Boys Will Be Boys and Thus Give Their Moms Heart Attacks

Children. They're supposed to keep one young.

At least that's what I'd heard.

Mine seen hell-bent on running me old and ragged.

Once again, due to the antics of a certain almost-eight-year-old, I have aged considerably over the past few hours.

Well, to be fair, it wasn't really his fault. It happened at school and it was a total accident. He was watching a Beyblade match when his cousin ran over, wanting to show him something and excitedly yanked him by the collar. My boy tripped over the tangle of feet underfoot, tried to maintain balance, failed and smacked his forehead on the cement flooring -- leaving a big, deep gash half-an-inch above his eye.

The Nephew was absolutely horrified and traumatised. It was SIL's day to pick up the boys and by the time she went, she found her nephew missing and her son an incoherent, blubbering mess who just kept repeating his cousin's name and showing his mother his bloody handkerchief with which he had tried to mop up the blood.

She called me from the car and I fell off my chair. I called the MIM and he rushed home. We waited for the SIL's call to tell us she was close to the hospital near our home and we rushed there.

It was the Nephew who was a mess; the poor boy's face was red and his eyes were swollen from crying non-stop. And the EO? What can I say? He was a trooper. Still jabbering away, nineteen-to-the-dozen, giving us a full action replay as to what happened along with running commentary. When he heard that he needed stitches, well, that's when the cookie crumbled. Having been the recipient of four stitches on the sole of his foot a couple of years ago, he absolutely had no desire to go through the experience again. I didn't either, of course.

But, go through it he did. There were tears and screams while half his eyebrow was being shaved off, while the anasthesia was being injected around the wound and of course when he got a glimpse of the curved needle and thread. But when the actual stitching started and he realised that he couldn't feel a thing, he was back to his normal, chatty self.

Sigh. He's been in perfectly good humour since he's come back. He's enjoying the attention and the cuddles. He's fast asleep now and I've promised to bring him into my bed tonight.

He's fast asleep.

Me. I'm greyer and wrinklier than I woke up this morning.

One would think...

that after the hell that I've already been through this year, that I was done for the time being. That I've had more than my fair share of hospitals.

One would think wrong.

Every evening, the EO, YO, the Nephew and the Niece go downstairs to play, accompanied by their very watchful ayahs and household help. Often friends send their kids over. Occasionally the SIL, FIL and I check up on them whenever decibel levels reach the third and forth floors of our building. Mostly there are screams of joy, but occasionally there are those of frustration and pain as well.

Now my YO has an extremely high threshold of pain. Whenever he falls and hurts himself or cuts himself or scrapes his knee, he just picks himself up, dusts himself down and joins the fray once again.

But not this Wednesday, 3rd March. In a rather stupid and aggressive game of cops and robbers, my little boy was pushed off his cycle. He landed with full force on the back of his head and the cycle came crashing down on his forehead.

He just lay there whimpering and in pain, asking over and over for me. When he came to me, he was still whimpering and just couldn't sit up. He was yawning continuously and kept saying that he wanted to go to sleep. I recognised the danger and called the MIM who was luckily in office and therefore just five minutes away from home. We started off for the hospital where the boys' paediatrician sits, in that evening traffic. When he started vomiting in the car, I lost it and said to hell with the hospital and we turned the car around to go to the emergency room of a hospital nearby (where both our sons were born actually). The Emergency doctor had a look at him and said that we required a paediatric neurologist and helpfully gave us the name and number of somebody he knew. In the meanwhile, the YO's paediatrician told us to move to another hospital, also thankfully really nearby and to get him checked out.

To cut a long story short, there were more episodes of vomiting, a CT scan, admission procedures to take care of, a channel being put into a frightened little boy's hand to administer the drip and subsequent injections and the most frightening four hours of my life.

We came back home this morning and I am beyond thrilled to say that my son is fine. According to the docs, it was "a massive concussion. The impact of the fall shook his brain." We still need to be careful and he still needs bed-rest for the next 48 hours (like that's gonna happen!), but he's his normal jumping-bean-self and for that I am truly, TRULY grateful.

But those four hours, when he was drowsy, couldn't lift his head and was vomiting...I spent in hell.

My YO is incredibly brave. He's my courageous little tiger cub and I am so very proud to be him Mamma. After those four initial hours, when his normal temperament started to surface, I saw no trace of pain, anger, frustration, no incessant whining and crying...yes, he did want his father and brother, and he did want to go home, but those moments did not leave me tearing out my hair in great, big handfuls. He was so easy to manage, a delight to be with and chatty with everybody.

But, I never want to go through that again.

Somebody, please say that I'm done for the year. I don't think I have an ounce of strength left in me...

M4 needs...

prayers and an endless stream of positive energy. Above all she needs faith. And HOPE.

For she is floundering.

Please. PLEASE help...

They said...

...that it's obstructive jaundice, caused by a blockage in the bile duct, which therefore causes bile build-up.

He'd been looking sick for a while now. It was as if he was shrinking in front of my very eyes. It's so difficult to watch your parents age. It's even more difficult to finally acknowledge that fact to yourself.

Now the blockage can be caused by either a stone or a tumour. 95% of the time it's a stone.

My father is not in the 95%.

Are You Frikkin' Kidding Me?!?!?!?!?!

WARNING: The following post is about something I read in the papers today that left me sick and shaking with rage for almost the whole day. It may do the same to you. So why am I writing about it? Because we all have children whom we love and would do anything to protect. Because I think that we have a responsibility to each other and we need to let each other know what kind of sick crap there is out there, ready to corrupt our angels, our innocents.

I read with absolute HORROR, in fact 'horror' doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling, about this video game created in Japan called RapeLay...a 3D 'rape simulator' video game where one gets to pretend to be a sexual predator and test out his 'raping skills' on a mom and her two teenage daughters!!!!!!


It has been banned in Japan...thankfully! It has, unfortunately, found its way into India.


One more reason why I will NOT be apologetic about monitoring all my sons' activities as they grow up. And I don't need any bull-crap statements about violating my children's privacy and if I have faith in the way I've brought them up, then I shouldn't worry about them getting into bad company or doing bad things.


The thing is, I do have faith in the way the MIM and I are bringing up our boys. I do believe in, strongly, the morals and values that we are trying to impart to them with every constant moment of living. But what freaks the shittin' daylights out of me is that the world is full of bad people, freaks, paedophiles and wackos who think it's okay to create a video game where you can rape a woman and her daughters repeatedly until you break them to the point where they are willing to become your sex slaves.

The world is full of predators of various kinds who are ready to kill our children's innocence, corrupt them any chance they get. It is our responsibility, duty and right to protect our children any way we deem fit.

What a shitty world.

God. I am so scared.

I'm still here...

but crumbling away inside, bit by excrutiating bit.

Have so much to say, don't feel like saying it.

Is this what dying feels like then?

When the heart is heavy...

is there anything more beautiful or soothing than Rabindrasangeet to comfort it?

DaddyDearest hasn't been too well the past almost one week. Chest infection. Now that's come slightly under control, but his pressure is through the roof.

Am trying not to worry, but it's not easy.

The Belan Brigade

When I first heard about the Mangalore pub incident, I was outraged. I wanted to pull someone's hair out, slap some perv faces and basically have the shit beaten out of the hoodlums. I'm sorry, but that is how I feel.

I get very militant when I hear about these kinds of injustices meted out...especially to the 'weaker sex'. I want to scream, lash out, morph into Jhansi ki Rani or Devi Chaudhrani and attack the scumbags.

When the Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women first came into existence, I yelled out a 'Hallelujah!' and joined with great gusto. I am a proud sister and am glad I'm part of this motley crew of creative, intelligent women (and yes, some men too, I believe!)

Then, they came out with the brilliant Pink Chaddi Campaign. With a war cry, I signed up. I thought the campaign was cute, cheeky, creative and oh-so-unique. I still do. But, at the same time, and over the past 48-hours more than ever, I feel that it is not enough.

Mystic Margarita and Emancipation of Eve's JB have put into words, brilliantly, my other feelings about this campaign.

Like Mystic, I am wondering about whether these illiterate dolts will get the sarcasm and spirit of our message? Will they wither at our outrage? Will they change their worthless ways? And most importantly, will they care?

I'm afraid not. They have already started collecting saris as a counter-attack. They are using our underwear as fuel for thier hateful fire and ire and using it to show their supporters that we are the cause for the morality spiralling downwards in this country.

And I love the points JB has raised as well. We have to fight back. We can not let them squeeze our breasts and 'get off', all in the name of protecting 'our' culture. 'Our' culture talks of protecting women, their freedom, their dignity, their femininity. We can not let them tear at our clothes and maul us, saying that they are doing it for the good of Bharat Mata. It is a symbolic rape of the daughters of the very Mata you are trying to keep chaste.

On the day of the pub-bharo andolan, I think along with our pink chaddis and Scotch on the Rocks, we should turn ourselves into a 'Belan Brigade' and arm ourselves with belans. Symbolic weapons of protest and protection. You so much as point a finger in our direction, I will break said bloody finger, even the whole hand, in self-defence.

To all my sisters ready for battle in the upcoming pubcrawls, remember ours is an act of defiance. But these goons have already shown that they will not think even once before slapping a woman or pulling her by her hair. Protect yourself and others too.

I raise a toast to you, your bravery and your wicked sense of humour! I will be with you in spirit, hopefully in some bar/pub in Kolkata, drinking my share of the bubbly and saying a prayer for your safety and the success of the campaign. May it be peaceful, may it be overwhelming, may it be successful!

CHEERS!

Maa Saraswati's Blessings

Today was Saraswati Puja. A puja for the children, by the children. A day where the cheerful 'basonti rong' (the only equivalent that I can think of is 'smiley yellow') is worn without fail (hehe, there's just something so wrong about the words 'fail' and 'Saraswati Puja' on the same day!). A reminder that winter is fading and spring is buddingly close.

Childhood memories of generations of Bengali boys and girls, whether in Bengal, Bangalore or the Bahamas, are absolutely incomplete without recollections of this lovely puja. The red-bordered yellow saris; the fruits, especially the 'kul'; putting school books and pens near the feet of the Goddess and watching those piles of books get higher with every passing year; for the musically inclined or at least those learning some form of song/dance/music, the appropriate books/instruments and ghungroos would also find place near Her feet; the yummy kichidi and other veggie delights; the evening addas and sessions of singing and other cultural programs. Yes, there are many happy reminiscences attached to this Holy Day.

And today, was Saraswati Puja. It also happened to be the day the school list came out. Which list? The one where the names of the students who have been granted admission in 'the BIG School' is put out. The Nephew got in and the SIL and BIL-ly Boy couldn't be more ecstatic. They'd been working towards it ever since the boy was born! I kid you not! Not to mention the endless appeals and entreaties to the heavens above. But good for the Nephew, he did it. He'd been prepping for it for the past two years. And good for his parents. It's a thrilling feeling to get something that you've been praying for incessantly.

And my EO got in too.

Sigh. What a dilemma. I thought we were absolutely clear that even if the EO got in, he would continue where he was. The MIM even declared it after the EO's concert, because he was so-happy-and-proud-he-could-burst-into-song-tears-and-like-a-balloon. He felt his son was in the best of hands, in the right environment and that he was being nurtured the way a child of five should be.

But apparently, last night he began having doubts, and so when the call came at 6.45 from the school from his brother, saying that both the boys had got in, he nearly whooped in excitement. Then he got all sombre and said, "What should we do?"

Sigh. I was so afraid that this was going to happen. That his resolve would crumble. That he'd start to sway. That the pull of the alma mater would reel him in. That he'd succumb to peer pressure, patriarchal dictate and public opinion.

Well, to cut a long story short, we've decided to put him into the Big School. And I am so scared. So shit scared that each time I start thinking about it, I start trembling.

It's a good school, no doubt, one that needs no introduction, but it's one of those stuffy, old schools that haven't moved with the times.
There's a lot of heritage and tradition attached, but there is no touch of modernity. They don't mix the old with the new, they prefer to stick to the attitudes of yore; be it in their approach to education, be it in their approach to discipline.
The school makes you a part of history, you live the history, but in the school he's in right now, he would have been creating history, making history.
The school grooms fine young men, but they don't nurture the little boys that walk in wide-eyed, scared, innocent and vulnerable.

And it is this last bit that has me crapping watermelons, bricks and cement mixers.

My beautiful boy, with eyes that see beyond the ordinary; with a spirit that is as fresh as mountain water; with a heart that is a white dove; with a sensitivity that makes my soul weep...what will happen to him? Will they see the beauty of his spirit, the charm of his innocence, and feel the all-encompassing love of his sensitive soul and nurture it? Allow it to thrive?

The way his present school does?

I'm so afraid.

And yet, I'm allowing myself to be a part of this decision to change schools and put him in. To harden him and prepare him for the world. To teach him to fight his own battles. To learn that tears are meant for the privacy of your pillow. To be trained to survive.

And consequently, I will have to learn many things as well. I will have to learn to let go. I will have to learn to not wipe his tears anymore. I will have to learn to stand by and watch him fight his own battles. And the most important lesson of all, is that I will have to learn to harden my heart as I watch the school harden him.

I just hope it doesn't break him.

I'm so afraid.

And yet, this news comes on Saraswati Puja. A day where we celebrate the Goddess of learning and music. A day where education, be it of the bookish kind or the artistic kind, is elevated to a divine principle. A day where students pray for wisdom and learning. A day where they seek Her blessings in fervent hope that they can shine in school or their chosen field of passion...music, song, dance or art. A day where we can't thank Her enough for bestowing upon us the very fact that we were fortunate enough to receive a good education that has brought us to where we are today.

Maybe She's trying to tell me something? Maybe this is all part of Her divine plan? Maybe this is Her will?

Maybe, I should trust Her a little bit more.

And so I am. Maa Saraswati, I am putting all my faith in You. I know You won't let me down.

But in the spirit of truth, I will always think that the school he is in right now, is the better one.

Maybe, Your blessings will eventually prove me wrong.

I hope.

I pray.

A Giant Leap...Backwards!

What the hell has been happenng while we were away? We didn't get newspapers in our room and we didn't have time to watch the news and this is what I come back to? Aishwarya Rai getting the Padma Shri? And women being dragged by their hair by cavemen? WTF?!?!!!

There's much I need to write about the holiday, of course, but in all good consciousness I couldn't start writing about my pleasure trip when the affairs of the country are in such a mess and I have an opportunity to lend my voice and do something.

So here's a link regarding the atrocities that were carried out in Mangalore. Take a stand, raise your voice, sign the petition...PLEASE!!!
http://www.rediff.com/getahead/2009/jan/27petition.htm

Someone Stop the Man, Already!

Sanjay Dutt wants to be a minister? He wants people to vote for him?

The same Sanjay Dutt who abandoned his first wife as she battled and lost her life to cancer? The same Sanjay Dutt who left his daughter behind to watch her mother succumb to the dreaded disease? The same Sanjay Dutt who couldn't practise or even believe in the concept of monogamy...from a jail cell??!!?? The same Sanjay Dutt who was convicted of a crime AGAINST the nation? The same Sanjay Dutt who's turned his back now on two very loving sisters who were in it through thick and thin with him?

That Sanjay Dutt? A minister?

Hell no!! HEEELLLLL NOOOOOO!!

I am sputtering and stuttering with outrage. Read the coherent and well-written thoughts of this Goofy Mumma's post to drop your jaw at the sheer ludicrousness of it all.

The more these things happen, the more I feel that democracy is a joke in our country.

Shame.

SHAME!

As***le Terrorists! I Hate You More Than Ever!

My two boys are busy hugging and kissing each other as I write this. The Nephew joins them. There's a funny love-fest going on with lots of raspberries being blown on each others tummies, endless hugs and the sound of musical laughter...

And my vision is blurred. The tears have come of their own accord at this sight that has been played out before my eyes millions of times before. But today, in this atmosphere of bloodshed and unrest, it just punches my heart in a very different way.

My precious loves! What kind of world have we brought you into?

Mumbai Meri Jaan

I'm a Bangalore girl, through and through. But I have strong bits of New York, Kolkata, Delhi and Mumbai in me too. And I am just crazy in love with Mumbai.

And right now, my beloved Mumbai is bleeding. I know that I am not the only one weeping tears of blood.

My prayers go out to all the Mumbaikers now. My prayers for peace are passe. They are now for sanity to prevail...

Oh boy! My boy!

Seems like I'm not the only one 'brooding' and 'upset' (for lack of much better words...and also, am too tired to think of any) about my cherubs growing up.

Around five or six days ago, my EO suddenly told me, totally out of the blue, that he wanted another baby brother or sister. I laughed it off and thought that it was just one of those darndest things that kids say.

A day later, he very seriously told me that he didn't want his baby brother to grow up any more because he wouldn't be cute anymore. He even mentioned something about not wanting his brother to have a beard when he'd be older and that only would have one. He then went to the YO, took his face in his hands and told me, while looking intently into this little brother's face, "Oor ei sweet mukhtaa change hoye jaabey." (This sweet face of his will change). I smiled it off as content for a blog post.

But, he said this again. And again.

And suddenly today, he dissolved into a pool of tears and held on to me while sobbing his little heart out, "Oor mukhtaa aar mishti thaakbey naa! Change hoyey jaabey! Change hoyey jaabey!" (His face won't stay sweet! It'll change! It'll change!)

And for an entire half-an hour, my little boy sobbed. Another fear of his came tumbling out. That of me, his Mamma, growing old and dying. I reassured him that I wasn't going anywhere and that I wasn't old yet. But he wouldn't be consoled. Especially about his little brother growing up.

I held him close to my heart and tried talking to him, reasoning with him, putting things in a different perspective. For example, I said, "You're a big boy of five now and you haven't changed. Your face is still sweet." He replied that his face had changed. That he didn't look the same anymore.

He looked at me and heart-brokenly asked me that if his little brother were to grow up, how would he ever see that sweet face of his again? I told him by looking through snaps and watching videos. That wasn't good enough for him. "Those aren't real!", he sobbed.

And I let him. Maybe he needed to have a cry. Maybe he needed to be held by me. I've been so busy with this project of mine that I haven't really been available to him these last few days. I know he was 'missing' me. For even though I was at home, in front of their eyes all the time, I was never really 'with' them. I was too bloody wrapped up in my work.

But that particular job is finally over as of last night. And I've learnt my lesson. I can't afford to take projects like this anymore in the future which will keep me away from my two most precious creatures. They are why I never went back to my job in the first place. They are why I said 'Goodbye' to the corporate world, which I loved being a part of by the way, when I got pregnant. They are the reason I want to stay at home. But what's the point in my being home if I'm not really there. That's not really 'being' at home for them.

I keep talking about how sensitive my EO is. About how much I worry about him. It's a harsh, cruel world and it's going to break his heart over and over again. What do I do? How can I stand by and just watch it happen?

I don't know what to do.

Except to let him know that I am there. To stand by him. To hold him.

Right now, all I can do, is hold his little body, cradle it in in my arm and let him have a good cry.
Right now, I am smeared in baby boy love and tears.
Right now, I change myself to be a balm to his pain.
Right now, I allow myself to wonder at a sensitivity so pure and beautiful that it leaves me breathless every time.
Right now, I wonder if his EQ is far beyond his years.
Right now, I just pour all my love into this hug and let it flow from my very insides so that it can envelop him and leave him in no doubt about my emotions, my intensity.
Right now, I just squeeze him a little harder and love him a little bit more.

I'll deal with my aching heart later.

Greedy Glutton Am I

I often crave a third child. Very often. Sometimes it's just a nice, pleasant fantasy that finds expression in a silly smile and a far-away look in my eyes. And at other times, it's a burning hunger that eats away at me in tiny bits and bites.

And it's not just because I so desperately want a girl. Yes, there is that. There's always that. But it's more because my little ones are growing into big ones. They're still innocent and adorable, but for how much longer?

How much longer can I shield them before the 'Real World ' treads upon their space and sucks them in? How much longer will that lovely laughter, that rings pure and free and unbridled; that's music to my soul; that makes me misty-eyed whenever I hear it; how much longer before it turns into controlled haha's? How much longer before the innocence that makes their perfect faces bloom with beauty and purity, fades, leaving behind imprints of street-smart, worldly-wise looks of "I-know-it-and-suffer-it-all"?

My EO's sensitivity fills my heart with a love so fierce, I can physically feel it, and it hurts. It feels like Shah Rukh Khan knocking the wind out of Saif Ali Khan's sails. And the YO's absolute joie de vivre has my heart bursting with joy like a display of fireworks in the 4th of July sky. The intensity of my love flares up, brightens, making me exclaim out loud in wonder. And then, just as suddenly my love and joy vanish, leaving me sad and a little "So that's it?" Because all this awe and marvelling, suddenly turn to fear as I am faced with the prospect of losing the brightness and beauty of my sons' childhoods.

I watch them take their steps towards tomorrow with pride. But there's so much sadness in that pride as well. It's such a delight watching them grow, but why the f*** is it so bloody hard as well? They're so eager to grow big and leave their toddlerhood and childhood behind. But I'm not. And, answer me this...will I ever be?

I want a third child because I am greedy. I want my life to be surrounded by innocence, purity, beauty and joy. And nothing embodies all these qualities more exquisitely than a child. Well, there's music, but that's a distant second (and this is an absolute music-buff who's saying so). But a baby, a toddler, a child...oh! Just thinking about one sends tingles of delight and happiness all over my body.

And there you have it. The honest truth. I want another baby. For selfish reasons. I want another baby because I hate that my babies are babies no more. I want another baby because I need to fill the gaps and missing spaces. I want another baby because I don't want the delights to ever end. I want another baby because I'm not ready to start missing their countless "I love you's" and sloppy kisses and no-reason-at-all-but-just-like-that hugs that come in a never-ending supply. I want another baby BECAUSE I simply do.

So excuse me folks, while I try to convince my husband to knock me up once again...

Or maybe it's just time I started taking piano lessons.

What Will I Ever Do????

My EO is five. A big boy, yet eminently huggable.
My YO is two. He's growing up, yet he's scrumtiously addorable.

Sigh..............

Whatever will I do when the huggableness and adorability factor are gone?

The 'Great' School Debate

The MIM's alma mater's admission process is slated to start soon and the whole world, his wife, second cousin once removed and her transsexual neighbour are all waiting with bated breath to see what I do.

Sigh. I still don't know, but I just might go MIA for a while and take a nice, relaxing break in a mental asylum somewhere. Any suggestions?

My dilemma, you ask? Let me begin from ABC...that's where Maria-before-she-was-von-Trapp would have started.

When the Bro and I moved to Beantown from the US of A, we both went to different schools. They were both new. In fact, coincidentally, we both happened to be the third batch to pass out from our respective schools. Now, Beantown was an absolutely new palce for Maa-Janoni and she didn't know any better. She relied on the research done willingly and helpfully by my Choto Mesho. As we got to know people, and after introductions were exchanged and people found out which schools the Bro and I studied in, the reactions would either be (a) "Huh? Never heard of it!", or (b) "Why?!? Why not try for an RST or an FGH or an XYZ? I'm sure your children still have a chance!" The RST, FGH and XYZ being the 'old', established, century old, once-upon-a-time British institutions that wouldn't have allowed brown-skinned kids like us to walk in through the front gate. Maa-Janoni stuck to her guns and now she has the last laugh as both these schools are two of the most sought-after in good ol' B'lore now. I then went on to study in one of those stuffy, ex-Anglo-now-CSI-run schools, simply because I wanted the experience. There are pros and cons to be said for both. And I know first hand.

But the thing is, because my mum trusted her judgement and let us continue where we were, did the Bro and I turn out the worse for wear? If anything, I think the Bro and I got a superb education. One of the biggest things a new school has going for it is that it tries harder. They are more sincere, use newly researched methodolgy where education is concerned, pay individual attention to the students and there always seems to be a sense of brightness and purpose radiating from the walls.

And now, years down the path, I am the one faced with the same dilemma that Maa-Janoni was faced with all those many, many, oh-too-very-many moons ago. The MIM's ex (as in school people! I mean really! ;p) or the present school where the EO already studies?

The new school has so many things going for it, brightness and spanking new walls aside ;p ...the biggest being that the EO is well-settled and just loves it! I quite love it myself, even though it's not 100% perfect, but 94% ain't bad, right? So do I take him out, put him through the trauma of settling in all over again and risk the fact that he just might hate it there?

But what if he eventually falls in love with it? Do I let him miss out on the prestige of being a part of a pedigreed, heritage school? Many in-laws and Kolkata-born-bred-raised-and-mated friends look at me as if there's even a choice in the matter. For many Calcuttans, as far as schools and schools of thought and go -- Old is Gold.

And so, the great debate rages on. I had round number 584 with a friend yesterday, and an early morning bout with His Majesty, the FIL.

I think it's safe to say that I'm almost brow-beaten to within 15 inches of my life. And forms haven't even been issued yet...

Love Fights

Often I worry about the kind of relationship the Man I Married and I will share with our boys when they grow up. Based on our own ties with our parents.

The MIM and his dad are crazy about each other, absolutely, totally, no-bones-about-it crazy. Yet the verbal duels they have make the foundations of the entire apartment building quiver and shake, and the whole household cringe!

Maa-Janoni and I share, what can be termed as, a difficult relationship. We fight, say mean things, she often sends me on guilt-trips to the Land of Shame (yes! even at this age) and we stop speaking to each other, which just ends up prolonging my stay at above-mentioned Land. And yet, when it comes to parents, I have often said, that Daddy Dearest is my weakness while Maa-Janoni is my strength! Go figure!

And the MIM and I have brought these two distinct war styles into our marriage as well. He has a sharp, double-sided razor-edged, acid coated tongue while I have a map for the Land of Shame and an endless supply of one-way tickets with his name on them.

Why do these things have to be so difficult! Why can't it start and stop with loving each other and accepting each other warts, snorts, faults, snores, disgusting habits and all? I have often found that we are so forgiving of our friends...why not with our parents and spouse?

And when our children grow up, what earthquakes and heartaches can I expect then? A mother's soul is always forgiving, they say. Yet, sometimes when I reflect upon my own bad behaviour, the Bro's or the MIM's, I worry. When I see the stubbornness and uncompromising will of the Parents (my two, his two!), I shudder.

My boys are growing up. And along with all the joys come the fears as well.

A Flight No More

The EO was sitting at the dining table at my moms', enjoying a sumptuous weekend breakfast replete with all his favourite goodies...double-dimer omlette stuffed with cheese, hot buttery toast and chicken sausages. Chewing on his food, head resting against the back-rest of the chair, his eyes were sweeping over all the sights outside the window. I was sitting in such a manner, that the curtains were blocking my view of the great outdoors. I was looking at my beloved son's face, watching the way his eyes took everything in and wondering what was going on in that head of his.

As if responding to my silent thoughts, he suddenly exclaimed, "Mamma! One crow is taking one kite! O o'r bachchader jonno niye jachchey." (He's taking it home for his children!)

As always I was taken aback and so surprised at where his thought process had led him. His sweet, sensitive mind took the image he saw and painted a picture of family bonding...a recurring theme in his stories and something that he so cherishes.

I got up and stood beside him to get an eyeful. Unfortunately, the sight that met my eyes was one of absolute horror. It was a poor crow that had gotten itself entangled in the tattered remains of a kite and it's string, desperately trying to free itself. It was struggling and must have been doing so for a long, long while because already its' strength was failing and I could tellb that it was tired beyond belief. There was no way I could reach it and save it. I averted my eyes and didn't say a word.

The EO was soon distracted by something else that claimed his ever-wandering attention but I couldn't get the image out of my mind. I also kept thinking, about how we shield our children from the uncomfortable and disconcerting truths of life. I obviously did the right thing today in not pointing out the reality of the dying crow's plight to my innocent little kindergartener, but when should we break free of the Gautama-Buddha syndrome?

How long do we shield them? When is it the right time to talk about death and mortality? About sex? About 'good touch' and 'bad touch'? About the fact that the world is not always fair and pretty?

And how do we talk about it? How can we allow the innocence to fade from their eyes? How can we be an accomplice to it?

My son didn't know that neither that kite, nor that crow would ever take flight again. And I'm keeping it that way. Because for the time being, I want his innocence and childish imagination to soar...for just that little while longer.

Of Sense and Sensitivity

The EO is a sensitive boy. So sensitive he makes me cry. So sensitive that he makes me worry. So sensitive, that I stay up nights worrying about his survival in this cruel, cruel world.

When he first joined Montessori, he was just 2y and 1m old. The first week, the moms had to accompany their ‘babies’ and stay in class with them, to ease them in. The actual class had been divided into three different time slots, so that the first-timers could get the hang of the routine without too much of a crowd being around. I thought it was a brilliant idea. It was only for an hour and a half, and after the games, the songs, the puppet shows and tiffin break, class was over. The teachers (three per class and all of them PYTs), got down on their knees and said ‘Huggy time!’ Some kids hung back looking uncertain and ready to cry, some shuffled up shyly and some zoomed in at full speed! Yes, my EO was one of the zoomers. However, he didn’t stop there. With arms still outstretched, he turned to all of the mommies, squatting precariously on the six-inch high benches and approached each of them for a hug! To say they were zapped is of course an understatement, their eyes wide with a “What the..?” kind of a sentiment. But of course they all obliged, how could they not? Here’s this adorable boy with curls flopping onto his forehead and his big, chocolate coloured eyes full of love, offering a hug…just like that, no strings attached. Who could resist? The EO made sure he gave all the mommies a hug and didn’t miss out on anyone, finally stopping with me, his very own Mamma. I held him the closest and the longest, my whole body filled with light. At that moment, I could actually feel my heart cry a few tears, having witnessed the beautiful sight of a child’s innocence, sensitivity and love.

A few weeks ago, he was spending the night at my mom’s. I was out with my YO and the Man I Married had gone home early and was relaxing in bed. MIM called our EO to chat with him and our son asked his father what he was doing.
MIM: I’m lying down in bed.
EO: Where’s Mamma?
MIM: She’s gone out with your brother.
EO: You mean you’re all alone? Please go to your father right now!
How sensitive and perceptive for a not-yet-five-year-old to feel his beloved father’s 'aloneness’ and to try and remedy it! I walked in around ten-fifteen minutes later. MIM told me about the conversation. I was touched. I called up my EO to tell him that I’d come home, that I loved him and to say ‘Good night’. Before I could get a word in edge-wise, he started to scold me and said, “Mamma, please go home RIGHT NOW! Baba’s all alone.” After I reassured him that I was back home, we exchanged ‘good nights’ and ‘I love yous’ and I put down the phone, wondering where he gets this streak of innate sensitivity and goodness from? And more importantly, just how blessed am I?

These are just a two of a whole bunch of memories that I cherish. And they continuously serve to remind me how sensitive my EO is. My boy loves looking through albums at my mom's place. Each photograph comes attached with a story that Maa-Janoni is never too tired to tell, no matter how many times he may have heard it before. My boy frets, worries and cries whenever a loved one falls ill. If a classmate is being scolded, he rushes to his/her defence and if a friend is hurt and crying, he'll do everything in his power to make him/her feel better.

He's a friendly little chatterbox, my EO. Can't sit quiet for a minute. He makes friends wherever he goes, age, sex, class no bar. I can see people fall in love with him all the time. It's impossible not to respond to his eager eyes, open smile and delightful innocence. But, there are often times when children older than him, big boys of between the ages of seven to twelve, ignore him. I can see the hurt in his eyes and way his shoulders droop at the pain of having faced rejection. He either stares after them longingly, wanting to be included in their 'big boy games and chatter' and not understanding why he can't. Sometimes he runs back to me and buries his face into me, trying bravely not to cry. It takes every ounce of will-power to not get up and give those boys a piece of my mind.

But sometimes, I can't help but intervene. Like recently, when he was trying to make friends with a six-year-old boy in his karate class. The EO asked him twice, "What's your name?" The boy pointedly ignored him and all this is happening in front of me. The third time my son asked, he was rewarded for his troubles with a kick in the chest! Something in me snapped and I yelled at the boy, "How dare you? How dare you kick a boy who's younger than you and who was only trying to make friends with you? Haven't you been taught any manners?" The boy didn't even have the the grace to look shame-faced or say sorry. He just shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Was I right to lose my cool? Could I have handled the situation better? I don't know. You tell me. But there was something so heartbreaking about the scene.

Which brings me back to my fear. How will my beautifully sensitive boy survive? Lately, the world has become full of ugliness and pettiness. Bullies rule, corruption and lies build the foundation of governments and there is no sense of fair-play anymore. Acts of charity and goodness go uncelebrated and people are so busy running after crores, that we don't value what's truly important anymore. So how do I shield him and his younger brother from it all? Or should I?

What do I teach them when they're getting hit or smacked around by other boys their age? Not to turn the other cheek, because I don't believe in that, but should they complain to an authority figure or learn to give back as good as they get?

Tell me, tell me how I should do this without jading their world view? For how long do I help them hold onto their innocence? And most importantly, how do I keep his sensitivity intact?

Tell me all you good people out there, am I making sense?