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.
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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!
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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.

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.

Frogs and Snails

He stood there in front of me. My seven-year-old son in a pair of worn-out, once-upon-a-time white Crocs, three-quarter pants, an oldish yet very comfy-looking t-shirt, a huge smile on his face revealing an over-sized front tooth next to a gap where it's partner should've been, and a huge bandage above his left eye, shielding his three stitches from the dirt, dust and grime of the world. In his hands, was my iPod; in his ears, were the head-phones.

He was giving me that huge, disarming smile of his because he'd just noticed me standing and watching him jump about while loudly and discordantly singing Jon Bon Jovi's "Shot Through the Heart."

He was the very picture of a boy.

Frogs and snails, indeed.

It's,

frogs and snails

and bruises and stitches.

It's

puppy dog tails

and insects and itches.

It's

dirty hands

and skinned knees.

It's

messed-up paintings

and the summer breeze.

It's

those pretend-to-be-brave voices

in the middle of the night.

It's

those cuddles and snuggles

as you're calming away a fright.

It's

those lullabys they ask for,

those cookies they beg for;

those stories they wait for,

those goodies they crave for.

It's

those gap-toothed smiles

and those sparkly, bright eyes --
equivalent to
the cherry on top of the cake.

It's

when those faces crumble
and those tears flow like rivers,
that you can physically
feel your poor heart break.

It's

lots of lovin' and huggin'

and sticky kisses galore.

It's

these things that make their mamma's hearts

greedy for more.

Little Boys Love Their Mammas

Totally let down by a movie that I had gargantuan expectations from and reeling from a sudden and totally unexpected fight that escalated to a barrage of rude SMSes, I felt the picture of depression. I must have looked it too, with my drooped shoulders, smarting eyes and hunched back.

I walked in, looking like this, to a room filled with 'strange' women. My MIL was having a meeting of her ladies' association at home. I knew, of course, since she had asked me if I would please make the dessert. In fact, I was rushing home to put the finishing touches on it, but I didn't count on them already being there.

Before I could straighten myself up, shake the blues off, put on a mask and a fake smile, something happened that drenched my insides and left me a gooey pile of love.

My little one, screaming "MAMMA! MAMMA! MAMMMMMAAAAA!!!" appeared out of thin air and faster than Superman came hurtling towards me, throwing himself at me and wrapping his arms around my legs, his face looking straight into my face, his eyes shining with that heart-melting mixture of love and happiness. Not once caring that he had an audience, he held on tightly and wouldn't let go. Of course, since the audience was comprised of women in the Grandmother Zone, they all melted into a pool of mush.

The tight, (teddy) bear hug probably lasted for ten-fisteen seconds and as soon as he got my big, slurpy kisses, he was gone as quick as he came, like a flash of lightening.

A few seconds, that's all it was, but the consequence of those few moments was so blissful, so uplifting, so rejuvenating.

It's this love of this little boy for his mamma, that keeps me going.

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.

Just One of Those Days

It was already turning out to be one of those days.

Again.

At 8.30 in the morning!

Damn!

Meltdowns should really come scheduled and never so early in the morning...or in a public space...or when one was headed out...or before bedtime...or ever, really!

The little boy stood his ground, engaging his mother in a staring match. He was a little bull. But she was his mother after all. He could have been a big, raging bull on a rampage, but that wouldn't change the fact that she was big mamma. Her bovinity trumped his bullishness any day!

The four-year-old mite had an opinion on everything and strong ones at that; be it clothes, food, toys and even TV shows, he had a strong set of likes and dislikes. Today, he wanted to take his other bag to school; the yellow one. It wasn't even his, literally speaking; it was a hand-me-down from his elder brother, that's why when he'd started school, Mamma wanted him to have a new one. But this morning, the little boy had decided that he'd been carrying Mon. Lightening McQueen for long enough, and it was now Master Mickey Mouse's turn. Plus, it was a bright, sunshiney, yellow -- his most favourite colour of all! Didn't his Mamma get that?

His Mamma lovingly pointed out that the chain was broken and needed to be fixed. If he took that, his water bottle, tiffin box and napkin would all fall out. Didn't her little boy get that?

When he continued to stand his ground, she tried a different track -- all his friends would laugh at him. Nope, that didn't seem to dint his innate sense of self-confidence either. "So what?" his eyes challenged her. "You're not taking it!", she glared back.

Sigh! Terrible Twos and Threes is what anybody ever talked or wrote about. They were absolutely no bloody match for the Furious Fours!!

By this time, the night ayah and the day ayah decided to join in Operation Logical Might. The morning didi showed him over and over again that the chain just wasn't working. He got that, but he didn't care. The night didi said she would take it home with her now, get it fixed and bring it back with her that very evening. But he wanted to take it to school NOW! He looked at these three women, perplexed and a little angry, didn't they understand anything??

Finally, Mamma's patience, having been stretched to it's very possible end, snapped and she gave him his marching orders. He was to put on his Lightening McQueen schoolbag, march down the steps, go give his Baba a kissie and leave for school; with a smile if possible, if not, well then just leave anyway.

He marched down the steps. Sobbing his little heart out. If there was one person in the whole world who would melt at his sobs and shivers, it was his darling dad; a man he had so tightly wound around his little finger that all he had to do was raise his wail to a C sharp and it would transform his father into a snarling, growling beast ready to mow down anyone who had dared do his precious cub wrong.

Papa Lion immediately roared for Mamma Lion and she came down, pinned Papa Lion with a glare and explained the situation, then she wearily sat down at the breakfast table and picked up a newspaper, hoping that the headlines would be less frustrating than the battle royale being played out on her domestic front.

The little boy waited for daddy darling to order someone to go and get the bag from upstairs, but this time, even daddy darling spoke the language of the three thick-headed women. That same old spiel about the chain not working. He wailed harder, but daddy didn't budge; instead, he grew more firm and fixed him with a I-know-better-than-you-so-stop-crying look.

By now, his grandmother, who was sitting and having breakfast and watching the entire drama unfold, finally went to pieces and gathered her cherished cherub to her breast and tried to calm him down. With soothing words and dulcet tones, she also tried to make him see reason. From the safe haven of his grandmother's arm, the little brat continued to give his mother the stink eye. Next, the chacha came out of his room, picked up the little boy and tried to distract him with hugs, cuddles and kisses.

The night ayah came downstairs to say 'bye' to the brat and she even showed him the plastic bag in which she was carrying the offending piece that had generated so much heat, tears and tantrums, with the promise that it was going to come back all fixed and in working condition. By now, the chachi had come out to take him to school, where she happened to teach. She gave him a big squeeze, dried his tears and proceeded to walk with him towards the door. They were followed by a chorus of "Bye! I love you's" and "Have a nice day's." Just one voice was missing.

The Mamma's.

She said it softly, under her breath. He turned at the door, looked straight into her eyes and...slowly lifted his little hand, curled up in a fist save the littlest finger of all -- katti, the accepted and acknowledged gesture for the silent treatment; to say as eloquently as possible, "I don't like you anymore" without actually saying it. In other words, the equivalent of giving someone the finger -- in a totally innocent and child-like manner, of course.

Mamma felt sick. Not because of all the high-voltage drama that had been packed into the space of just half-an-hour, but because she hadn't been sleeping well the last few nights. She felt a fever coming on. She drained her tea down to the dregs, excused herself and went to her bedroom. She called her yoga teacher and cancelled; told her husband that she was going to bed, put the phone on silent and tried to drift off to sleep.

Of course sleep did not come easy. She kept drifting between the hazy world of dreams and the harsh sunlight of reality and in both it seemed as if she was being haunted by a pair of big, brown, beautiful eyes, brim full with tears, sadness and accusations, "How come you couldn't understand me, Mamma?"

She remained in bed, flitting unhappily between both worlds, an unwanted visitor in either, when she heard the doorbell ring. She registered it as belonging to the corporeal world and realised that the day ayah, not wanting to disturb her, had gone to pick up the young one from school. She heard the door open. She braced herself to face those eyes again.

"Mamma??! Mamma!!?" she heard him call out. She heard the ayah tell him that his Mamma was in the room. She heard his footsteps approach her bedroom door. Through the haze of her fever, she saw the shape of a little boy standing there, bright, perky, happy.

And then she heard him say with every ounce of feeling that he possessed, "Mamma, I love you now again."

Their New Love

I sometimes wonder if I'm losing my touch, or my will.

I mean, I was the mom who knew all about Transformers -- the valiant Autobot side as well as the evil Decepticon side. I knew their histories, their back-stories, their names, and most important of all, I knew how to put them infernal things together! The MIM would give up after 65 seconds of concentrated effort and I soon became a pro at it. Even the Nephew would bring his pieces to me. And it wasn't just the Transformers; I knew all about Ben 10 and his alien avatars, different Hot Wheel attractions, the Chota Bheem gang, the Panga gang, etc.

But now with this new Beyblade obsession that has the boys of this household firmly in its grip, I couldn't be arsed. My eyes just seem to glaze over when the B-word is mentioned and I've even vetoed the boys from watching the corresponding cartoon on TV.

But, as I said above, the B-fever is raging in full blaze and hourly prayers are being made to Santa for said toys to be wrapped in cheerful paper and kept under the tree. The boys are intent on educating me yet.

Now while I know that Santa's definitely going to answer their prayers, I'm not so sure whether my brain has any space left for assimilating info about their newest and latest turn-on. After all, the Bakugan craze died a natural death along with all my crisp rupee-notes at the mall, spent on accumulating those insipid, unimpressive-looking-yet-freakishly-expensive, miserable excuses for toys.

Aah well. I make up for all this mindlessness at story time. Thankfully they both love listening to the good stuff! Long live the Panchatantra, the Hitopadesha, the Jataka tales, Aesop's fables, Enid Blyton and Mother Goose!!

Sex Ed 101

EO: Mamma, if a boy golden retriever marries a girl dalamayshun, then can they have babies?

M4 (anticipating question about mixed-breeds and hybrids) : Yes babu.

EO: Can the boy dog also have babies?

M4 (realising it was straying closer to sex ed territory): Errr, no...

EO: Then in Lady and the Tramp, how come Lady has babies who look like Tramp?

M4 (wondering how to explain genetics to a 7-yr-old): That's because Tramp is their father naa? Don't babies look like their parents?

Silence from the other side of the wall (he was in his room reading and contemplating while I was in the sitting room). No further questions. Satisfied with my answers, my son continues reading, while I heave a sigh of relief that the questions-that-could-have-been-but-weren't, did not crop up.

Safe...for now. But how much longer? *shudders at the mere possibility*

Of Fancy Elephants and Schmancy Superheroes

Today is the last day of summer camp. There's a fancy dress party. It was announced a week ago and straight off the bat my EO said he wanted to go as Krishna. I groaned thinking of all the costumes that are lying in crumpled heaps at the bottom of the cupboard and tried to get him to change his mind. But he was adamant. Krishna is his favourite God, after all! Yes, his and the YO's as well, which is why even the YO joined the chorus and demanded to be Krishna as well!

Well, this Mamma wasn't going to give up. She was going to fight on behalf of all those unused, unhappy costumes lying listlessly in the dark cool of the cupboard spaces. There were various remnants of various Superheroes and bits and pieces of jungle and farmyard animals scattered all over the place.

Winning over the YO was easy. She picked up an elephant costume that once belonged to his elder brother which he wore for a school concert when he was the YO's age! It couldn't have been more perfect and luckily, my little one agreed!

Now the EO was a tough customer. I tried tempting him with the stock pile at home. I reminded him how much he loved being a prince, but he shot that idea down saying the prince costume was too small now. I sighed, thinking that he did have a point as the concert was over two years ago, but then again, that doesn't really stop him wearing it at home. I then asked him if he wanted to be a superhero. Bad move. He immediately responded with "YESSSSSSSSS!!! I want to be Iron Man! With his special armour and helmet and this thing and that thing (clasping his wrists where the hand plates or whatever they are, are meant to be) and everything!!"

Well. I led myself into that one. I'm totally to blame!

I agonised over what I was going to do, until, quite literally, lightening struck!

My boys were pretending to be superheroes and attempting to save the planet (read, destroying my living room!). The EO was wearing his prince cape, since that still fits, duh! And the YO was using a scarf as his cape. They were both wearing the eye masks that they had made in camp.

Suddenly, the sky became overcast and we could hear deep rumbles coming from within the clouds' bellies. With a matter of minutes, there was a fantastic thunderstorm, with heavy winds, flashes of lightening and the works. I revelled in it while my boys did the scaredy-cat act...pretend, of course! We huddled together and watched the lightening when it happened...I was struck by a bolt from the deep grey-blue...figuratively speaking!

I turned to my EO, all excited and said, "Why don't we make you into a new superhero?" Doubt streaked across his face but he gave me his attention. "You can wear this blue cape, this blue eye mask with blue jeans and a blue T-shirt. You can be Blue Thunderstorm! You can control the winds with your eyes and make tornadoes which can lift the bad guys off their feet, swirl them around till they're dizzy and then drop them right inside jail! And from your hands, you can zap out lightening bolts! How do you like it, Blue Thunderstorm?"

"No!" my six-year-old said, and my face fell. "I'll be Blue Lightening-Storm!"

I was beyond delighted and seeing my first-born's eyes sparkle with excitement, thrilled me even more.

I played out the idea in my head over the next two days and loved it more and more.

So this morning, I got up early and went into my boys' room. I sat down with blue art paper, a pencil, ruler, scissors and silver/gold gift-wrapping paper. My boys hopped around me in excitement. My EO squealed with delight, "Oh Mamma, really you're so creative!" I should've hugged him, instead I got all shy and said, "It's part of my job, you know. Not just my writing job, but my job of being a mother." The EO looked at me soulfully. Either he was thinking that some great secret had just been shared with him, or he was thinking that his Mamma had gone loco!

Then, I quickly wrote down a poem for my EO to memorise and taught my YO what to say, as I made three silver lightening bolts and a single golden one for the EO's accessories. I made a head band and two wrist-bands, and adorned each with a silver bolt. The golden one, I stuck on to his silver belt.

Our little boys all dressed up and ready, the MIM and I had our camera phones at the ready. We recorded them saying their lines to us, before we sent them off to camp. First the YO gushingly said, "I am jungel animol. I have a beeg earjj and twunk. I am en elefent!"

We cheered and roared our approval.

Next, the EO. And this is what he said:
"I am a secret superhero;
My name is Blue Lightening-Storm.
I can ride up on the clouds
In my super hero form.
I have lightening in my hands
And tornadoes in my eyes,
And using my special powers,
I always catch the bad guys!"

I had tears in my eyes as I looked at my creations.

And I'm obviously not talking about some silly bits of glittery-paper lightening bolts.

So what do you do...

...when your six-year-old EO keeps asking you to play music videos of Queen and MJ on youtube? And when, while watching a Queen video, he informs you that the name of the guitarist is Brian May? And then, one fine day, while playing a video game and he 'loses a life', he musically laments, "another one bites the dust"?

...when your three-year-old, cricket-crazy YO, keeps shouting "Good shot!" along with a huge grin, each time he manages to connect bat to ball, thwack it hard and miss the TV set? When suddenly, he holds the bat differently, starts to air-guitar and sings, "We Are the Champions"? (just the one line...)

...when said little fellow marches purposefully to his cupboard to pick out his own clothes (standing on tip-toe) and picks out a combination that works? And when he takes the t-shirt from your hands and says, "Aami nije kobbo!" (I'll do it myself!)

Choose the right answer:
a) you sniff-sniff and cry buckets.
b) you prepare for vanaprastham.
c) you drink Strawberry Daiquiris or Cosmopolitans all day wrong.
d) you pay heed to the whispers of your uterus.

Anybody who knows the right answer will get a box of liqueur chocolates.

I'll need lots of convincing, though...

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...

Poetry; Out of the Mouths of my Babes

So the EO is sitting next to me patiently as I am arm -deep in a pile of Transformers (the spoils of the birthday), trying to assemble them and keep my cool at the same time. The procedure is delicate, complex and nerve-wracking, which explains why I feel like a neuro-surgeon operating on the spinal cord of a neonate.

My EO, overwhelmed, suddenly exclaims, "Mamma, I love you like December!"

My jaws dropped and I was stupefied! My son was waxing eloquent! My son was being poetic! Yes, I was truly stupefied. ANd stupid.

Instead of enjoying the sheer spontaneity and beauty of the line, I asked him to explain what he meant. So he sweetly and innocently tried to make his dense, poetry-less Mamma understand.

EO: What is the first month of the year?
Stupid Woman, a.k.a. M4: January.
EO: And the last?
M4: December.
EO: So I love you like that. Like from January to December.

I actually though he meant, December because of the holidays, the Christmas parties, the snuggles, Santa Claus and every fun thing that the month stands for.

I loved his explanation just fine. :D
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And then there's my little YO.

It's Wednesday evening. Big brother has gone to karate class, so the YO has his Mamma all to himself. They're playing and laughing and tickling when suddenly the YO stops and looks deep into his Mamma's eyes. Something 's caught his attention and he's fascinated.

The following is their conversation, and if this is not poetry, then what is?

YO: Mamma, tomaar eye-jhey 'YO' baby. (Mamma, you've got 'YO' baby in your eyes).
M4, smiling to herself: Heinh, baby. (Yes, my baby).
YO, coming closer to get a better look: Oi to, 'YO' baby. (There he is, 'YO' baby).
M4: Heinh, my baby.
YO: Tumi dekho. (You look).
M4: Aami dekhtey paarchhi to. (But I can see you).
YO: Naa, tumi dekho. (No, you look).
M4, goes all cross-eyed: Ei je, dekhchhi aamaar 'YO' baby ke. (There, I can see my 'YO' baby).
YO, satisfied: Tumi dekhchho? (screws up his face into an adorable epression) Eibaar aami dekhchhi, aamaar eye-jhey Mamma achhey. (You can see? Now I am looking at the Mamma in my eyes).

So many expressions ran through my head at the end of this conversation -- the eyes are the window to one's soul... the apple of one's eye... the eyes have it...

All I know is that this apple of my eye is an intrinsic part of my soul, and at this perfect moment in time, in his own, perfect, child-like way, he expressed the same sentiment about me.

Happy 6th Birthday, EO!!

My darling son,

Do you know what I’ll be doing right after I type this letter and press the ’publish’ button on BlogSpot? I’ll be cuddling up right next to you, keeping my promise to you.

You see, sometime in the afternoon, barely 12 hours ago, we were relaxing in your Dida’s house. We were talking about somebody’s, ahem-ahem, sixth birthday and that’s when you turned to me and said, “And for night-time mamma, please will you sleep in my bed?”

Oh my baby, how could I not?

How could I not want to look into your handsome, peaceful face as you dreamed dreams of the Divine and had your conversations with God?

How could I not want to peer at your sleeping form and gaze in wonder at this body that had become more than half my height, yet once lived inside of me, no bigger than a grape?

How could I not want to be squeezed awake by the tightest, happiest, warmest bear-hug ever given to me on the first day of your sixth year?

Happy sixth birthday my son, my boy, my pride and joy.

What a year it’s been for you.

I’ve seen you change schools for the third time in your young life and as before, you took my breath away. You didn’t throw tantrums. You adjusted on the first day itself. You made friends and found things to love about your school right from day one. Your new school has been more of an adjustment issue for me, than for you. You just embraced the change, recognised it as a part of your life from now onwards and soldiered on. You’re quite the little trooper and it never ceases to amaze me. Of course, you’d still be happier if there was no homework and if assessments didn’t exist, but then, so would I!

You started cricket class this year and you LOVE it! You look forward to it with glee and even though you need to take a million steps before you become a Sourav Ganguly, I am enjoying watching you enjoy yourself. Karate continues and you are an orange belt. I wish you had the same enthusiasm for it as you do for cricket, but at least you don't hate it. You go for it, because...well, because I make you, quite truthfully. Let's see, next year might see some changes in your co-curricular life.

You love travelling. At the beginning of this year, we took a family vacation to the Andamans. You are such a water baby, just like me! And you take delight in anything new and show your joy and enthusiasm with the pure, unbridled joy of a child that is so healing and soul-satisfying to watch. I’ll never forget your excitement on the glass-bottomed boat as we saw all those schools of rainbow fish, starfish and corals. And while on the subject of vacations, you went for your first international holiday. Although the trip was cut short due to a family emergency, we certainly made some happy memories which I shall cherish for a lifetime. How sweetly you chatted with your friend on the entire flight from Kolkata to Bangkok. How excited you were when you saw the hotel where we were staying. How thrilled you were when you saw that heavenly bathtub in the master bed-room. How deliriously happy you were when you saw the kids’ activity and playroom. How mesmerised you were by the show at Phuket Fantasea.

I’ve been reading to you almost ever since you were born in an effort to inculcate a love for books. Well, you certainly do love stories...and how! You’re ever ready for story-time, you love making up stories of your own, you follow the plots and dialogues of new movies with wide-eyed interest and always ask me the most astonishing and in-depth questions. It actually fills my heart with an unnameable pride to see you take a story book and pore over it, taking in each and every detail. I love how you take the story outside it’s life-span of those few pages and give the characters a new lease of life in your fantasy world, making up new adventures for them to face, new people for them to meet. What a lovely world you create, my son.

I also saw you try and desperately fit into the Age of Boyhood this year, shedding the last remnants of Toddlerdom behind. I saw you try and struggle with your emotions and try to keep them under check. I saw you fight tears and put on a brave face. I saw you stand at the fringes of games wanting very much to be a part of it all, but too hurt by unkind words and actions to swallow your pride and give in.

But there’s one area, where you haven’t been successful in becoming that Big Boy that you are so ready and anxious to be. And that is in the area of hugs, cuddles and ‘ador’. You love being the baby then and aren’t afraid to show it. Mamma’s lap is still the best place to read a book or watch TV from. Mamma’s arms are still the heavenliest place for a sound sleep. Baba’s tight embraces are still assurances that you are his ‘hirer tukro’. His bear hugs remind you that nowhere else in this world will you feel safer and more cocooned.

Oh my gentle son with eyes that say everything his heart wants to but can’t, do you have even the slightest idea what you’ve done to me? You’ve turned me into a mom. You’ve helped me become the best version of myself that I can possibly be. You are one of my greatest teachers. You are one of my greatest partners in fun. You are one of my life’s purest forms of bliss, love and joy. You are also my greatest prayer to God; for each time I see those eyes sparkle with the brightness of the North Star and that bone-melting smile, accompanied by that giggle that plays on my heart-strings, stretch across your beloved face, I can't thank God enough for giving you to me.

And I’m so grateful you’re mine.

Happy birthday, my EO. I want you to know that you’re smart, funny, caring and sensitive, and you are so full of surprises. Continue being just the way you are. And one day, in the not too distant future, you’ll turn into a gem of a man.

But for now, you are a gem of a boy.

And I’m so grateful that you’re my precious, priceless gem.

With eternal love and blessings,
Your Mamma

Of Animal Stories and Lessons Learnt

A few weeks ago, eight wild Brazilian Marmoset monkeys were stolen from the Alipore Zoo. The good news is that they were rescued. The bad news is that the monkey-napper who had been nabbed by the police, did a Houdini. Not that it would require one to know expert escape tricks when your captor is SLEEPING!! Tcha! Shame! But then again, meh! What else is new? What's new is, that he was caught again!! Bravo!

Well, given the EO's love for stories, especially stories that have the familiar and comforting features of action, good guys, bad guys, an encounter, a comic twist, some animals and finally justice and a happy ending, I thought this would be a great story to tell him. So my parents and I told him what happened and he listened, wide-eyed and fascinated.

His questions ran thus:
1) Were they baby monkeys?
2) Were they brothers and sisters?
3) But what was their mamma doing when the bad mans came to stole them?
4) [directed at me] Aah! I know! I think so she was sleeping like sometimes how you are still sleeping when I am awaked, right naa?

When qtn nos. 1-3 happened, my heart melted with love. Such tender, little-boy concerns. Such a strong belief that Mamma, all Mammas, will save her young from all harm. You can't put one past the universal Mamma because she is the ultimate protector, the shield, the forcefield, the safe haven. I started wondering whether I did the right thing in telling him this story and whether I should have gone in for heavy-duty censoring with regards to this particular tale.

And then of course qtn. 4 happened and I felt guilty.

There was a time when the EO would sleep in between the MIM and me.
Then his brother came into the world, got a cot and therefore the EO got his own bed.
So, instead of waking up between us, he would come snuggle in between us after having woken up in his own bed in his own room.
Of course, it never remained at snuggling. It also involved sitting on our chests, blowing raspberries on our tummies and planting wet, slobbery kisses on our faces. Not to mention singing into our ears.
While we loved it, the MIM and I are night-owls and go to sleep very late at night. I can still manage on a few hours of sleep, but the MIM can't. So, as soon as the EO would come into the bed and immediately after the first few cuddles, I'd carry him out, back into his room and lie down next to him on his bed and have the YO brought next to me too.
Then, what with school timings and getting up early in the morning and all that jazz, I started getting up earlier than him, so I'd go and lie down next to him and cuddle-and-tickle-and kiss him awake.
School timings have changed once again. Both my boys wake up at the same time. So I've asked my ayah to make them play with each other until I come out.

But he misses it. My very-very-VERY-soon-to-be-six-year-old son still misses sleeping with his Mamma. Once upon a time, the requests to sleep in our bed or at least have me in theirs would start non-stop from the moment the sun would set. Then it went down to a few times through the entire course of the night-time rituals. Then it became a single, solitary pleading. And now, it's gone down to every other night.

I thought maybe my son finally is becoming a big boy and then he goes and says something like "because she was sleeping". That's when I realised that the little-boy in him keeps quiet because the big-boy that he is struggling to become is trying to put on a brave face and adopt an air of maturity.

I should be grateful that my EO still wants me around. That most often, his moments of bliss are just of him sitting next to me and chattering non-stop even as I'm working on the comp and grunting in response.

It's all changing though. He loves being with his friends, hates coming home when he's having a good time with them, goes off happily to do fun things without me, has a world of his own which I know about but am an not a part of. At times I feel intensely proud to see him blossom into his own person and wear that streak of independence about him so casually, so non-chalantly. And at times, it hurts real bad when he'd rather be with his cousin or his friends than me. It hurts. Real. Bad.

But here's the thing.

And the thing is, he still wants to wake up and snuggle his head under my chin, breathe in my particular brand of Mommy-Love and sigh to himself that all is right with his little world.

I'm setting my alarm clock for an hour earlier in the mornings so that I can sneak into their room and lie down in between them until they wake up, Mondays to Fridays. I'm doing this for them. More so for the boy who will be celebrating his sixth birthday this month, but still believes in Santa Claus and in the myth that his Mamma is perfect.

But I'm doing this most of all for me.

Don't all animal stories come with a moral? Whoever though that this particular story would have a lesson for me.

Well, lesson learnt. Lesson learnt.

Boarding the Train to Mommy Hell -- II

The YO's still under the weather. And the EO decides to show off his noise-making skills. From shouting at the top of his voice, to roaring like a lion cub testing his ferocity levels, to keeping elevator doors open so that the irritating alarms beeps not-stop thus grating the underside of your skull-cap to banging doors shut...it's been a noise fest to push an already unhinged Mamma at the end of her tether, right off the edge of the world!

So, said Mamma is carrying sick and fast-asleep YO down to the car. The elevator alarm and door banging episodes have already taken place and dire threats have been passed. We settle ourselves in the car -- the EO, the YO with his sleeping head resting on my left shoulder thus his little ear fully exposed to the EO's vocal chords, and me, a frazzled Mamma, body aching after the hour-long Pilates torment.

The EO suddenly shrieks loudly, "MAMMAAAA!!" right near the YO's ear! Thankfully my little one, too sozzled from the various cough syrups he's on, doesn't wake up. But I hiss out a loud and menacing "What's wrong with YOU!! Can't you see bhai is sleeping??!!"

My EO looks contrite and my she-devil horns droop a bit. "What?", I hiss, a bit more gently this time.

And my EO whispers to me, "Mamma, you know, I sawed this picture of a mamma monkey and she was doing like this to her baby...", and he proceeds to do a patting-plus-massaging kind of motion on my thigh, similar to the kind I do on their backs when I'm tucking them in and telling them stories at bedtime.

As if that's not enough, he finishes his hand movements, looks back up at me with eyes full of tenderness and whispers, "So sweet naa?"

I swear the boy tortures my soul on purpose!

Happiness...

...for a sick little YO is some Mickey Mouse, a slice of bread lathered with mixed-fruit jam and a Mamma who's willing to bend over backwards to heal him.

Happiness for an M4 of a sick little YO is when said little boy suddenly grabs her face in his two soft, chubby-esque hands, looks deeply into her eyes, puts her head down on his little chest where she can hear the wheezing as well as the heart beating, and sighs out contentedly, "I raaabh yuu."

I am living proof that the heart can indeed break from too much tenderness.

Music to Touch my Soul

Some of my most magical memories involving the EO, the ones that make my heart sing like a songbird, have 'music' as an integral theme.

Now good music can make me oblivious to my surroundings. A haunting melody can have me slowly drowning within its intrinsic beauty, like a marble in molasses. A peppy tune can have my insides dancing to its earthiness and richness of rhythm. And songs with deep meaning and soul-wrenching lyrics are my undoing. They unravel me, slowly, sensuously, pain-stakingly, like a single silk thread from a heavy Kanjeevaram saree.

That is why, it is one of my greatest joys to watch the EO develop a taste and fine ear for music. It thrills me no end when he listens to some of my favourite tunes, entranced, enraptured, engaged.

I remember how one day, I was listening to one of my most favourite songs, 'Slipping Through My Fingers' (originally by ABBA, but I was listening to the 'Mamma Mia' version). I was lying down on my bed, my eyes closed, silently mouthing the words, feeling the feeling and floating away somewhere else. I suddenly felt a presence next to me and I opened my eyes to see my EO lying down next to me, not looking at me, his eyes telling me that he was drowning deep in the song as well. I watched his angelic face as he took it all in. What was his understanding of this song that seemed to echo my soul's thoughts about watching my babies grow up? Did he feel the intense maternal love dripping from the song? Could he connect it in any way to how I felt about him? And then, when the song finished playing, he looked at me and said, "Mamma, please play the song again." I happily did so...again and again.

I adore Rabindrasangeet. It is one type of music that can define me. The EO has discovered the beauty of a particular favourite of mine, 'Aaj Jyotsna Raate'. Maa-Janoni was singing it to him one day while telling him a story and he fell for it like a ton of bricks. And now that he knows that I know it too, I have to sing it for him on demand. As a result, he's picked up most of the song.

It really is a gorgeous feeling to listen to him sing when he thinks that no one is listening. I stop whatever it is I'm doing and drink in the sight, sound and sensation. For me, the bliss of these musical moments is akin to religious ecstasy.

That's because a perfect musical moment always and unfailingly helps me remember the Divine. And to watch my son take part in this type of worship is no less than exhilarating.
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Of course, no musical memory is complete without its set of funnies.

So while on the one hand I have a son who is trying earnestly to perfect, "Aaj jyotsna raate, shobai gechchey bon-ey. Bosonter-ei maataal shomiron-ey..."

On the other hand, I have another son who is singing, "Aaj jyotsna raate shobai gechchey bon-ey. Bosonter maathaa khaaraap hoyey gechchey..."

I don't even know how to begin to translate this! But trust me, it's hilarious!
My Bengali-speaking blog friends are welcome to try ;)

My Boys and I

For some spontaneous reason, July has been turning out to be my 'Get Long Overdue Things Done' Month. Whether it was pending tasks, articles and blog posts, it just started happening that way. Very uncharacteristic of me since I am the world's biggest procrastinator. No, it's not a fancy name for a dinosaur. It just means that I'm a lazy bum.

Today I had planned, in my head, that I was going to write two more movie reviews as my post. But then I read this and I changed my mind.

Tharini's post today was like a mirror being held up to my face. The honesty part that is...not the awesome part. (With apologies to Abha who tagged me weeks ago, I am still having trouble locating my awesomeness...)

I have been doing a lot of introspection about my relationship with my boys lately and I've come to the conclusion that it needs to be and can be a whole lot better, a whole lot funner, a whole lot wholesomer.

When the EO was a baby, I was clued into every facial expression of his, every sound, every movement, EVERYTHING. That's because as a first-time mom, I was obsessive, possessive and fierce! And I wanted to do everything for him myself. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. I kinda touched upon it in this post here, but really, you have no idea.

But here's the thing. I ENJOYED it. I was so into my baby bundle and the motherhood jazz was my favourite tune. I taught him rhymes, told him stories, played with him, took him with me wherever I went. Oh the bond we shared! The feeling is indescribable!

But, I didn't do the same for my YO. Call it the Second-child Syndrome, or the First-time Mommy Effect, but there are gaping holes in my mommyhood the second time round.

While my EO was bilingual from day 1 on this Earth, the YO is still more comfortable in Bengali. That's because he is around the ayah most of the time.
The EO's education -- nursery rhymes, the alphabet, numbers, you name it -- was more complete, because I had immersed myself into it with full enthu and gusto. With the YO it's been more of a laissez-faire attitude, "meh, he'll pick up as he goes along." And he has, but with little thanks to me.
Also, when it was just the EO and me, I hadn't gotten into working too much. Just the occasional write-up here and there. But now, I have more writing assignments (for which I am truly, truly grateful...Thank You, God, Thank You!!) and I have discovered the joys of blogging and Facebook. On top of that, for my birthday this year, the MIM gave me a BlackBerry. I am so addicted to my laptop that it's not even funny anymore.

Seriously. It's not.

And that's why I've decided to change.

Lately, my relationship with the EO seems to revolve around homework and unit tests. His childhood is crumbling before my very eyes and the other day he actually started crying and said, "Mamma, you don't let me play anymore!" I felt so terrible, so sad, so miserable. Drat these damned unit tests! Drat this school system! Drat the education board!

So, I've been putting my laptop away when my boys are around so that I can enjoy them. After all, they still enjoy me and my company and who knows for how much longer that will be? I have some special YO time reserved just for my little one and I know how much he cherishes it, how much he looks forward to it...and so do I!

I still have time to blog. My working is more paced (not all the time though, after all, I am the original procrastinator, am I not? I need to live up to that by letting my work pile up sometimes, right?) I have also discovered little pockets of me-time as well. So it's okay. It's all good.

It's just that I've realised that I don't just NEED to be in the moment, I WANT to be, and the only way I can allow that to happen is if I let it. Me. It all depends on me.

So here's to my attempts at being a better mommy. A journey I started a long time ago and which I intend to see right till the very end!

Boarding the Train to Mommy Hell

If there's one thing that the MIM and I are anal about, it's lying. And a couple of weeks ago, when our EO lied, the MIM nearly burst a blood vessel. After the initial yelling, the time-out and 'sentencing' (no TV for 24 hours), we sat him down and explained to him why lying was bad. We told him to trust us and treat us like his friends and blah and blah and more blah.

It obviously didn't work because yesterday he lied again.

I just looked at him in shock. When he realised that he'd been caught, he started crying; big fat tears of, not remorse, but fear, falling thick and fast down his cheeks. Since the slap, time-out and no-TV diktat obviously didn't work last time, I decided to go emo. I used the time-honoured, never-failed, mommy-weapon -- emotional blackmail (geez, I am so becoming my mom, it's not even scary anymore!!)

I stared at the EO, looking terribly pained and let forth phrases like "How could you lie to me? Me?!? Your mamma?!?" and "Do you know what you've done??? You've broken my heart. Mamma's heart is broken..." complete with heart on my hand.

After the rainfall, I let the sun in. The incident over, the apology accepted, we carried on with the rest of our evening. He was getting ready for bed and I was looking through the post when he suddenly comes and grabs my arm and says, "Is this your left side?"
"Mmmhmm", I say without even looking up.
My gorgeous son then stands on tip-toe, puts his ear to somewhere below my left boob and says, "I'm just checking to see if your heart is still breaked or not..."

And if that wasn't enough, what's the first thing he asked me when I went to his room in the morning? Sigh..."Mamma, is your heart fixed now?"

I hope they read this blog of mine before sending me to Mommy Hell...