAM started. The problem that I have now, is living with some peripheral memories – how does one survive those? For example, the uncle who abused me was a great fan of Hindi film music of the 50’s and ‘60’s. At home, his radio would constantly be blaring out songs of Manna De, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohd. Rafi, Asha Bhonsle and Mukesh. Songs from movies like ‘Kashmir ki Kali’, ‘Teesri Manzil’, ‘Shagird’ and ‘Mere Sanam’. He would talk constantly about the songs, the movies, the singers, music directors, actors and actresses.

My love for the songs of the Golden Age of Hindi film music comes from my abuser. And there is a part of me that hates me intensely for it.

How does one move past that?

I don’t know. I wish I did. That is my struggle now. Not the memories of abuse...they are my scars of horror. Not the forgiving of myself...because I KNOW it was NOT my fault. Not the forgiving of my abusers...because I won’t and I don’t think I am a bad person because of it.

My struggle is, how can I love some of the things in my life that are so intrinsically linked to my abuser?

I think this issue of mine can also be linked to the greater debate of, “Can One Segregate an Artist’s Crimes from his Art?” Can one look at a man’s art and regard it as an entity separate from its creator?  Is it possible to separate the artist from his art?

There are many men out there, well-known, brilliant men who have written brilliant books, made brilliant movies, created brilliant music, but who are monsters with unforgivable pasts. Lewis Carroll was rumoured to have a predilection for little girls; it is a well-documented fact that he liked photographing them, often in the nude. Many have suggested that his fondness for his muse for ‘Alice’ was far from normal...it was obsessive, perverted. Science-fiction author, Arthur C Clark was said to have sexually molested young boys in Sri Lanka. Then there’s Michael Jackson. Oscar winner Roman Polanski comes immediately to mind. In more recent times, another Oscar winner’s name crops up...Woody Allen.

Yes, I know some of the above mentioned cases haven’t been established. Some are just very, VERY strong rumours, with an air of “hush-hush but public knowledge” about them. But they all make you wonder. After all, can there be any smoke without fire?

Yes, I know some of the above mentioned cases haven’t been established. Some are just very, VERY strong rumours, with an air of “hush-hush but public knowledge” about them. But they all make you wonder. After all, can there be any smoke without fire?

And there are more names. Unfortunately.

But...and it’s a huge, BIG ‘BUT’, their work is lauded, celebrated...awarded. We all grew up dancing to ‘Thriller’ and ‘Beat It’. Many of us have cried while watching ‘The Pianist.’ Often, we find ourselves searching for rabbit holes to fall into, so that we can discover our own Wonderlands. I wanted to take the next plane to Barcelona after watching ‘Vicky, Christina and Barcelona.’ And ‘Midnight in Paris’ as well as ‘Blue Jasmine’ are on my Must-Watch list.

But after reading Dyaln Farrow’s letter...I don’t know. I just don’t know. Is Woody Allen guilty? Again, I don’t know. But the letter...the details...the abuse. Cringe-worthy! And so...I don’t know.

When a Michael Jackson number comes up on my iPod, do I change it? No, I don’t. The songs are uploaded by me, I haven’t even erased them. Just like I haven’t erased any old, Hindi film songs from my iPod either. In fact, I keep adding to them.

And I desperately want to see ‘Midnight in Paris’ and I just can’t stop hating myself a little for it.

That Time of the Year Again: April CSAAM

Dear Friends,

It is that time of the year again. To poke the dragon. That time of the year when we, a team of people, gear up and talk about that topic which is taboo but which should not be; that topic which is only whispered about, hastily, fearfully, but about which we should be making a loud, deafening din; that topic which many people believe to be an urban legend but is a frightening reality on a depressingly large scale . ‘That topic’ is Child Sexual Abuse.

April 2014 is around the corner, and we are ready to spread the word in our fourth year of CSAAM. Once again, just as we have been doing for the last three years, we talk across social media, via Facebook, twitter and blogs about the menace that is CSA . All through the month of April.

This menace must stop spreading. Children must be made to feel safe. Parents need to know how to talk to their children. Survivors must know that they are not alone. We cannot do all this alone and we count on your support and participation.

Partnering us in our efforts this year will be organisations working in this field like Arpan, Tulir, Human Rights Watch as well as online initiatives like Blogadda and Womens Web. You will see personal testimonials, expert advice, twitter chats, information sources, resources, workshops, an iPhone app and lots and lots of blog posts across the blogosphere.

We understand confronting this issue is quite uncomfortable. But we also know silence is not a solution. We need to talk our minds out. We need to act. We need to support.

If you would like to post on your blogs, do send us a tentative date, so that we can schedule your post. If you would like to participate in a twitterthon, do let us know. Even forwarding this email to anyone you think might be interested in participating and contributing would be very helpful.

If you would like to add to the discussion or know somebody else who would, please note that we welcome entries:

mailed to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com OR

posted as FB notes and linked to Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month Page OR

posted on your own blog with the badge and linked to the main blog OR

posted on your own blog with the badge and linked to the main blog OR linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

Anonymous contributions are accepted and requests for anonymity will of course be honoured.

You can also support us by simply adding our logo of the initiative to your blog’s sidebar. Grab the code below to do sohttp://csaawarenessmonth.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/batch-code-txt-2013.docx

Please remember to send a mail with all necessary links or just your input to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com so that we can track your contribution and make sure that it is not inadvertently lost or missed out.

Some guidelines

Please precede the title of your post with CSAAM April 2014. Then add a hyphen and your title.

Please insert the badge html in your post. If you carry it on your sidebar for the entire month of April too part from just within your post, we would be honoured.

If you refer to sources for information kindly italicise that part of your post which is taken from the source and provide the link to the original source in a bracket.

And finally please avoid graphic descriptions of the abuse. Stay as factual as possible if you’re doing first person accounts.

We need all your help to make this month a success, and are counting on your support.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Warm regards,

CSAAM Team

http://csaawarenessmonth.com/

Sex Ed: The Saga Continues...

A while back, the EO and I were watching "Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara." He was loving it for a number of reasons, such as the songs, the fact that it was based and shot in Spain and he loves all things Spanish (and Japanese, but that's besides the point), the plot-line of going on three daring adventures with one's friends, the camaraderie between the friends, and so on and so forth.

I was loving it primarily for one reason and one reason alone and that reason is named Hrithik. Sigh... Yes, yes, his hair was coloured all wrong in the movie, but have you seen the man dance, people? Have you? He is pure, unadulterated, wild, joyful sex. That's what he is. Sex.

Anyway, so we're watching and loving the movie. My son is being his normal self and asking me hundreds of questions when we're suddenly at that song sequence, "Der Lagi Lekin" and there's a three second visual of Hrithik & Katrina spooning in bed and of course the EO noticed. Now I know what you're going to say...yes, yes, there was a scene earlier in the movie between Farhan (my other love, just btw) and random Spanish chic, but the remote was in my hand at that time and I was able to skip it...not so lucky this time round and besides it was such a blink-and-you'll-miss-it scene -- the only problem was that my boy didn't blink just then. Sigh. Whatchyu gonna do?

Anyway, so he looks at me, shakes his head, rolls his eyes and asks, "Sex"? As nonchalantly as I possibly can, though I feel as if I have been punched hard in the guts, I simply say, "Yes."

Some more head-shaking and eye-rolling happens and then he informs me, very, very seriously, "Mamma, we're not going to tell bhai about all this stuff ever, ok? He doesn't need to know, alright? Even when he's a hundred, ok? Ok?" And while I'm mulling over what to say and trying to form a single, coherent sentence to say, it suddenly dawns on him, "Ooooh! But how will he have children, naa? Hmmm... Ok. We'll tell him a few days before the wedding. Ok? Ok!"

Oh boy! My boy! 

If only it were ok, my over-protective, little, big boy. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that YOU know this!! If only it were ok. If only.

Of Calligraphy and Calvin

The boys are unofficially on term break now. While I'm pretty much allowing them to do what they want, I have, however, insisted that they both do two pages of handwriting EVERYDAY -- one in English and one in Bangla. This is because,
a) their handwriting sucks,
b) gives the gadgets in the house a break,
c) it gives them something to do, and
d) it keeps them out of my hair.

I was wrong about (d). Soooo wrong.

Anyway, the EO is sitting and writing a script...the sequel to "Kickass" is you please, and he wants me to send it to Hollywood. Not satisfied enough with his screenwriterly ambitions, I still point out that he needs to write properly as the original purpose behind the exercise is good penmanship. After all, who needs to foster creativity when one's handwriting can conquer the world, am I right? And besides, our schools are doing such a brilliant job in the first place, no? (snigger-snigger-sob) So my son gives out a long, deep sigh, one that would do any long-suffering writer proud, and says, "Nothing spoils fun more than when it leads to building character."

I stopped in my tracks, turned around and asked him to repeat it. He did. Clearly and precisely. "Nothing spoils fun more than when it leads to building character." It sounded vaguely familiar so I asked him where he'd got it from. "Calvin and Hobbes", he smiled.

Wonderful! Just what I needed, my boy quoting Calvin. Possibly modelling himself in his image too! *shudder*

And then he started singing, "Another Brick in the Wall" at the top of his voice.
*gulp-gulp-shudder-gulp*

Movie Time With the Brats

This evening, the EO was watching "The Artist." With a lot of interest and a lot of curiosity. As is his nature, he asked about 545 questions during the 100 minute movie... Sigh...

I like this, though. The fact that after watching something like "Shaolin Soccer" on repeat for the last three days, the boy sits down to watch a classy movie like "The Artist." It's the same reason that while I may cringe at the EO's love for these crass, ugly, new Bollywood numbers, he adores Beethoven and Rabindrasangeet and Queen and Sufi... It's the same with his reading habits. While he loves the Wimpy Kid series, still reads Geronimo Stilton, he's also into Tintin and Asterix and Shakespeare (abridged) and Satyajit Ray.

And that is important. The fact that we expose our children to every genre. They will pick and choose their favouites and have a more well-rounded, balanced appreciation of art, literature, films, theatre and what-have-you.
*******************************************************
While watching "The Artist", the conversation suddenly turned to beauty spots. The EO asked me if they are always drawn on and I said no, that usually people are born with them, and so saying, I showed them the one on my chin. Then the conversation turned to birthmarks and both the boys launched into a frenzied search for beauty spots and birthmarks upon their person. The EO tiumphantly declared that he'd found a beauty spot and was content. The YO had been born with quite a prominent birthmark, but it has started to fade over the last few years. Unable to find a suitable replacement he suddenly beams and exclaims, eyes a-twinkling, "I know! I know what my birthmark ijj! Everybody sayjj I'm cute, right? So that's my birthmark! I'm cute!"

Oh baby! He certainly is, more than he can imagine! And just like it's his birthmark to be cute, it's my birth right to squoosh and squish him to my heart's delight!
*********************************************************

After 'The Artist', 'Ratatouille' starts playing and the boys and I continue watching for a while. There's a scene when Remy's running on the beams in the attics trying to discover where he is and that blink-and-you'll-miss-it scene plays out...the one of an arguing French couple. Through the hole in the ceiling that Remy runs past, we see the angry couple standing face to face, the woman is holding a gun, Remy passes on, we see nothing but our friendly little rat running and then we hear a gunshot; startled, Remy turns back to the hole, and we see the man holding the woman's hand, the gun must have gone off in a struggle and the couple stare into each other's eyes for a few seconds before falling onto each other's lips and sucking face. It sounds longer than it really is, the whole scene does play out in a few seconds flat and it really is blink, wink, sneeze and you'll miss it.

But of course my boy's do none of the above and they see the whole scene and the EO shakes his head and turns his attention to the iPad on his lap, his cheeks turning red, while the YO giggles and whispers something in his big brother's ear. I pounce on him and ask him what's so funny. He shakes his head. I ask again. He shakes his head again when big brother jumps in to save little brother.

EO: It's nothing Mamma. Just the French doing what they usually do.
M4: Whaaaat?? And what makes you such an expert on the French and their habits? (Was he wrong? He'd got the stereotype down pat!)
EO: Oh come on Mamma, the whole Europe is...you know...romanta! (Totally making up this word to give it a European sounding flavour)
YO: (pipes in to add weightage to his brother's words) Yesh! Mamma, thish time on de Eiffle Tower, Dada saw two French people kissing for ONE HOUR!
EO: (a little irritated by his brother's exaggeration) Nooo!! Not one hour! For five minutes! If it was for one hour, then you can't breathe!

I am genuinely concerned about where he's getting all his info from and forming his own conclusions!

#WFHMs and Growing Boys

The boys' holidays have started, unofficially. Exams got over Friday morning and by Friday afternoon they had already managed two things:
1) mentioned the word 'bored' 245 times, and
2) had Mamma wishing she took Valium.

Sigh. This is why I hate it when school is closed...

Yes, I said it. You can hand me 'The Bad Mamma Award' now.

This morning, as I attempted to get some work done, I had the YO trying to snuggle into my lap so that he could carry on a conversation about his love for sports, while the EO went round and round in circles asking me questions about Robespierre and Mary Antoinette. They  effect of yesterday's viewing of "Mr. Peabody & Sherman", you see.

Didn't have the heart to throw them out of my room, because man! They're growing up! I mean, the little one starts Class 3 next month and the elder one, why, he crosses over to the Big School! Literally! It's another building altogether, across the street from their safe little haven. A whole new world, if you look at it.

We've been trying to prepare him for it over the last few weeks. About the big boys, the indifferent teachers, the possibility of bullies and the need to stick with your friends. I think we did too good a job, because the other day when my MIL asked him how it felt to be on the threshold of Class 6 and Big School he replied that he was ready for his "descent into hell." Hmmmm, I think we scared him more than prepared him!

And then, on Sunday, I was lying down on my bed, reading a great book, when he suddenly zipped into my room and threw himself on top of me to give me the tightest, bone-crushingest hug possible, making silly, little boy sounds. My heart over-flowing with love for this beautiful boy of mine who I gave birth to ten years ago, but still seems like yesterday, I asked him, a little scared, "EO, don't you want to grow up?" And he looks into my eyes and says. "No."
M4: Why?
EO: Growing up bad. Me no like growing up. Me stay small.
M4: So you want to be Peter Pan all your life?
EO: Hai. Si. (apart from braces, the boy seriously needs some language lessons as well...he's been wanting to learn Japanese and Spanish since forever. Now added to the list is Greek, for some reason)

Anyway, the point is that I don't want it either. For them to grow up. I'd like to be able to manipulate time. I'd like to be able to bottle up their babyhood and toddlerhood. I'd like them to remain beautiful, innocent and sensitive forever.

And with them, I'd like to be forever young too.

Puppito

So we got a dog. Six months ago. A golden retriever and we named him Puppito.

So we got a dog. Six months ago. A golden retriever and we named him Puppito.

Ok, ok. I named him Puppito...I was just trying to be clever. My YO scratched his head and asked me, seriously, "Sho dujj that mean that we have to call him Doggito when he becomes big?" Errrm...no.

Anyway. We got a dog.

And I'm not happy.

You know how some people like other people's kids? Yeah, well, I'm the person who likes other people's dogs.

Anyway, I was outvoted and now we have a dog.

He's quite a cute critter, I have to admit, but I think he would have been just doggone fabulously handsome on the Internet and had me going 'Awwww' at his pics. But, as he lives, pees, poops and pukes in my house, on my carpets and chews up my new shoes, the 'Awwww's are very few and far between.

I've had many 'Awwww' moments vis-a-vis the boys though, thanks to him. One which happened quite recently in fact. 

On the way back home from a birthday party a few evenings ago:-

YO: Mamma, Puppito's O+, right?

EO: No he's not! He's AB+ or something else. Not O+.

M4: How on earth would you know this?

EO: No...I just think so...

YO: (after a few seconds pause) You see, I put my one hand on his heart and my the other hand on my heart, see? And then I heard, dhak-dhak, dhak-dhak... It was happening at the same time, and so that's how I know!

EO: Noooo! Dogs are not the same as us...they have a heart and blood vessels and blood just like us, but their bone marrow is different. Right, mamma?

M4: Errrmmm, uhhhh...

The Big Bang Theory

So I was watching a re-run of an old episode from 'The Big Bang Theory' last night. The one where Raj admits to Penny that their one-night stand ultimately didn't culminate into a 'big bang'.

Anyway, of course the word 'sex' is used liberally and of course my 10-year-old EO happens to walk in and out of the room each time the word is used. I can't even hit the bl***y pause button because there are sub-titles and well dammit, the boy can read!

So of course he hears the word, grins loonily, catches me watching him intently and immediately stuffs his fingers into his ears. So I ask him, "What?" He just shouts back, "WHAT?"

To cut a long story short I ask him if he knows what the word means and he says he does. I ask him to explain and he gives me the school-yard-giggle-giggle-nudge-nudge-wink-wink definition of it. I sigh. Then I take a deep breath. Followed by many others. And then I launch into a quick, short and most uncomfortable Sex Ed 101 lesson.

He's kind of in shock and disbelief. So am I, quite frankly. I preferred our earlier conversation two or three years ago when in answer to his question, "Mamma, what does 'sex' mean?" I'd quickly replied, "Male or female. Boy or girl."

The conversation is far from over. But it's a start. Along with the feelings of shock, disbelief and yes, embarrassment, I am also feeling relief.

The glass of wine later that night was truly well deserved.

February Faves

February 6th, 2013:

So the boys were picking me up after my theatre workshop at the studio today and were siting in the car, waiting patiently for me. The moment I cam into view, one of them started blowing an endless stream of kisses my way while the other started jumping up and down, screaming, "Mamma! Mamma! Mammaaaa!!!..."

Man! They make me feel like a rockstar!

February 22nd, 2013:

My EO, is reading Hamlet! HAMLET! That's right, my nine-year-old son is reading William Shakespeare's "Hamlet"! Granted that it's an abridged, study version, but the thing is, he saw it on my MIL's study table, picked it up, made himself comfortable and started reading it, thoroughly engrossed!

You bet I'm kicked!

A Hearty Half-Dozen, My YO

My darling YO,

Shripm. Chingri Maach. Piprey. Elf. Pipsqueak.

Yes my son. You're still small and skinny. Another year and it still looks like I don't feed you. Another year of me obsessing with weight...mine and yours. Another year of me teasing you about being the shortest in your class.

But oh no! You immediately get all fired up and confidently say, "No mamma! I'm not! I'm only the number four shortest in my class!"

I think this defines you. Your confidence in what you say and do. You comfort in who and what you are. Your marvellous ability to stand up for what is the truth and to stick by it. You've shown it time and again. Small and tiny you may be, but when it comes to standing by your truth, defending yourself and those you love, holding on to your principles and convictions, my little one, you are as strong and as sturdy as the mighty oak. 

I pray this quality always stays with you, my love. This and all the other endearing ones that make you so perfect and so proud to be your mamma.

Your love for us. For all of us! Oh, it makes me melt! You declare it from sun up to sun down, how you love your "mudur, fadur, brudder, cousin brudder, cousin shishter, nammu, dadu, manuku, daduku, (my) whole famileee!" And then, when you realise you might have left out someone, like your mamu for example, you start all over again! And you make it a point of telling us all! Sometimes in song!! 

To see you do your flips, cartwheels, tumbles and what-not, makes me rue again the fact that there is no such thins as 'gymnastics' in this city!! What a waste of a flexible body! What a waste of talent! What a waste of a beautiful smile as you twist, turn and contort about in ease and grace! I haven't given up yet, though. You are also a natural born dancer. Your body moves to the beat with such easy fluidity that I often have to pick my jaw up from the floor when I watch you. I am really thinking about putting you into Hip-Hop or B-Boy classes. 

You're already so comfortable on stage. Seeing your brother on stage has been a huge source of inspiration to it and that's why, these last three years, you've been rocking it during Durga Pujo. I also love the fact that you are enjoying drama class and how much you advertise it to your friends. It does become problematic when you call me "Mamma" during class, but truth be told, I haven't really insisted you call me "Ma'am". Sigh...but I'll have to, soon.

Your reading habit is also growing stronger! Another advantage of having an older sibling who enjoys books! Watching your dada immerse himself in the world of books has been another wonderful influence on you and I couldn't be happier. Of course, while I do indulge you with Chhota Bheem comics (which you ADORE!!), you're really into everything your brother reads. So even for you, it's "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" and "Captain Underpants" and while I'm happy that you're attempting these books, I am also trying to push you to read the ACK  and Tintin comics, the Tell Me Why volumes, the Geronimo Stilton books that he loves. And because you get part of your stubborn streak from me, I shall only continue to persevere :-)
The thing with you reading the tales of Greg Heffley & Co. as well as following the adventures of the undergarment captain, is that -- apart from them being wickedly funny and perfect fodder to tickle the funny bones of little boys -- you want to  participate in the conversations your brother has with his peers regarding these books, which I think is not only terribly sweet, but adorably awesome!

Time flies, my baby boy. Half the school year is already over and I still can't help but think how, just a few months ago, you were still in Senior KG in a Montessori school. The thought of it makes me want to bawl!! You had to be dragged kicking and screaming to Big School for a couple of days, but you've made your truce with it. Do you love it? Not passionately, but you do somewhat, kinda like it. Having your 'big brudder' there certainly helps and it also helps that his friends are all nice and big brotherly towards you too :-D

My Old Boy, a.k.a. The MIM @ 40

So around two weeks or so ago, the YO suddenly asked me : Mamma, at 83 means what?
Me (perplexed) : 'At 83 means what?!?' I'm sorry shona, I don't understand what you mean...
YO (shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders and looking so lost and confused) : I also don't know...
Me : It's ok shona, try again.
YO : Means, at 83 are we a children or a teenager?
Me (laughing) : Oh!!! Hahahahaha...neither babu. At 83 we are old.
YO : Oh! Means we are an old man? Like baba??

LOL!!! Today's the MIM's b'day and he enters his 4th decade. He may feel how his son thinks, but I think he's a bottle of finely matured wine! And yes, I did sing, "Main kaa karoo raa, mujhey buddha mil gaya..." to him today ;-p

Tests and the YO

The boys are having exams. The 4th grader had his Bengali Lit paper yesterday and as per the schedule the 1st grader didn't have anything. So I kind of went all fainty and hyper when he walked in after school and said, "Today I had my G.K. test." In absolute crazed Bong-mom mode, I asked him how he did, if he managed to write everything, did he get his spellings right, what were the questions, etc. etec...all in one breath. The little one, eyes all big and round, shaking his head furiously and trying to get a word in edgewise put his hands up in a relax gesture and said, "Noooooo! It was not a writing one! It was a...a..." (struggling for the word 'orals') "...it was a talking contest!"

Ummm...phew!...I think...

My Newly Minted Nine Year Old

Dear EO,

You turned nine today. Nine. N.I.N.E.

Excuse me while I go sit in a corner, wonder at the 'how-in-the...' of it all, and weep at the 'where'd-the-time-flow?' of it all.

Nine.

Nine years of absolute joy. A roller coaster ride. A stand-up comedy show. A life-time.

You've grown-up immensely in this past one year. You are still a book-loving, mythology munching, fantasy world inhabiting, little dude. You enjoy using big words...mispronouncing them often, but getting them right even more often. You enjoy prancing on stage (in fact, you revel in it). You enjoy your food and even have a little tummy-tum-tum to show for it. You appreciate sarcasm and even try to use your own brand. Your incredible brand of sensitivity. You day-dream about the movies you watch, the books you read and the stories you hear and you actually live with these characters in your head. 

Sigh. You really, really, really are soooooo my son! The similarities we share make me want to go "Yahoo!" and do the junglee-dance from the roof-tops!

And then there are those similarities that scare me. That passion for what's right in this world and what's wrong. At the injustice of things. At the simple and absolute trust you place in people you love. Your contentment in having just a few good friends. Your need to be feted and appreciated.

These similarities that we share? Yes, these worry me. They worry me greatly.

Three stand-out memories from the year.

1) We were at Bagdogra Airport earlier this year, waiting to catch the flight back to Kolkata. As is my habit, I bought you, your brother and myself some books and magazines. I bought you four ACKs. One was about Tipu Sultan. When you read about the cruelty meted out to Tipu Sultan's children, you started sobbing in the airport; your body shook with rage and incredulity and you ket saying over and over again, "But they were children, mamma...CHILDREN!! How could anyone do that to CHILDREN?" Your father and I tried to comfort you as best as we could and finally I bought you another book, a Geronimo Stilton, to distract you. It worked like a charm, but you never forgot the question. 

2) When you read the ACK about the Jalianwallah Bagh massacre. Once again the tears. The rage. The incomprehensible disbelief of it all. You read that ACK many, many times over trying to get the answers to your Why's, How's and How-could-they's yourself, because mine were all so damn unsatisfactory. You were convinced of the collective evil of the race that once ruled us and you couldn't stand to hear a word in their favour. A few weeks later, I chanced upon the ACK on Jim Corbett and bought you that, to show you that there were nice guys too. You didn't wholly buy it. In fact, you've even declared to MaaJanoni that if ever your baba and I are thinking of going to 'see the queen', then we'd have to go without you. Just a couple of weeks ago I tried to see if you'd changed your mind about that... Nope. You're stubborn. You're my son.

3) And finally, the one where you got stuck 15 feet above ground level, in an amusement park in a dark evening of Siliguri. We had gone to this park to while away a couple of hours. We did all the rides. And then we saw this harness attached to two 30-feet long poles strapped to a trampoline. The sign over there simply said "Bungee Jumping." You love your adventure 'sports'. Roller coasters. Hang-gliding. Rolling down a hill in a huge, transparent ball. You love them all. So obviously you had to go on this. The mechanism of this was simple enough. They strap you into the harness, you start jumping up and down on the trampoline and then, with the use of a remote control, they lift you higher and higher into the air, until you're about 12-15 feet above ground level, where they suspend you for about a minute or so, and then they bring you back down. You LOVED it! Your brother, not at all. You wanted a second go. We agreed. Just as you finished all your jumps and stretches and the guy holding the remote started lifting you higher into the air, we suddenly saw sparks flying from the remote. Then the whole thing burst into flames, the man dropped it, stamped upon it and then ran to the little shed to switch the entire contraption down. The only problem? You were suspended 15 feet in mid-air. Our hearts were in our mouths, but you! OMG!! You were beyond brave...you were in your elements. For twenty whole minutes, as those morons tried to figure out what to do, you kept not only us entertained, but all the visitors to the park as well. You were up there doing yoga poses, karate kicks and chanting Buddhist mantras. You helped your father and me keep calm and not lose our heads. A crowd gathered around and marveled at you. The YO was freaking out, shouting at the men to get his brother down NOW, but you were brilliant. The incident is not one that I would ever, EVER like a repeat performance of, but your sense of humour and your grip on calm was what took my breath away.

Yes. You're growing up. And how. It's not so easy having an argument with you anymore. You demand answers. Logical, easy-to-understand-and-accept answers, and unfortunately, I don't always have them. Luckily, I can still play The Mother Card and trump you any time, but I've got my fingers crossed as to how much longer I can keep using that. That, and using that incredible phrase that mothers have been using since time immemorial -- "Because I said so."

You started of this year wanting to be exactly the same things as you did last year -- viz. an actor, a guitarist and as the owner of an orphanage. For the first time in years, you've talked about a different career. You now want to be a secret agent, a spy. And you even have a top secret mission that you've entrusted to yourself, one which you hope will restore glory to your country. Adorable and oh-so serious at the same time. Such a big boy desire with grown-up rationale behind it. 

And yet, that childish innocence of yours, that incredible sensitivity that thankfully reminds me of the fact that you still are my little boy. Those bone-crushing hugs and that gorgeous laugh that is more divine than the angel chorus. Those eyes that continuously harbour a dreamy, far-away look in them, an absolute give-away to the fact that you choose to inhabit an infinitely more interesting world than the mundane one in which you are trapped. No matter how old you get my son, I hope you always have this world to retreat to. A world populated by heroes and musicians and writers and story-tellers. And the wonderful bit here is that when you think of superheroes, it's not just Batman and Spiderman, but real life heroes like Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, Chandrashekhar Azad, Surya Sen. When you think of musicians, it's not just the Akon, but also Michael Jackson and Freddie Mercury and Mozart and Beethovan.

Oh golly gee, my goodness gracious. You are adorable. And precious.

And you're mine.

And you're nine.

N.I.N.E.

Love you, my darling big boy. In ways, words and manners that will never quite truly capture just how very much.

Always yours,

Mamma

Snippets about my Snippet, aka the YO

It's been a looong while since I've updated my blog and the terrible fact of the matter is that both my boys have been doing/saying blog-worthy, errr...noteworthy things.

Since my YO was down and out and fighting the viral, I thought I'd dedicate today's post to him...

The fever came on a Sunday, so obviously I didn't send him to school that Monday and needless to say, he loved it. So much so that he decided that he wasn't going to go back to school again. Ever. Ever again. The mere thought of having a five-year-old while away his hours, day in-day out, 24/7/365 for the rest of his life; and the incredible thoughts of keeping this particular five-year-old properly occupied day in-day out, 24/7/365 for the rest of his life, had me hyperventilating. Mad screams of, "What do you mean you never want to go to school again? How can you not go to school again? How can you even think it? What will you do for a living?" floated all around my head, but I refrained from bellowing these out, because after all, he's five and he was feverish and of course he was going to go back to school, because I said so! But I did think it would be interesting to hear about his future plans and so I asked him, "Babu, if you're not going to go to school and study, then what will you be when you grow up?" And pat came the reply -- "An actor!" Aaah well, my apologies to all those amazing actors who studied in NSD, Julliard and Carnegie Melon, but it seems like my little one thinks you've all wasted your time ;-p

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The YO, for all is rambunctious nature, is quite a softie. And surprisingly, very clingy. If I'm five minutes late in picking him up and if he doesn't have a friend or a familiar face to wait with, he dissolves into sobs. And Calcutta traffic being what it is, I sometimes am late.
Well, it was one of those days when I was late and the YO was sobbing. His classmate's mom, whom I'm friends with, called me and apologised saying that she couldn't stay and comfort him as she had to go and pick up her daughter from another school, but she wanted my son to hear my voice so that he would be reassured that I was nearby. I told the YO that I was a hop-skip-and-jump away, so would he please be a big boy, stop crying and wait for me. He sniffled a yes.
Of course when I got there, he was still crying, so I picked him up, took him to the canteen, sat down, wiped away his tears and calmed him down. We followed our normal routine while waiting out the next half-hour for his brother, which normally involves me feeding him the rest of his tiffin, looking through his classwork note-books and chatting about his day (gah! I just realised how typically Bong mom I sounded while typing that sentence!!) When the bell rang, I started to get up so that I could wait near the foot of the stairs, but the YO stopped me, told me to sit and he would go and wait instead -- "This is how a small boy potecks his mudder, right mamma?"
Man! It was my turn to cry -- and I didn't even ask him what he was 'potecking' me from. He was just being a gallant gentleman, but didn't know how to say it...

The Queen's Language and Some Questions

My YO, flibbertigibbet, will-o'-the-wisp and whirling dervish all rolled into one, is basically a very nice boy, if I do say so myself (touchwood and thoo-thoo-thoo). No, he really is nice.

He minds his p's & q's. Will say excuse me if he burps or wants my attention when I'm talking to someone. He'll always say "Bleshyu" if someone sneezes and expects the same in return, and will loudly procalim the fact that he has sneezed if none is forth-coming -- "Excuse me, but I jusht did hein-cho" (the kiddie, Bengali way of saying 'sneezed').

His sense of manners and politeness have provided us all with many merry moments of mirth. Here are two recent samples.

1) I told him to practice his hand-writing and set him some work. He put his book down on the floor, lay down on his stomach and started writing. I told him his hand-writing would never improve if he wrote like that and asked him to sit at the table. There was a book on said table which took up a considerable amount of space and both his hands being full he looked up at me and sweetly asked, "May you please move this book Mamma?"

2) So we went to Saturday Club for a swim yesterday. Afterwards, we sat in the gardens and tea and refreshments. There were some young boys playing catch and when the ball rolled towards us, the YO quickly grabbed it and handed it over to the little boy who came running. I was looking intently at my son, expecting him ti ask me if he could go and join the boys since he loves playing so much, but instead he saw me, smiled, and asked, "I am a friendly boy, naa? Friendly and helpless." The EO choked on his ice-scream while I laughed so hard I scared away the crows nearby.

And speaking of adorable questions, this morning he came up with a chicken & egg type, of his own; Mamma, first when humans were born, how did they come from no mothers?" After thanking my stars that the question in question wasn't of the birds & bees variety, I decided to 'go ape' and tell him a bit about evolution. He was fascinated...not entirely convinced, but fascinated :-)

My Heart Over-floweth...

About a month ago, when the MIM I married was away, WW3 was in progress in my bedroom...both boys were fighting for the middle space, so that I could sleep next to one of them. I said I'd sleep in the middle and then they could both get me. Nah, no good. They were not in a mood to share. Of course I had my way. I pushed them apart, put my pillow in the middle, said "Good night, I love you", switched off the lights and left the room. I took a peek some time later...they were fast asleep, the middle had been kept empty for me...save for their clasped hands across the bed, resting peacefully on mamma's space.

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Mornings in our house, are normally filled with music...at least on holidays. A couple of weeks ago, while one boy was listening to music on the iPod & singing along ('Phantom of the Opera', if you please), the other was singing from a book of Disney lyrics. My heart and eyes were ready to burst!

Aaah! The difference a few days can make! Lately, all they're interested in is listening to the theme 'music' of their favourite WWE wrestlers. Sigh! As if there's not enough noise in my life already!

But then of course, the EO's words this morning acted like a balm on my very frazzled nerves..."Mamma, I want to learn the words of 'Purano Sei Diner Kotha'..." (a famous Rabindrasangeet)

Sigh! I guess I can live a little with 'Veil of Fire', 'Booyaka', Andrew Llloyd Webber and Rabindranth Tagore co-existing peacefully, side by side.