Of Potty Mouths and Penis Envy

I knew I was going to be in trouble the moment I heard the words, “It’s a boy!” And I knew I was in double-trouble the moment those words were uttered to me one more time. And not because of impending fist-fights, broken bones, muddy shoes beyond the state of cleanliness and stinky bathrooms. I was thinking of the gender-defining paraphernalia that they had inherited from their father.

Those of us who have boys, have seen the sight that shocked the Nirupa Roy-like close-to-divine, maternal-love-feelings out of our large, maternal-juice soaked souls – that of our precious, adorable little cherubs holding on to their family jewels for dear life! And with a goofy, gummy smile on their face! I clutched my heart, swooned and cried in my head the first time I saw! “He’s a, he’s a, he’s a, oh my goodness, HE’S A BOY!!! And my sweet, angel-faced son likes playing with his, with his, with his, with his…oh! I can’t even say it!” Up until then, I think we just tend to look at them as genderless, tiny humans, who the closest thing to God and heaven upon this Earth. Symbols of purity and innocence to restore our faith in all that is good and chaste. Pah! Reality bites! With newly sprouted teeth sharpness!

Read all about it in the baby-books or the Internet, even ask your paediatrician, and they’ll tell you that it’s completely natural. Sigh! So boys will be boys, eh? But must we be confronted with this mind-altering truth when they’re just wee babes of six-months? What can one do though, to make the endless touching stop? Just keep moving the hands away, we’re advised. And that’s what I started doing, all the while trying hard not to link words like ‘sexuality’ and ‘pleasure’ to a baby, that too, my baby! However, I have to confess, the process soon had me laughing. Everytime I’d move his hand away from his, er, privates, they’d zoom in on them again as if the little thingamajigs had a homing device installed! No loss of direction, not a second’s worth of hesitation, just perfect placement…each time, every time, with said goofy grin firmly in place! It almost seemed like the poor little mite couldn’t help himself. It was as if a spring had been inserted in his arm, which made the whole process seem mechanical and not of his own volition.

So is that what it's all about then? That it's natural and they can't help themselves? I don't know. Maybe for now, but as they get older? When at eight or nine, (yes, as young as that I'm afraid, as a friend with a nine-year old told me) they discover a strange, new sensation brought on by touch and they come to understand what the word 'pleasure' truly means? Is that the appropriate time to introduce Mr. Parakeet and Madam Bumblebee? Do I explain the concept of things that are 'ok' to do in private and not in public? Don't crucify me please, but I am breaking out into a cold sweat just thinking about it.

So, I guess I won't. Not now at least. Plenty of time left (hopefully!), before I am confronted with these uncomforatble truths. I just hope for tons of patience, maturity, understanding, a few bars of Twix and a bottle of Peach Schnapps when the time comes.

In the meanwhile, I think I'll stand back as the Elder One and his elder-to-him-by-three-and-a-half-months cousin brother, the Nephew, rush to the bathroom to take a leak at the same time, while the Younger One looks up at them wistfully, wishing he were tall enough to whizz along with them and indulge in some heavy-duty male-bonding. I'll pretend to be scandalized whenever he runs away from the ayah before he can have his pants put on and stands in front of me in all his half-naked glory, saying "Mamma deko, nangu-pangu!" (no literal translation for this as it's Bong baby talk; the closest I can come up with is "Mamma see, shame shame!") I'll mock-scold him whenever he rolls away from me at night when I'm putting on his diaper and he wants to, shall we say, hang loose. Because right now, at this stage, wicked grin or not, cute cackle or not, it is all done in blessed innocence. What do they know of right or wrong, sin and shame? It's a part of their adorability. It's all a game -- a game of "catch-me-if-you-can-and-put-my-pants-back-on," where luckily, we always win! But the fun part is the giggly cuddle and squiggle that happens post the catching. But yes, to ensure zero embarassing moments for me when I go shopping, I had to wean their hands away from down there during their clutch-and-hold phases. Pretty much like the breast and milk bottle scenario, all over again. The weaning, that is!

And from the nether regions, we now move upwards to another anatomical part of theirs. The mouth. Now, the mouth can spout some of the cutest sayings in the most adorable accents with the most delightful pronunciations that leave you wanting to trail them all day long with a handicam or at least a cell-phone with 'Video' taking abilities. And if you have neither near-by, ten you grab a pen and pad and furiously start to scribble down the charming babyisms. They practice new words, break into song and rhyme, give kissies and eat biscuits by the chubby, little handful all with the aid of the mouth. So it's very surprising, shocking really, when suddenly, they start using those adorable Cupid's bow shaped fixtures for swaping 'dirty jokes'!

Of course at the Elder One and the Nephew's level, it's all about what fell into the potty and Mamma's horrified reactions and non-stop, under-the-breath mutterings! Other than that, it's all about who can spot a pile of doggy-doo-doo on the road and what glorious fun it is when a pigeon poo ps on somebody's head! I've seen them collapse into heaps of uncontrollable giggles even when they're with their friends and are bonding over their collective brand of toilet humour! Who can forget the enchanting "Who Dropped a Stink Bomb?" blame-game? And they so know it's wrong, because they try to do it in whispers and out of earshot! The little devils!

But what shocked me was when a couple of days ago, I found the Younger One and his elder-to-him-by-seven-days-cousin-sister, the Niece, making each other laugh by saying, in turns, "Potty keye niyechi!" (I ate potty!) And they were in splits! These two deliciously adorable, not-yet-two year old babes and therefore still considered recently-delivered posts from God's mailbox, were potty mouths! To say I was horrified would obviously be an understatement and seeing the look on my face the little monsters realised that they had achieved the desired effect! Seeing them turn to each other and laugh conspiratorily made me stare at them in wonder! The bigger boys, in comparison, started with the poop routine at much later stages in their life. Definitely when they were three-and-a-half, four...or thereabouts! But these babies? I know everyone says that the younger ones develop faster and learn quicker, but this is ridiculous!

So what next? Do I sit down and teach them a common Calcutta 'dirty poem' that did the rounds in primary schools? 'Donkey, monkey, elephant,cow/Sitting on the potty/ Eating pulao!' The Elder One and the Nephew know it and it never fails to bring a smile to their lips. Do I join the doo-doo bandwagon and ask them to make some space for me in their little world? Well then, I guess it's move over Baa Baa Black Sheep, here comes Toilet-trained animals instead!

Run Baby, Run

I have to share this with you all. Actually, I needed to record this for myself too, for posterity, for times when I'm old and grey and sitting in a cafe in Paris reading through my precious memories. But yes, to share with you too and I only hope that I can do this visual delight justice, it needs a photograph.

I don't have a writing desk. I sit on the floor, my laptop on a small table in front of me and I 'work' in the living rom. Normally, after lunch I let the Elder One watch some TV, or usually a movie that I pre-approve for him. But my very, very, VERY, I-can't-emphasise-enough-how-very chatty son, is not one for sitting still and keeping quiet. He keeps up a constant dialogue with me and more often than not, it's about the movie he's watching. I do try and answer him, but I confess, a lot of the time it's just grunts, mm-hmm's and monosyllables. But sometimes, when he needs more from me, he scoots on over, bends forward from the waist down, gets to my eye level, gazes at me with those gorgeous, brown eyes of his, smile/concern/appropraite-movie-matching emotion written all over his angel-like face, and asks me what he so urgently needs to have answered. Often, he just wants to share a discovery or a realisation that has hit him. But many, many times, he just wants to laugh with me. Whatever the need may be, the earnestness of his expressions, the posture of his little body, the ever-present twinkle in his eyes; always socks me hard in the chest. Imagine if you will, an almost three-foot little being, bending down to have a clear view of his Mamma's face, eyes shining with innocence, emotion and sincerity.

And yet, I remember, when not too long ago, this same little boy didn't need to bend to catch my attention. Another memory comes rushing back to me, of this darling boy, who had just perfected the skill of walking. I was sitting in the same position, and he was sitting next to me, playing with his toys. I didn't even realise when he had gotten up, but suddenly, I felt movement. I looked up to see my precious baby, walking by, face firmly fixed on mine, to see if I was watching. I can not even begin to describe the expression on his face that day! It was a mixture or unadulterated joy and triumph. I don't remember what I saw after that, my vision was terribly blurry. But I do remember my heart-pounding at the incredible smile that had been meant for me!

And now, history repeats itself in the form of my Younger One. When he walks or runs by in front of me. Eyes alight with life and sheer glee . I adore the way he runs, with no apparent sense of co-ordiation, legs and hands strewn about in a sense of happy freedom.

And now, I digress...

My precious babies. I wish for both of you so many many things. May you be able to run around under the sun, kicking a football,chasing birds and butterflies. As you grow older and are confronted with the realities of the world, I hope you never run away from problems and learn to confront them instead. I hope you always cherish the exhilerating sense of freedom that you were born with and that allows you to run, jump, laugh, scream, howl and so much more, as you wish. There are so many unfortunate people in this world for whom 'freedom' is a fancy word. Never question it, my sons. May you always ask questions to learn, know and grow. What boring minds you will develop, my dears, if you are not filled with passion and curiosity. May your eyes always shine with the delight that I see in them now. But may they also radiate intelligence and compassion so that people know that you are boys/men of incredible sensitivity and understanding.

My wish-list for you is never-ending. Just like my love.

Fear In Our Hearts

Yesterday, an e-mail was sent to a news station, wherein a dreaded terrorist group had threatened to simultaneously set off bombs in certain well-known areas of Kolkata at 10 pm. Among the list was a hospital (?!?!?), the High Court, some of the busiest, bustlingest areas of the city, and a couple of residential areas...including ours.

For two whole hours, the city had come to a standstill. The residents were paralysed by an unknown fear. Those who were out on the streets, were praying to get back home to their loved ones. Those of us who were sitting at home, eyes glued to the TV sets, were praying for our loved ones to return safely to us. After the clock had struck the crucial hour, the police announced that they had managed to trace the mail to a cyber cafe and the whole thing turned out to be a hoax.

I won't go into the different conspiracy theories doing the rounds right now, but I do want to talk about being scared by something faceless yet so dangerous.

The Man I Married, whenever he gets disgusted with the politics of the country, the corruption, the unreasonable demands that education makes on children, the growing concern for a child's safety and security, and a whole host of other issues, starts to seriously fantasize about migrating to another country. In fact, it's a favourite past-time of his.

MIM: How about Switzerland? We don't have to worry about any wars there, right? It's a neutral country after all. Then there's Iceland where I believe children are really safe. Holland is beautiful...

M4 (i.e. me): What about the North Pole?

MIM: Not a bad idea...isn't that were Santa Claus lives? The boys are bound to be happy and safe there! After all, who would want to bomb Santa Claus?

Hmph, the same people who could think of bombing a hospital or holding young children and their parents hostage in school. How ugly is our world becoming?

I hated being so afraid yesterday. I was afraid for the Man I Married who had gone out of town and was driving back at night and hadn't reached yet. I was afraid for my Mamus who traveled by local transport, weary and exhausted after a long day at work. And most of all, I was worried for my two innocent children, fast asleep in their bed, not knowing what was happening and how Mamma was feeling.

Fear is crippling. And I hate these people who have such a hold over us. And that's just the beginning of my once miniscule 'hate list'. It has grown in epic proportions since last night. I hate looking over my shoulder searching for God-alone-knows-what. I hate that I have started looking at a cycle with a mixture of terror and cynicism. I hate that I have started looking upon people with suspicion and mistrust. I hate that I have to think fifty times before I step out somewhere, alone or with my boys. I hate feeling unsafe. And most of all, I hate that I should have to bring up my sons in this environment of hate.

Yesterday's hoax, scare, dirty joke or whatever you choose to call it should be a wake-up call to us all. We should fight back. We need another "India's Most Wanted" programme. We need to show the police and the armed forces our support; that we believe in them and will offer our unstinting faith and cooperation. Faith can move mountains, they say. Maybe, if we show them a little faith and support, the corruption that exists might disappear. We need to be proud of our country again. We have to start believing 'Mera Bharat Mahaan' and we need to instill this feeling of nationalistic pride in our children. We need to set up a citizen's watch in each and every neighbourhood. We need to show the world that we will not cower and hide in caves. Each and every one of us, across the length and breadth of this country, need to show those that would do us harm, a collective middle-finger.

We need to fight back and show these asshole terrorists that maybe they can bully us and bomb our streets, but they can't bomb our spirits, our faith, our love for country.

How Much Is Too Much?

I have been accused time and again, by friends and family that I don’t just mother my kids, I smother them. An accusation that was hurled at me relentlessly and even cruelly, I might add, ever since the Elder One was born. My decision to not go back to a full time job was met with disbelief. “What are you going to do?” they all asked. “Simple, mother my son.” My choice not to keep an ayah was greeted with incredulity. “How are you going to manage?” they all wanted to know. “The way mothers all over the world do”. Crazy, stupid, obsessed, possessed, mad…these were just some of the words used to describe me and my choices.

Well, to all of them, I have always blown big, fat, juicy mental raspberries. And I’ve just gone ahead and done my thing. Now that the Younger One is in the picture, my time is even less my own! Again…those same adjectives are being whispered behind my back. For the love of baby powder and formula milk, they’re not yet five and two! They’re babies yet --- my babies! And it is my will how I love them and how much! Wait…strike that, because in fact, it’s not even my will. The love I feel for them is not in my hands. It’s powerful, it’s all consuming and so, so natural, that I don’t even know where it begins and where it ends.

I am their mother and they are my babies. It is my prerogative to love them the way do. It is my right to cuddle them whenever and wherever I want. It is my job to make sure that they know Mamma loves them best and that she’s always there for them, no matter what. It is my pleasure to hug them so close to my heart that I can almost feel them leaving their imprints on it. It is my bliss to snuggle in between them when they are sleeping so that I can bask in the aura of their purity and adorability. It is my damn business to protect their sweetness and innocence for as long as I am able. It is my duty to shield them from harm’s way. And it is my great, good fortune that these two amazing boys are mine and that I have been chosen to be their Mamma.

My mom, my parents-in-law, many friends and sometimes on rare occasions even the Man I Married, all thought that I was wasting my potential. I beg to differ. I think I’m living up to it now. I have finally realized what I was meant for. I am now the best that I could possibly be. I am not for a minute saying that I am the best mother in the world. Never! But I am trying to be the best for my boys. And in the process, I am becoming a better person in my own eyes.

And isn’t that important? To feel worthy in ones’ own eyes? At the end of the day, we should be happy with who we are and the paths that we’ve chosen. I am not declaring that my path is the ONLY path, but it is the one I have chosen to walk upon and it makes me happy. Not once am I saying that women who leave their babies at home and go to work are bad mothers and don’t love their kids. Some of my closest friends have demanding jobs with long hours and I know the love, adoration and joy they feel when they look upon their cherubs. Not once am I saying that having hired help is bad. I didn’t have one the first time round out of choice, but now, with the Younger One, I need help…and that’s what they’re there for, to make things easier.

There is a lovely Chinese proverb that goes like this – to understand your parents love, you must raise children. And I so believe in this. It is only after having my babies that I have begun to fathom the fullest extent of my parents’ love for me and the Bro. And I can quite confidently state that no one will love my boys more than their father and me.

That also means, that no matter how much I love the Man I Married, in big ways and small, in ways known and unknown, in manners expressed and unexpressed; at the end of the day, the love I feel for him is probably teeny-tiny and itty-bitty when compared to what the MIL and FIL feel. I understand this and I salute and respect them for it.

At the end of it all, does it really matter who loves whom more or less? Because it’s not a game where points are kept and big sackfuls of love are weighed and compared. It’s all about being loved and lucky enough to have people who feel for us the way they do. So when my boys finally do meet, marry and settle down with their significant others, I will just wish them love – everlasting, ever growing and ever true.

All I want to be able to say to my boys when they grow up is this – Mamma loved you best. In the best way she knew how. In the best way she possibly could. With the best of everything that she had. And she will continue doing so. Always.

Baby Sayings

Our TV was on the blink so I decided to put a movie on for the Elder One, who was recovering from a bad case of the viral, on the laptop. It was the Man I Married's precious, new laptop, so I was telling my son, "Do not touch ANYTHING!!"

He thought I said 'catch' and since he's been ill, I have turned into a paranoid Mamma, making sure the sun, wind, rain and dust don't come anywhere near my son. So, my precious boy looks up at me and asks, "Not to catch a cold mamma?"

Awwwww...........

Of Fever and Floodgates

I really needed to have a good, long cry.

Both my boys were ill and it always, ALWAYS breaks me to see them this way. There is something totally soul draining and heart wrenching about two lively, active boys lying down in bed, weary, watery eyed, feverish and pukish. These two little pieces of my soul who give meaning to the phrase ‘with twinkling eyes and mischievous smiles’; for whom the Bengali word ‘chonchol’ (Hindi, ‘chanchal’) was thought up; who wear me out even if all I’m doing is sitting with feet curled up in a sofa with a comforting cup of elaichi chaa in my hands and watching them, were fighting a bad case of the viral and all I could do was watch helplessly, wishing that my body could suck it out of them by osmosis, prayer, sheer will-power, anything!

This happens whenever they fall sick. I become a pool of tears and my bones seem to melt into a mass of frustration, anger and misery. I carry storm clouds of gloom over my head, ready to drench anyone who comes within a mile of me, with my wretchedness.

I start to berate myself for wishing a moments stillness from them when they’re running around pretending to be Superheroes and trying to climb cupboards and curtains. From now on, I’ll just stand there with arms outstretched, hoping that they don’t fall and even, God forbid if they do, I’ll be able to catch them and even, God forbid I miss, what’s the worst that can happen? A bump on the head and some tears, nothing a spoonful of sugar and a kiss from Mamma won’t fix. (For those of you staring at the comp screen horror-struck, let me assure you…no way can they climb ALL the way to the top…they just try, that’s all!)

I start to wish that I had given them that biscuit or that piece of chocolate just before dinner after all. Next time I will. What can happen? One less spoonful of rice or pasta, or two bites less of roti. Pah! That’s it! Absolutely nothing to equate it to the lopsided smile that reaches their eyes and my heart!

I begin to hate my attachment to my precious computer. All the deadlines, assignments, well-loved blogs, Facebooks and G-mails can surely take a backseat the next time either ray of sunshine sidles up to me. If the Elder One wants a serious discussion on Transformers, I will have the time for a chat so that I can see the animated expressions light up his lovely face and I will come away more wiser after this educating experience. If the Younger One wants to pull me by the hand to show me a ‘baby tikkiki’ (tiktikkee, or domestic lizard), I will get up and follow him wherever he chooses to lead me, be it under a table or squeezing in my bulk (at least trying to) between the cupboards, just to share in the joy of his discovery.

When the two of them lie with their flushed faces on my lap, expelling hot air through their perfectly shaped mouths, their gentle snores seeming like divine music, it takes every shred of self-control and dignity I possess, not to liquefy into a pool of tears. I keep one hand upon each of their warm bodies, I try to shut down the tear ducts that are fast filling to burst-open capacity. And then, one of them opens their eyes, reaches for my hand, shifts his head, meets my gaze and gives me a wan smile.

And the dams burst open.

Bringing Up Men

I may as well get this out there in the open before some insensitive being ‘jokingly’ tells my boys, “Did you know your mummy wanted a GIRL?” I’d better say it first rather than endure heart-breaking, grief-stricken looks of “Is that true?” from them. You know the look I’m talking about; big, gorgeous, brown, eyes laden with unshed tears, a quivering lower lip and a look of betrayal that goes straight your heart and stays there for as long as you live!

Yes, it’s true. I wanted a daughter. Both times round. The first time it didn’t happen, I thought, “Oh well, there’s always next time!” The ‘next time’ came and went, and I struck out again. I thought to myself, “Great! Now what?”

I mourned all those pretty dresses, multi-coloured hairclips and ruffled underwear that I was never going to buy. I lamented all those Cinderella and Snow White theme birthday parties that I would not be able to plan and throw. I kissed goodbye to all those Nancy Drew’s and Malory Tower’s that I would never get a chance to read to her. No make-believe tea parties, no collecting Barbies, no giggling over girl stuff, no advice on nail-polish and make-up and sigh, no sharing deep-dark secrets like first crushes, the ‘IT’ girls, heart aches and what I really thought of Daddy when I first met him.

Was my life only going to be about cricket, football and broken bones? Would I have to be tortured by burp contests and food fights at the dinner table? Did I have to pour buckets of water to separate my two future WWF wrestlers-in-the-making as they practice the Death Grip on each other? Was I going to end up with a permanently hoarse voice thanks to non-stop yelling about toilet seats and smelly socks?

I don’t think I need to spell out that I love my two boys beyond words, beyond measure, beyond every conceivable and inconceivable thought in the universe. They are my heart’s song and my soul’s laughter. Just the mere thought of them brings a lump to my throat and I am so incredibly blessed that they are mine.

But there were times when I missed holding that bundle of pink in my arms. Yes, that’s right… ‘were’, not ‘are’. I made my peace with all the girlie thoughts and realized that I had been presented with a wonderful opportunity here!

We women, aren’t we constantly cribbing about the lack of broad-minded men around us? Men who are free from the traditional thought processes of the patriarchal system? We keep bemoaning the fact that while the previous generation, especially our moms, did a great job in bringing us girls up, they forgot to erase the ‘God complex’ from their little boys’ minds. So, while they raised us, their daughters, to believe that we were no less than men and could scale the highest mountains and swim the deepest seas…they forgot to impart that bit of wisdom to their sons. Suddenly, a whole generation of men was left unable to cope with these strong-willed, free-spirited, independence-happy, beautiful, brilliant women, who were breaking down walls, scaling corporate ladders and achieving many firsts. These men were left feeling defenseless that their arcane methods of ‘taming the shrew’ would no longer hold them in good stead. So while our moms were teaching us to be the best that we could possibly be, they neglected to share this new bit of philosophy with our brothers.

It’s up to women like me to set the balance straight, so that some semblance of order can be restored and peace can prevail. Maybe the Battle of the Sexes can finally reach an easy truce.

Of course I’ll teach my boys karate and kickboxing. But I’ll also teach them the art of whipping up a perfect Irish Cream Soufflé. I’ll endure hours of Bruce Lee’s and spaghetti westerns, but by Georgina, I’m gonna teach them how to sit through a chick-flick. When they tell a girl they’re going to call, they’d better mean it. If a female of the species beats their pants off in a game of chess or even of one-on-one basketball, they should know that it’s a talent to be admired and NOT an effort to be dismissively praised. They have to learn that news of their sweeties’ success should be met, not with condescending pats on the back, but with heartfelt roars of approval, a bottle of well-deserved bubbly and a toast for her future triumphs.

This is all so exciting! There’s so much to do! So excuse me while I put away my dreams wrapped in pink. I now dream in blue, green, yellow, gold, silver and all the colours of the rainbow. I want to colour my boys’ world with sensitivity, imagination and intelligence!

I’ve been blessed with two boys who are simply amazing. Fifteen to twenty years down the line, I hope all the women they meet think so too!