Top Ten Countdown

Courtsey Juxtaposition.

10 things you wish you could say to people right now (don't list names)
1. Stop being so shifty when you talk to me.
2. Do you know my brain is turning into a sponge here?
3. Please don’t ask me why I am not having another kid.
4. Will you call me when you say you will?
5. I can’t believe I am not going to see you for three weeks.
6. Thank god I don’t have to see you for three weeks.
7. It just is going to be you and me for three weeks.
8. Does it actually hurt to be nice to other people?
9. I need a raise.
10. Never mind, I’ll do it myself


9 Things About Yourself
1. I have a fondness for blue cheese.
2. I plan to pull out the junipers in our front yard this summer.
3. I like 80’s pop. Culture Club, Duran Duran. But I am usually embarrassed to admit that.
4. I cannot step out of the house without some makeup.
5. I am afraid of heights.
6. Jesu, Joy of man’s desiring always brings tears to my eyes.
7. I am a libertarian. No pinko socialist c*** for me thankyouverymuch.
8. I fret. And worry.
9. I am trying to find my faith.


8 Ways To Win Your Heart
1. Be nice to everybody.
2. Laugh with me and make me laugh.
3. Be assertive.
4. Don’t take yourself too seriously.
5. Be philosophical.
6. Be a warrior inside.
7. Have a passion.
8. Be rich ;-)

7 Things That Cross Your Mind A Lot
1. Will BigGeek be OK?
2. Will BigGeek be OK?
3. Will BigGeek be OK?
4. Will BigGeek be OK?
5. Will BigGeek be OK?
6. Will BigGeek be OK?
7. Will BigGeek be OK?

6 Things You Wish You Never Did
1. Fret.
2. Bite my nails.
3. Go on frequent guilt trips.
4. Cry.
5. Be unreasonable.
6. Compromise

5 Turn-Off's
1. No imagination.
2. Dishonesty.
3. Lack of common courtesies.
4. No desire to learn.
5. Shallow.

4 Turn-On's
1. Good conversationalist.
2. Renaissance Man.
3. Twinkling eyes.
4. Enthusiastic.

3 Things You Want To Do Before You Die
1. Run a ten miler or a half marathon
2. Get Rich
3. Be Happy.

2 Smileys that Describe You
1. :-P
2. ;-)

1 Confession
I lie.


Passing it to noon, Preethi and moppet's mom

What's in a name?

A very long time ago, inside a parked car in a dark parking lot, listening to Jethro Tull’s Dot Com, I asked BigGeek if he would like me to change my last name after we were married. It was not a trick question. And no matter what the answer, I wasn’t planning on “reconsidering” my engagement to him. I just wanted to know. That’s all.

In my teens, I had an opinion about the issue. A rather strong opinion. I would absolutely not want to change my last name after I got married. I would say categorically. It was a question of my identity. A part of who I am and all that humbug. Someone pointed out helpfully, that I would be keeping my father’s name anyways. So it was just as patriarchal. I would have to switch to my mother’s maiden name and she to her mother’s maiden name and so on until we ran out of last names or ancestors or both. It was obviously not a workable idea. So, a few days later I had another brainwave. Forget the past, look to the future. How about if daughters inherit their mother’s last name and son’s their father’s? That would work out rather nicely. Surprisingly though, I did not find much support for the idea back then, but I still think is a terrific idea. Or how about husband’s taking on the wife’s last name? That trend seems to be catching on quite nicely in Europe. I am a big fan of a single family name. It’s just so cohesive and unmessy. No hyphens, no long lastnames. No spending an eternity trying to spell them to some dumb schmuck on the phone. Which last name to take would be one of the many things under discussion when talking marriage. Or just choose a third name. Altogether different. Well maybe not that one. Because it might just be so hard to trace the family roots back if one wanted to. But it’s a good idea nevertheless.

In the dark car, BigGeek pondered over the question. “It’s not a trick question.” I said. “OK. I’d like you to change your name.” “On a scale of 1-10, how important is this to you?” I wasn’t letting go. Not just yet. “Give to me straight. The truth.” “An eight”, he said. An eight??? An eight? That’s pretty high. “I had no idea it would be this important to you.” I was amused and surprised. “It’s very primitive. The instinct is very primitive. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know it’s unreasonable.” I didn’t care. Last names didn’t mean much to me. “No, I’ll change it if it means so much to you. I don’t care. But when we have a child, I would like s/he to have my maiden name as a middle name. Deal?” He nodded. And the song ended and so did the conversation.

I did change my name. I was filled with trepidation because it seemed like a monstrous task. Changing my name on every piece of financial document would not be easy. But I was surprised. When I called my bank, my credit cards, my HR department, the mortgage company, social security, passport they all changed the name without asking for a shred of evidence. Ok, not all.. The social security and passport needed a copy of the marriage license. But it was quite painless, even though it took a year until most of my documents were reissued to me in my new name. I changed my name almost two years after we were married. When I was expecting Chip. Do I regret it? Not one bit. And I would be just as happy if many years from now, Chip were to come up to me and tell me he was going to take his wife’s last name. Because, what’s in a name?

RTFM

I think I was fleeced this weekend. Royally, royally fleeced. My car needed an oil change. So Chip and I hopped over to the local Express Lube. I go there quite often, if I have to get an oil change done by myself. It’s really close, wait times are not bad at all and unlike the reputation these places have, they seldom recommend crazy things to be done to the car. Since BigGeek is not in town, Chip and I traipsed down to the oil change store. It was of course a visual treat for Chip who was enthralled by the pneumatic drills and screwdrivers. People working under the car, hoods popped open and general gadgetry and grime. He ate lunch in the waiting area and then we went outside as my car was pulled into the bay. It had been about 20 minutes since we got there. “Not bad.” I thought. Another 20 minutes and we will be out of here.

Ten minutes later the mechanic beckoned me. He stuck a grimy finger in my car’s hood and brought an oil covered finger for me to inspect. “See how black it is? It needs to be clean.” He showed me clean, green oil. “What is it?” I asked. “It’s steering wheel fluid. Your car has 30,000 miles on it. You need to change it every 30,000 miles.” Hmmm. I do drive more than 250 miles a week. I thought. You gotta take good care of the car. Don’t want it breaking down. “Ok.” I said. “How much will it cost?” “Sixty Four nine-nine.” I told him to give me new steering wheel fluid.

Ten minutes later, the mechanic beckoned me again. “You are out of coolant.” He said. How could I be out of coolant? The computer in my car would have told me I was out of coolant. I thought. “You need to flush the coolant once every year.” “How could I be out of coolant?” I asked him. “Take a look.” True enough the blue coolant was scraping the bottom of the radiator. But my car hadn’t overheated. I could just drive up to Walmart or Automax and get some coolant, no? And pour it in. I have done it before. But then again. I drive more than 250 miles a week. I thought. You gotta take good care of the car. Don’t want it breaking down. “Ok.” I said. “How much will it cost?” “Seventy Four nine-nine” Is that how much coolant really cost? I didn’t remember. I thought coolant was just water and alcohol. May be I was mistaken. What with these new fangled engines and cooling and injection systems. It’s just so complicated. Our old rickety fiat was so easy to understand. Nobody could pull wool over my eyes with that one. Or even simpler? The Luna I had in college. Anybody ever drive a Luna? I always joked its engine was as big has a box of Laxmi brand asafetida (no kidding, it was really that small). Heck, our lawn mower has more horsepower than that one. And it broke down so often. The Luna. Not the lawn mower (that’s a Honda. It will never breakdown). At one point, the Luna’s spark plug would refuse to ignite when the engine was turned off for some time. Even with a brand new sparkplug. No idea why. But I carried a spanner and sandpaper in my book bag. Every time before I would kick start the lil beast, I would unscrew the spark plug, sand it down a bit with the sand paper, screw it back in and kick start. And it would start just fine. Simple engines. Simple times. Simple lives.

But to the coolant. “OK.” I said warily. “Flush the coolant.” But I was uncomfortable. It just didn’t sound right. I tried calling BigGeek, but he was asleep in a different time zone and his cell phone was switched off. I called a friend and explained what had just happened. “You think I got conned?” I asked him. “It’s too late anyways.. They are changing the fluid as I am talking to you.” He laughed. “Maybe you did. “ He said. coolants don’t drain out like that. If they did, it would be a leak.” That made sense. But it was too late. The deed was done. I was left holding a $200 receipt. Later that evening, I recounted the events. “Did I get conned?” “Yes you did.” BigGeek doesn’t mince words. “What should I have done? I know. I should have told him to just change the oil. I could have come back for the other stuff. Sigh. Sigh.” I was wringing my hands over the $200. “What should I have done?” BigGeek was laughing. “You should have read the manual.” Dang. I knew it. I should have Read That F***ing Manual. RTFM. The secret code Geeks live by. And also the secret weapon they assault us mere mortals by.

Everything But Water

“Let’s go for a bath Chip.” I am trying to hurry Chip. It’s already past 7:00 in the evening and Chip hasn’t even had his bath. “No, I don’t want a bath Aie.” “Oh, come on. Let’s put some pink bubble bath in it today. Yes?” “No.” This has been happening for a couple of months now. Chip simply does not want baths or showers. “Don’t you want to wear your clown pajamas?” His eyes light up. “Yes. Blue clown shirt, Green clown pant.” He stretches his arms and lets me take off his stinky clothes. “Alright, Aie. I am done. Bath is over. All done.” “WHAT? You haven’t even got your foot inside the tub.” Chip crosses his arms and doesn’t budge.

I can’t believe this is happening. Chip was born with a distaste for baths. Thank god I didn’t spend a dime on the baby tub. His tub was a nice hand me down and I bought a nice sponge insert for it, but Chip, being Chip, hated it all. The whole routine. He would wince when my mom or I massaged him. Or fuss. He would cry so hard, we fell back to sponging him twice everyday. But after a couple of days, Chip stank of milk and spit-up and poopoo and the sponging plan was scrapped and daily baths with soap like a proper Indian were reinstated. Much to my mother’s relief. He was an Indian baby after all. He had to be bathed daily. Even if Chip hated them. His cries were so loud that it would be hard for my mom and me to talk to each other. And they would continue. While getting into the bath. The first several minutes. Then getting out. Then while applying lotion. Then while diapering and putting on clothes. The only time he stayed quiet was in the middle of his bath. But he would look terrified and would clench his whole body with nervous apprehension. Eventually, we ended up wrapping him in a cotton blanket before putting him in the bathtub. And that seemed to relax him. And the hairdryer. For the longest time that was our brahmastra. Set to high, the hairdryer’s whitenoise would magically calm him down. So BigGeek would follow me and my mom and Chip with the hairdryer above our heads for the entire bath routine. It looked so comical, we even repurposed a cheesy slogan for it – Raja Babu Ki Jai (from the movie Raja Babu we had watched at the time). And to prove how insane we were, we also recorded the entire drama on video. But over the months he, thankfully, grew to like his baths and by the time he was a year old, every summer evening was spent on the back lawn in the company of sprinklers. And then later with trips to the local pool.

So, when Chip started to resist baths a few months ago, I was puzzled. I simply had no energy for the “Raja Babu” time yet again, but the scatterbrained woman that I am, I never asked him what had changed. But I got the answer. Yesterday. Without asking. I convince him to get into the bathtub and he is enjoying his bath. I point to his right hand and ask what the stamp-du-jour is. The stamp he gets everyday at school is the highlight of his day. (Oh! the things preschool teachers have to come up with to amuse these kids). He looks at me in utter panic. “Oh my god Aie. My stamp will go away. Give me a towel. Wipe it quick. Wipe it! Its wet!” “Its OK Chip. You will get another one tomorrow.” I try to soothe him. “That’s why I don’t like baths. I get my hand wet and then the stamp goes away.” Ah. That’s WHY.

Girl's Best Friends

That’s how the Marilyn Monroe cliché goes anyway. About diamonds. To me, they may not be the best friends, but they do make for some good friends. Some really, really good friends. That being said, let me confess. I am crazy about diamonds. I remember the exact day when these shimmering stones cast their spell over me. It was many, many years ago. In my small, dusty hometown. In the corner of a dark, narrow cobbled lane. In a little jeweler’s shop. Grimy. With mattresses strewn on the concrete floor in front of locked glass cases and hidden safes. The jeweler sitting cross legged behind his worn out, vintage desk. Propped up by rolled cushions. Pictures of gods and goddesses, bathed in cheap agarbatti smoke, on the lime washed wall, looking down on each and every transaction in what could only have been an implicit approval.

My mother and I held on to a frayed rope and climbed the steps to the jeweler gingerly, and were greeted by the large man. My mother, in hopes of getting a discount, told him her maiden name and pointed out their fathers or uncles or someone knew each other. The man, surprisingly, made the connection. Or he was a really good salesman. After sitting down on the streaked mattresses, my mother explained the job. It was a ring. For me. I was a seventeen year old tomboy, who refused to wear any jewelry but had agreed to wear a ring. Set in gold and garnets. My mother had wasted no time. And on a cool, sunny Saturday morning we sat in an auto rickshaw and went to the jeweler’s to pick the design and order the ring.

We chose the garnets, settled on a design and were about to leave, when the jeweler asked if we would like the ring set in diamonds instead. My mother shook her head. Not today, she mumbled. There really was no money for diamond rings. Just take a look at the diamonds. He persisted. I just got a shipment yesterday of some really nice ones. What’s the harm in looking? He smiled though his thick glasses. He reached in a safe under the desk and pulled out a small steel box. He opened it with yet another key and nestled inside, amidst rustling, pink paper were many exquisite diamonds. Shining coldly like a white campfire. Their brilliance took me by surprise. He was telling me to stretch out my hand. He adroitly picked a large stone with tiny pincers and placed it on my palm. A little more than two carats. He said through his tobacco stained teeth. I brought the palm close to my face and peered and was taken aback by what I saw. The stone had infinite depth. It was bottomless. You could see the shining light from within it. The more I looked, the more I was pulled by this beautiful glow that seemed to radiate from somewhere deep inside the diamond. It was hypnotic. This is what true love must feel like. I thought to myself. I stretched my palm once again, reluctantly this time and the stone went back in the little box and then to the little safe. We left the store but I could not get the diamond out of my mind. I had never seen anything like it before and gradually comprehended why so many people worshipped diamonds. I had become one of them.

And I was fortunate enough to be given diamonds. Later, by mom, when I turned twenty-five. Then BigGeek when we were engaged. Then my grand mom when I got married. Then BigGeek on an anniversary. And I have been gleeful – there is no other word – gleeful to get these stones and wear them.

And then came a movie. Blood Diamond. BigGeek and I watched it and it left a huge impact on me. The diamond trade is ugly. Who knew? I didn’t. Along the west coast of Africa, in countries that only seem to exist only in high school geography books and 120 second BBC news clips, countries like Sierra Leone and Liberia. The diamond trade thrives here. Diamonds are mined in forced labor camps, smuggled and sold, the money used to fund despotic governments who torture their own people, chop off arms of small children (so thy cannot vote when they grow up) and send able bodied men to forced labor camps and the cycle continues. Two hours later, I told BigGeek I had sworn off diamonds. The images of 6-7 year old kids with chopped arms haunted me. It could have been us. I thought. Had we had the misfortune of being born there. The next day, I looked it up, in the hope that this would be just another Hollywood creation. That things like this happen only in movies. Not in real life. But they do. Everyday.

I understand diamonds are just another commodity. Had that part of the world been rich in say, oil, they would have smuggled and traded oil or whatever other natural resources to fund their despots. But I can’t, despite rationalizations, come to buy diamonds any more. I cannot buy a diamond to wear it on my finger knowing, somewhere, someone gave up an arm for it. Literally. And then I saw the DeBeers documentary. I still love diamonds, but I refuse so buy them. There are labs that create synthetic diamonds. Not zirconia, but real diamonds. Chemically identical – carbon under pressure and heat. The diamonds are not cheap. They cost as much as mined ones, but are humane. The diamonds haven’t really come to the Zales store in your mall yet, but they should soon, if they can stand the pressure from the mined diamond lobby. Until then, I’ll bide my time and wait patiently.

Saturday's Child

The kind amongst us call them spirited children. The pitiless call them overactive. But whatever nomenclature one might use, it doesn’t really change the truth about kids like Chip. They are full of energy. They are high need, high maintenance children. Mentally, physically, emotionally. Triple whammy. It is enough to make you loose your mind on most days.

I suppose I knew Chip wasn’t like other babies the minute he was born. No exaggeration. The minute he was extracted from my womb he let out a cry so loud that my ears blacked out for a second. I had never thought a newborn could cry out with such intensity. But he did. And that would be the definition of Chip in one word. Intense.

He cried intensely. Hated to be constrained. When he was a few days old, he managed to wriggle his arm out of the snugly bound blanket. Kicked furiously- at what became a daily game- when he was about three months old, at the colorful store ads draped over his rocker bar until each one was vigorously tossed to the floor. Began doing his famous tummy slide at 9 months to get down the stairs. Light sleeper. We would be literally walking on eggshells when Chip was napping. The slightest sound would wake him up. Voracious eater. Hard to pacify. Ultra sensitive and fearful of sounds. Intent observer. He looked around with such curious interest that perfect strangers in restaurants and elevators would comment on how he was drinking in everything with his eyes or joke about boring a hole if he continued to look with such intensity. He would not only identify objects in books at 10mo but would also pick the correct book from half a dozen books that contained the said object. He knew his way around the mall at 18mo, knew how to get home from three different routes from an intersection two miles away. I think every time he enters a space, he makes a mental note of the exits, furniture, rooms, layout, fixtures, contents of closets and shelves and stores them away for I don’t know what. And every once in a while he references them. In the oddest of times and places.

He also has a wicked temper and is prone to tantrums. Has a hard time sharing things and transitioning from one activity to another. Stubborn. Very, very stubborn. Always wants his own way and will struggle passionately to get what he wants. Will not accept anything without a reason. An authoritative “because I said so” never cuts with him. He needs explanations, reasons. Why. When. How. Where. All kids are like that, aren’t they? Sure. But with kids like Chip, everything is amplified. It’s just more of everything. More hugs and kisses, but also more whining and tantrums. More stubborn, more persistent. More driven. More running, more jumping, more appetite. Hard to fool. Deep belly laughs. Loud tears. Dazzling memory. Hard to please. Focused. Impatient. Affectionate. Demanding. Trying. Persistent. Exacting. Insistent. Fastidious. It’s not easy. If handling your average toddler is a roller coaster ride, this is bungee jumping.

Had this been a second child, I probably would have handled it better. Or so I always think. Simply because I would not have doubted many things about me as a mother. Everyday I fear that his teacher is going to ask for a meeting and tell me he needs to be evaluated for ADD/ADHD. While other kids sit quietly when told so without questioning, Chip doesn’t. On the one hand I feel he is blessed to have so much energy within him. But it’s frightening as hell too. Because on some days it feels like I have absolutely no influence whatsoever over him. He descends like a tempest, leaving a dreadful wake behind him. On those days I bite my tongue, give him hugs aplenty and pull out my patience. And quietly wonder what magical powers did mothers of the likes of Edison had. To have such tremendous faith in their own child and to guide them. Because, what happens if Chip never finds his calling?

From A to Z

This from Orchid.

A -Available? For a vacation, totally.
B-Best friend: BigGeek
C-Cake or Pie? Hmm..tough choice. Cake. Make that a chocolate torte. Nonononnonono. Make that pie, pecan pie. Wait a sec. it’s really cake. On the other hand, I like apple pie too. Let’s do Einee, Minee, Miney Mo. Or someone invent a PAKE or a CIE fast.
D-Drink of choice: Right now, it’s hot ginger tea.
E-Essential thing used everyday: Toothbrush and anti-wrinkle makeup.
F-Favourite colour: None. I like em all. But if I have to pick, I’ll say turquoise.
G-Gummi bears or worms: Bears. Always bears.. brings back memories my dad’s trips abroad when he brought those back, when my brother and I would excitedly open the suitcase and smell the wonderful scent of foreign lands.
H-Hometown: Small, sleepy, non-descript town in Maharashtra.
I-Indulgence: A day off.
J-January or February: February. At least the days are longer.
K-Kids and names: Chip. Technically I have only one child, but as I like to say, he is the buy one get one free variety.
L-Life is what happens when you are busy making other plans. (Lenon quote)
M-Marriage date: There are two. Married to the same man. Twice. Long story.
N-Number of siblings: 1
O-Oranges or apples: Neither. I like tropical fruit. Gimme mangoes and bananas and chikoo and guava and jackfruit any day.
P-Phobias: I am afraid of heights. Cannot look down from a 3 storied building without feeling dizzy. Despite that have walked in the Great Canyon and stood at precipices when preggo in the silly hope Chip would not inherit the phobia. But he has :(
Q-Quote: The one that adorns my blog. How vain it is to sit down and write when you haven’t stood up to live – Thoreau.
R-Reason to smile: Chip – the product of our supremely flawed selves.
S-Season: Spring. Hate the winter.
T-Tag three people: choxbox, girl-next-door, cee kay
U-Unknown fact about me: There is a reason why it is unknown, you dork.
V-Vegetable you do not like: Dill.
W-Worst habit: Typos. I type too fast and then have to remind myself to proof read.
X-x-rays you have had: Dental and lung.
Y-Your favorite food: Dosa, prolly. I feel like eating it right now and it’s past my lunch hour and I haven’t had lunch. Not a good time to be asking that question.
Z-Zodiac: Taurus

Brush, Rinse, Repeat

I don’t think Chip is alone when it comes to tooth brushing troubles. Like most toddlers, he has a love-hate relationship with the tooth brushing routine. He loves the toothpaste part which is some hard-to-know-which-fruit scented and the tooth brush is sucked dry of the said toothpaste every time and lips dutifully smacked afterwards. He hates the tooth brush part. We have tried all sorts of tooth brushes. Brushes that light up and sing a little tune after 2 minutes of brushing. Brushes with little Einsteins, with Pooh, with Elmo, with unknown generic cartoon characters. Grown up looking brushes in solid colors. Their fate has been the same. All disdained and chewed until death.

Since devious toothbrush marketing techniques were not working, I turned to facts. “Chip”, I said to him one day, “There are germs in your teeth, if we don’t take them out, they will go in your tummy and will give you a tummy ache.” It seemed to work. Tooth brushing that night and the next few nights was no struggle. Until one day. “Aie, germs in Chip’s mouth will give me tummy ache.” “That’s right, Chip.” “Will I have constipation?” “Yes, Chip.” A little explanation here. Chip is well, umm.. let’s call him anal retentive in a physical way. If he drinks more than three cups of milk, there is trouble. “Ok Aie. Let’s rinse now. No brushing.” “Why?” “Because” he explained patiently to his obviously dumb mother. “If you drink too much milk you get a tummy ache.” Huh?? Apparently, Chip had it all down with the impeccable toddler logic. Tummy ache = constipation = too much milk. There is no other way to get tummy aches.

Plan B. “Chip, you think I am lying about the germs? Come here look.” I pointed to a wisp of my hair in the washbasin. “That came out of your mouth. Chip was aghast. “Black germs?” “Not just black Chip. They come in all colors.” “Purple germs? Blue germs?” “Yes. Open your mouth. Oh my! I see a big green one there. Spit it out.” Two year olds can be so gullible. Chip was convinced about all the germs coming out of his mouth. This technique worked for quite a long time. Meaning a little more than a month. Each night we spat out germs in Technicolor. And in all shapes. Purple rectangle germs – the most deadly, followed by green circle germs that lived in the molars and the red ones that took a long time to come out from their incisor lair. Until one day. “All done Aie.” We had barely started to brush. “Turn on the brush Aie.” “Your brush doesn’t turn on.” “Aie’s brush turns on?” “Yes, Aie’s brush turns on, Baba’s brush turns on, but not yours.” “Nooooooo! I want Chip’s brush turn on.” “OK. Here it is.” I turned the brush on and made whirring sounds. “No. Aie, not with your mouth. With the brush.” Chip sat there perched on the bathroom counter waiting expectantly for his god-like mother to perform the miracle.

Plan C. “Chip,” I said in a low whisper. “We will have to go to the dentist if you don’t brush your teeth.” A dentist?” “Yes. A dentist is a doctor for teeth.” Chip was intrigued. “Does he give tooch (shots)?” “Big tooch Chip. The needles are this long.” I said stretching my arms as wide as I could. “And it is not just the tooch. He also has a drill. He will drill your teeth. Do you want the dentist to drill your teeth?” Chip shook his head and opened his mouth. Brushed and rinsed. Chip got down from his perch. “Aie, is dentist drill like Baba’s?” The drill strategy worked for a while. Although he now looked at his Baba’s drill differently. Intently. Almost as if imagining the thing drilling holes in his teeth. The evil mom conscience had tripped the good mom conscience and I didn’t tell him the true drill facts and still haven’t. This worked for a while. Until one day. He just lost interest in the drill theory. The threats were treated with a bored look and I suspected if he knew the word ‘whatever’ he would have said it now. Many times.

Plan D. Well it was not really a plan. But I gotta do it to maintain narrative integrity. BigGeek on his way home yesterday stopped at a pharmacy to buy some vaporub for my cold and also bought a battery operated toothbrush for Chip. To say Chip was excited would be the understatement of the century. He danced with it until he realized the cover needed to be pulled off. The brush was promptly handed back to Aie dearest, but only for the few seconds that it took to free the brush from the casing. He garbbed the coveted toothbrush and gingerly pressed on the green button. The brush started whirring. Chip looked at it mesmerized. “Let’s go and brush my teeth, Aie” “Yes we will! But after dinner. Let’s eat dinner first. Yes?” “NOOOOOO” He wailed and thumped his feet. “Turn off the brush Chip. The battery will die.” “I want to brush my teeth now.” “Yes we will brush your teeth. But after dinner. Come let’s eat dinner.” This went on for a few minutes. Each iteration escalating Chip’s temper until BigGeek grabbed the toothbrush and turned it off.

Later, after tantrum, tears and dinner were done with, we went upstairs for the much waited moment. Finally. The toothpaste was smeared on the brush, the little green button pressed. Chip gleefully opened his mouth and brushed. Not his teeth, but his tongue. I tried to get a few swipes but then left him to enjoy his brush. A few minutes later, he came out asked me to turn off the toothbrush and went inside again. I heard him turn the light off and close the door and he came out again, but in haste and jumped into the bed and dived under the comforter taking care to make sure he was covered in it. Something was up. “What is in your hand Chip?” I asked. “Nothing Aie. Don’t look here. Look there.” As if. I peered under the comforter and lying there snuggled in his arms like his favorite soft toy was the orange and green toothbrush. I now need a Plan E.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
On a completely unrelated note, my good friend and neighbor your-girl-next-door (formerly known as V) has decided to start writing a blog. Welcome to the blogworld YGND.

Narcissism

“What do you do when you reach the end of internet? You know those days when there is absolutely nothing to read anywhere online. What do you do?” BigGeek asked me out of the blue one night. He was reading his cases; I was vegging out in front of the TV. “It is a problem.” I admitted. “Rather, is used to be a problem before I started this blog. Now I just read my old posts. It’s guaranteed good reading.” I said trying to hide a smirk. BigGeek broke out in a wide grin. “I knew there was a really good reason I married you.” He grinned and went back to his work.

And here are mummyjaan and then Parul tagging me to be narcissistic (someone knows my secret) and what better person to wallow in self glory than me, huh? So let’s play this game.

Rules
Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given : family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like. Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

So here’s what I am going to do. I am going to put a small excerpt from each post and try to entice you to read the whole nine yards. And, if like me, if you have reached the end of the internet, thank your stars because this is your lucky day indeed.

Family
“I thought about you as I read these pages today.” My mother-in-law said smilingly as I stepped out onto the deck yesterday. I had just got home, given Chip his milk, peanuts, raisins, apple, milk again, juice (grape not apple), peanuts again. Finally getting tired of the game, I had given Chip an ultimatum, poured myself a glass of juice, helped myself to the Chivda the MIL had made and stepped out on the deck. The MIL was reading, or rather re-reading after a decade, Many Masters Many Lives, sitting on the swing, a cup of coffee in hand.
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Friend
This is about Chip. It’s been a while since I have done a Chip-exclusive post and this would be a fitting sequel to my other bizarre post. Chip was a colicky, asthmatic baby and he was so hurting most of the time, he did not have any energy to bond with strangers. All that has changed and he is quite the Mr.Friendly to everyone now except a really good friend.
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Yourself
I had always thought of myself as the been-there-done-that-person. So when I read this post by Usha, it made me reflect. I was a passionate twenty-something with a taste for adventure. Took a few years off after college despite the promise of well paying jobs and crossed the line into the artsy world. Jaded and a couple of years later, took a flight to the US, searching for new adventures and to go to a Grad school that had an excellent ranking in the artsy field. I was going on a mission of self-discovery, after all. Nothing was unattainable, not if I wanted it badly anyways. There were mountains to be scaled, rivers to be crossed and roads to be uncovered. Metaphorically, of course. And I had to do it on my own. No second-hand experiences for me, thank you very much. After all, the map was not the terrain. How far could I go?
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Your love
The wonderful noon after having written a beautiful recount of her own engagement has tagged me to do the same. So here goes. It's a movie, mind y'all.
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Anything you like
If you are looking at the title and are not quite sure what to expect, read on. This is about Chip and his passions. In order. Not a day passes without Chip alluding to all three of the above mentioned..umm..things.

Wine is an absolute favorite. Although tempted, I haven’t given him a six ounce in his plastic yellow lion cup yet, but that does not deter my budding oenophile from asking for some vino.
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Passing the tag to new bloggie pals
The TAA Mom
Kowsalya
And old suspects
Altoid
Tharini
Boo

False Dilemma

I am stuck in a classic beast of a dilemma where I have to choose between two, undesirable choices. What do I do? Well, write a post on it, for starters. I need to make a trip to Vaishnodevi. If you don’t remember why, read this old post. Cutting to the chase then, I am making a trip to India in March. Just me and Chip. For a just little more than two weeks. After five and a half years long years. After getting married, after having a child, after BigGeek’s “little adventure”. Many people to meet, very little time.

To make a trip, from Mumbai to Jammu and then on to Vaishnodevi, in a schedule that is already stuffed to the brim, is no lilliputian task. But make do I must. As much as I would have liked to take a train and chug though sleepy little towns and their dusty train stations and crusty vendors hawking hot tea and show Chip these little nuggets of quintessential India from my past, I can’t. Not if I have to make a trip in three days. I have to fly. Fair enough. You can’t have everything. So, I fly out on day1 to Jammu, drive to Katra. Climb up the Trikuta Mountain next day to the shrine and then climb back down. Depart for Mumbai on day 3. The climb is about 14km (9 miles) each way. It took my friend and her mother nine hours to climb the mountain. I can do it; I am in fairly good shape. And I am sure if my mom/mil/aunts/grandma accompanies me they can always get a doli. The challenge is of course Chip. I cannot imagine not doing the yatra without him. But to keep him engaged for such an extended period of time, managing his potty and meals will no doubt be arduous, especially since both, he and I, will be jet lagged. There is of course another alternative. The heli ride. You can now get to the shrine in 8 minutes by a helicopter, instead of anywhere from 5-8 hours if you walked. It will be a breeze for Chip and me and the mothers. But I am uncomfortable doing it.

Pilgrimages are not supposed to be made in a chopper. They are supposed to be journeys. Where you travel different lands, meet interesting people on the way, experience adventures. Almost like a microcosm your larger journey in life. The journey is important; perhaps because in a sense it begets the final destination. It can’t and shouldn’t be fitted into an eight minute ride. That just doesn’t feel right. But rationale triumphs. How is the palanquin or a pony ride different? One is not walking with one’s two feet. But the journey takes just as much time, doesn’t it? And it is leisurely, is it not? Maybe at the bottom of it all, I am truly trepid of filling six long hours with nothing to do. Except of course entertain and feed and clean Chip and walk. Perhaps my life has become a macrocosm of the 8 minute helicopter ride.

I am wondering about how to deal with this. Should I ride the helicopter or should I walk? I want to walk. But I also want to ride the helicopter not feel like I am cheating. It is a classic dilemma. Or it could be that it is not really a dilemma at all. Most problems are analog spectrums. They are not binary. And perhaps there is a third answer lurking somewhere. But it is eluding me. Big time. Kahlil Gibran once said that the road to knowledge starts with perplexity. I am sure he meant it for people like Plato and Socrates and their bigger, important dilemmas that truly stood on the brink of great knowledge and wisdom. Mine seems like a joke in comparison. But then again, we all have our own dilemmas handed out to us by providence. Big and small. And perhaps it is the size of dilemmas that cast the difference between the making of a great Socrates or the insignificant me.

The Anti Jinx

I am feeling a little silly today. Not to mention uninspired to write anything of substance. By which it is implied that what I write usually has some substance in it and there will be many of you, no all of you, who will jump at this opportunity and say A-ha. Gotcha. You don’t. So, well. Scratch that.

We often write about our kids, our homes, our lives. And wise, rational, educated folks that we are, we often say a little prayer to ward off the evil eye before hitting that little publish button. Or if you are like me, you spell a few words backwards or boldly declare the jinxters to go away. So, I thought it would be good fun to be a little creative while doing it. So I created these lil graphics for ya’ll to put on your sites, posts, images to ward off all those evil eyes. Call them cheesy, campy, kitschy, but you can’t deny they are not funny! So enjoy.

P.S. I have added two more icons thanks to Gypsy and CeeKay

Also these are more like thumbnails. The images are hosted on photobucket. Please click to get a larger/better image!

Under Weather

If you open the Mommy Handbook, the first rule says, Mommies don’t fall sick. Obviously what ever virus or bacteria or [insert species] currently invading my throat and throwing all their friends and their mothers a gala party haven’t read the mommy handbook. Obviously. My throat hurts. Ok, that is an understatement. My throat is inflamed, I can’t swallow and it hurts like someone is pounding it with a hundred pound, spiked lead ball. I prefer labor pain to this. I have tried ginger teas, gargling with every liquid under the sun, homeopathic remedies. Nothing seems to be working. Which has now lead me to the conclusion this must be strep. I really should go see a doctor and get some antibiotics, but going to a GP here is a pain in the south. My GP is about 25 miles from where I work and 16 miles from home, making the trip with traffic and everything else a 2 hour deal. It’s not like I have tried to find a Family Practice closer to home. The last time I was down with strep I called EVERY family practice within a five mile radius of where I live. And the earliest appointment I could get was three months down the line. Three months. Ninety days. Yeah, I am just going to tell the strep bacteria to go hibernate till it’s time for my appointment when they will get hosed down with some amoxicillin.

Don’t even get me started with health care here. If it is a real emergency, you will thank your stars you live in this country. They work like a well oiled machine. But for things like strep throats and flu and minor aches and sprains it can be a nightmare. I should go to a doctor, but I probably will just ride it out. All I want to do is go home and sleep. Get some hot tea and antibiotics and sleep. Which brings me to another point. I feel horribly, terribly guilty if I have to take a day off for me, personally. I just can’t do it. I will fret and fume and imagine all sorts of scenarios where everything at work is broken and everybody is cursing me. Which of course defeats the purpose of the said day off especially when you are sick. My friend and neighbor V once took a day off after a party she hosted because she was exhausted. Sent the girls to the daycare and just slept or did nothing. Guilt-free. How I admired her courage! I can never do that. As much as I badly want to. The guilt will cause my body more harm that whatever trifling illness I am down with. And I think most mommies are like me. Feeling guilty for doing something just for themselves. Just being the operative word. We feel irrevocably selfish. One small day off. What is the big deal? Right? But it is. It means you are a bad mother for wanting a day off. It is true in its own silliness.

So here I am debating whether to go to a doctor because it will be such a waste of time if they find that it is not strep but just your regular garden variety viral cold. Then what? I am back to the ginger tea, gargle and riding it out. Sigh. Why does this have to be so complicated?


p.s. Did you like my new look? Grafx did it! I tweaked the banner but the rest is all her.

The Object Of My Affection

The inimitable Kiran tagged me to do this. And I have been having a hard time. Atlases and elephants and bangles. I have no such treasures. Well, maybe I do, I suppose. There is a little steel “gadu” - an odd shaped cup for water that belonged to my mother that belonged to me and now belongs to Chip. But it doesn’t inspire mushy feelings. I have a pair of my grandmother’s earrings and a silver platter that was awarded to my dad. And they are all wonderful things to have no doubt and they will be passed on proudly as such things usually are. They are mine only in transit. The earrings will go to Chip’s wife and the plaque will be given to him as well. They are not mine, not in that sense.

When I came to the States nine years ago as a student, I came with two suitcases and a backpack. Leaving most of my treasures behind. A collection of vintage and old coins. A carved rosewood chest. Little treasures collected as a girl. I felt a sad; perhaps a little nostalgic knowing that this is where we parted ways. These things would not cross the shores with me. But I sneaked in a little treasure. And most of you would have a hearty laugh if you knew what it was. A hairbrush. A little plastic hairbrush. Black. With hard bristles. About eight inches in length. Shaped like curvier paddle or a half-round. Take your pick. The hairbrush is more than a quarter century old and it has quite a bit of amusing history attached to it.

The hairbrush came with a hairdryer set. This was the late seventies, early eighties when hairdryers were a middle class luxury. My dad and mom on their maiden trip to Germany bought a cherry red hairdryer set made by Siemens complete with accessories on sale and brought it home. My mother obviously liked it but I don’t have too many memories of her actually using it. I am sure she was convinced her hair would fall off or turn gray (and no, I don’t blame her). Needless to say, I was completely smitten. Not just by the red hairdryer but also with its box that showed off pretty blonde models using the accessories and features to achieve silky straight hair and tumbling curls. Wow. I begged my mother to let me dry my hair with it and she permitted me to do so a few times, but not more. If I couldn’t have the hairdryer, I begged to use the accessories by themselves – a large comb and a brush. The comb was too commonplace. Every household had one. Brushes, on the other hand were a novelty and I declared the brush as my own. Over the years, the hairdryer was rarely used, although I used the hard bristled brush every single day. Many years later, the hairdryer brunt its coil and was thrown away. I was in my teens. My mother begged me to throw away the hairbrush that came with it. I had several brushes and combs by then, but this one held a special place. Never would I part with the silly hairbrush. For many years, I brushed my hair with it, sort of to finish my hair routine even if the bulk of combing and brushing was done with scalp friendly brushes. It had become a sort of a talisman. To part with it would be to invite untold tragedies upon me.

The brush crossed the Atlantic with me and to every house I moved to, it moved with me. I bought fancier brushes and nicer combs, but this one always stayed. Over the years it collected dirt and dust. It became faded and marked and scratched. It came so dirty that overnight soaking in sudsy water did little to improve its appearance. BigGeek threatened to throw the vile brush away. “You will catch a disease” he pleaded. Hairbrushes were not to be used for a zillion years. True. I had brought and thrown away many, many hairbrushes, but I was unable to part with this one. One day BigGeek followed up on his threat. I found the brush in the trash can. I, of course retrieved it and cleaned it. “It has to get out of this house.” BigGeek said, arms crossed. I relented. The hairbrush was causing him too much distress. “Ok, I promise to get it out of the house.” I said. I was glum. I slipped the hairbrush into my purse and all conversation on the matter ended. I hid it in the glove box of my old car. And it stayed there happily for a while. And then, when I sold the car to the dealer a few years later, I gathered all my stuff and put it in BigGeek’s car. The brush went in his car and hid in the seat pouch at the back. I think BigGeek knows it is there but he has given up on it. I once told BigGeek when I was pregnant that I intend to brush Chip’s hair with that brush. He was horrified that I would expose our little one to such atrocities. But I have sneaked and brushed Chip’s hair with the brush. And he has enjoyed it.

p.s. Wrote it in a hurry yesterday, so forgot to pass along the tag. Gauri, Preethi, choxbox, your turn now.

Green

If you think my blog is suddenly looking like a preppie wardrobe, I won’t blame you. What with posts titled Pink and Green. Maybe I’ll write a few more posts titled Oxford Shirts and Martha’s Vineyard to complete the look. Jokes apart, over the last year, all said and done, I have come to appreciate the whole Green thing. I have in my own way, tried to be a little more responsible about environment while trying to say away from its faddish, Upper East avatars.

Thirty years ago, my mother would have laughed at the Green nonsense and dissed it as yet another Western fad. Recycle? Compost? People write and talk about this? She would have laughed and gone back to negotiate stainless steel dabbas with the bohareen in exchange for her eight sarees and three trousers. I did not know anybody who did not do this. It was a way of life. Fuelled by necessity. Growing up, we saved newspapers. At the end of each month, we sorted them neatly in two piles - English and Vernacular and took them to the raddiwallah. He weighed them carefully, calculated the rate – higher for English, lower for Vernacular and then gave us an option of either buying coconuts from him or settling the deal in cash. Although some haggling took pace occasionally over accuracy of the scales or the going rate or both, all parties were without doubt happy at the end of the deal. It was a win-win situation.

Paper towels were an ill afforded luxury as was aluminum foil and shrink wrap. People simply put small steel plates on steel bowls to cover leftovers in the fridge. Grocers wrapped daals and peanuts in neatly cut squares of newspaper (and nobody worried about lead in the printing ink). In smaller towns like the one I grew up in, even gray water was not wasted. In little washing spaces in the backyards, water from washing clothes and dishes was diverted to a small grove that grew luscious bananas, papayas and calocecia.

So when I arrived in United States nine years ago, it was a bit of a shock. The first thing I noticed was the abundant use of paper towels. My roommate used paper towels to catch crumbs from his toast, using it as a plate, and then crumpling it and throwing it away and ripping another sheet to clean the table afterwards. Disposable cups and plates, copier paper, single serve packs. Nobody gave it a second thought. And as I embraced the fast paced, go-getting, goal oriented lifestyle I embraced this cultural emblems too. Before I knew it I was buying packs of disposable plates and piles of paper towels. I was throwing away kitchen scraps but buying hummus and fertilizers. My grocery was brought home in throwaway plastic bags. I recycled religiously, used the grocery bags as trash-can liners but I was also wasting a lot without realizing it. And it dawned on me only last summer while growing strawberries and tomatoes and peppers that I could be more responsible and waste less. Waste not want not.

Over the past year, I have tried to minimize my environmental impact. I use less soap in the washing machine and my clothes turn out to be just as clean. I use reusable canvas bags to get grocery and other supplies. I compost. I had stopped using disposable plates not for environmental reasons initially, but simply because I thought it was tacky to feed people in paper plates unless it was a child’s birthday party. But I know people who will use disposables even if there are having only two dinner guests because its convenient (than what?? Loading the dishwasher with two more plates??) We have always kept heating lower. Our thermostat is set at 67F. We would much rather wear warm pants and a sweater than crank the heat up to 75F. We don’t drive SUVs or mini vans. Although I wanted one badly, I saw BigGeek’s reasoning. I would be driving it alone most of the time, so I would just be wasting gas.

I am living in a society that appreciates leaving a smaller environmental footprint. And all the little acts mentioned above have some societal validation. It’s hip to carry reusable bags and to compost. It’s not yet hip to buy smaller houses. People with one or two kids would still much rather live in a McMansion. And when both parents are work and the kids are in school, the energy consumed in simply heating or cooling a big empty house is tremendous. I wish builders had some other way of upping the status ante than just giving more square footage.

So, we still have a long way to go. Even a simple act of taking reusable grocery bags can be a hassle. I have forgotten it so many times when I was just starting out. Now its become second nature. As have a lot of other things. So, now its time to ask what more can I do? For instance, I can surely remind myself to take containers to restaurants to bring home leftovers instead of using the restaurant supplied plastic or foam containers. Or try making toys at home from things that would be thrown away. Use reusable gift wrapping or reusable cloth bags instead of paper. There are so many ways to reduce waste. All it needs is a little creativity.

Near and Far

As I write this, the snow storm outside is covering the landscape with a shimmering blanket. Big snowflakes floating in the air uncertain of where to go; eventually pulled by gravity, almost unwillingly, falling gently to the ground beneath. Like a million cursed angels. I better not think about the commute. But today’s post is not about snow or about commute. Far from it.

Every year in January as the festivities fade away in the year past, my feet begin to itch. The desire for solitude or whatever its redefinition is, in a spousal and a parental context, creeps in. A yearning to escape cluttered thoughts and the monotonous dreary of the everyday. To look at something new in the silly hope that when I eventually get back to my chosen life, my point of view, will somehow be magically altered, if only briefly. But constraints impede: time and money. As much I would like to, I cannot escape into verdant forests in the mountains or dive into the cerulean blues of the seas on a whim.


A very long time ago I dreamed on hopping on the trans-Siberian Railroad. Timetables were gathered, flights checked. Seasons debated. A three week journey through snow filled Russia or a more welcoming July? How about making it a honeymoon adventure? The thrill of it although intense, was not very long lived. It would cost an arm and leg and was carefully swept aside and promptly put on a list of things to do when we have the money.

Then a few months later, Alaska. The surreal tundra landscape took my breath away when I looked it up. The pictures of the soaring mountain peaks, the fragile wildflowers. The Tundra. The Taiga. I was living elementary school geography and immensely enjoying it this time around. It is the closest I will come to being in outer space, I told myself. BigGeek concurred. The plan did not come to fruition for two years and then it did. We drove and hiked in Alaska for 10 glorious days. Standing on a mountain drinking in the vast, ethereal, almost eerie wilderness of Denali. Watching in amazement as the strange, silt-ridden glacial rivers of the land braided and twisted themselves again and again, changing course every season, never knowing where they will be next spring. Witnessing a glacier thunder and rumble and then suddenly calve and burst into a million icy shards a few feet away. Sights like these bring profound changes and they coerce you to realize, yet again, your utter insignificance in the larger scheme of things.

Although we traveled in subsequent years to many places and saw many sights, it was not the same. There was something missing. We went to Boston and South California. Nevada and the Grand Canyon. Hawaii and Florida. Beaches in Virginia and mountains in West Virginia. We went “sight seeing” with mighty expectations. And, not unsurprisingly, all those places failed to give me that elusive sense of wonder. I slowly realized why. We simply did not meander. We went with a set goal in mind and that sort of voided the thrill of travel. We were inches away from being one of those ubiquitous tour groups that take you to fifteen European cities in 2 weeks. It was physical travel. Not a journey.

With monetary and time limitations firmly in place that show no signs of budging, I do what every pauper in my place must do. Become not an armchair traveler, but a slightly more modern desk traveler. So, on dull afternoons and uninspired evenings I plan trips. Adventures to far away lands. When time and money casts a deep shadow, the imagination soars. And with my little desktop PC I have been to many places. I have visited the sands of Mongolia and lived in kurts under the starry sky. I have visited the islands of Japan with their exotic manners and baffling ways. I have climbed to legendary Manasarover and seen a lake that defies linguistic description. I have kayaked in the Amazon and cruised on the Nile. I have battled giant mosquitoes in the mysterious African rainforests. I have seen the fjords of Norway and have crossed the Arctic Circle. I have driven deep into Patagonia and hiked to an ice shelf with only penguins for company. I hope to do all of this one day. Some day. And I hope that with every mile I travel outside, I also travel a mile on the inside.

On the flip side

Chip’s swimming classes aren’t going as swimmingly as I would like them to be. The culprit obviously is Chip, but, the proximity of the water slides are also blame. Take yesterday for example. When I went to pick him up from his school, I had to wait until he finished making tea in the (toy) microwave a dozen times. Running out of patience and the desire to use the restrooms, I have to lure him with the promise of swimming. “Don’t you want to go swim, Chip?” I ask chasing him with his coat. He stops mid track and beams. “Yay! Let’s go swimming!” We sit inside the car and I think its time to tell him the truth. “We have to go for a swimming class today, Chip.” His forehead has deep furrows. “Aaj (today) no Mr.Eric, Aie.” He declares in his Minglish. “Mr. Eric yenar Mondayla (Mr.Eric will come on Monday). “Today IS Monday.” “Today is Monday?” he repeats after me. “I don’t like Mr.Eric” “Oh nonsense.” I brush him off. “He is so nice. You can dump water on him and sing songs with him. Yes?” “No” he replies grumpily. “I want noosta (only) swimming. No swimming class.”

If I thought an hour or so before we headed to the pool helped, it wasn’t so. BigGeek accompanied Chip into the water as my mom and I sat on the bleachers looking at the fun (not!). Despite BigGeek’s cajoling, Chip refused to get into the pool. He wanted to go on the water slides and just play. After much whispered conversations they finally got into the pool and joined in the activities. While other kids listened quietly and followed (or tried to follow) directions, Chip’s attention was drawn by the kids playing on the water slides, then the lifeguards walking past. He refused to kick his legs and move his arms. He simply clung onto BigGeek’s neck and squirmed with all his might. Extremely annoying and extremely frustrating.

Sitting on the bleachers, watching BigGeek struggling with him, I wonder if Chip has developed a phobia for water. I remember this past summer when Chip jumped into the pool without fear or our trip to Florida where he refused to play in the baby pool because if offered no buoyancy. Later in the locker room I ask Chip if he is afraid of the water. “No”, he replies shaking his head. “Chip is not afraid of water.” He pronounces to me and BigGeek.

Chip is simply not getting anything out of the lessons which has made me think if I am pushing him too much. I thought the lessons would be fun. When I was growing up, the preferred method of teaching kids to swim was to push them into the deep end of the pool and watch then gasp and claw and kick. Kids generally figured out how to stay afloat after going under a few times. That was hardly ideal, so the classes, I thought would teach me how to teach. And I have got some excellent pointers, no doubt. But I have also realized that formal instruction, even if it is cloaked in songs and fun-stuff is not for Chip. Not at this age. He is just not ready yet. And it gets exasperating not only for him, but also for me. I don’t want to turn into a hypercompetitive parent who wants their kid to be a swimmer and soccer-player and a neurosurgeon and an astronaut and a black belt karate master and a surfer and a pianist. Buckaroo Banzai, Chip is not and certainly won’t be.

So I am wondering if I should continue with the classes at all. There are five more sessions to go. I would just rather take him to the pool and let him have fun and figure water by himself. Because the whole point of sports is to go out there and have fun, isn’t it? And if not sports, the whole point of childhood certainly is.

In the eyes of a child

If someone were to ask Chip what the highlights in his 2.5 year old life are, it would be these and in this order.

1. The day the lawn mower ran out of gas
2. The day we visited New York City

This summer we visited some friends in NY and that was Chip’s first trip to NYC. He was completely bowled over by the crowds, the skyscrapers, the lights, the noise and the buses. He wanted to ride on every bus that thundered by. And he was thrilled about the ubiquitous yellow cabs. Sitting in them without a car seat. Hailing them by the curbside. He was amazed to see so many people walking and the congested streets, unlike the suburb he lives in, jam packed with traffic and flanked with stores and roadside vendors. Such an impression NYC made on him – and I yet have to meet a person who is not bowled over by the city – that when he and BigGeek and my mom picked me from my office in the local downtown last weekend -which, though crowded, is no where close to the bustle and energy of NYC-, Chip was so excited, he blurted “Oh my god, Aie! It’s New York!”

But NYC trip pales in comparison to the day the lawnmower ran out of gas. Chip is obsessed about mowers. Ride on mowers, push mowers, self propelled mowers, big mowers, small mowers, any mowers. He scours the flyers in the Sunday paper looking for mowers. Our favorite winter pastime is often going to Home Depot and looking at the mowers there. He can watch the neighbors mow lawn for hours. And of course when time comes to mow our own lawn he is Baba’s big helper.

The hour it takes BigGeek to mow the yard, Chip is at his heels. He looks forward to it week after week. And one week on a hot July afternoon, Chip got a bonus. While mowing the lawn, the mower sputtered and then stopped. Chip gasped. “What happened, Baba?”. Baba said, “It’s nothing, the mower just ran out of gas.” Then Baba took a little red can out of the garden shed and he and Chip drove down to the gas station to get gas. They came back with the gas, poured it carefully into the mower and the mower started again. That’s how the story goes and Chip demands a narration every single day. Nothing and I mean nothing comes remotely close to mowing the grass with his Baba. And the mower-running-out-of-gas episode is nothing less than nirvana for Chip.

This fall however changed our lives. With BigGeek’s heart attack, he was told to take it easy. Mowing, was obviously out of the question. I paid the neighbor’s boy to cut our grass, but for Chip it wasn’t the same. He watched from the deck as C and his brother mowed and weed whacked. I explained to Chip why Baba was not cutting grass and he seemed to understand. I thought nothing much of it until a few days ago.

I was putting Chip to bed. BigGeek was away at school. After the endless cycle of bedtime stories and books and calls to his Baba to wish Goodnight, I turned off the light. “Close your eyes now, Chip” I said sternly. All was quiet for a while and then Chip spoke slowly. “Baba does not do lawn mower. Because Baba has a big ouchie.” “That’s right, Chip. C mows the lawn for us now.” I said. There was a pause. “Does P kaka mow lawn?” I was surprised by this question. “Yes, Chip. P Kaka mows lawn.” I said softly. Pause again. “Chip help P kaka mow lawn?” I was speechless. My eyes welled up and there was a lump in my throat. I was at a loss for words. “I am sure you can, Chip. And maybe we can also ask C if you can help him mow. OK?” I managed to keep my voice steady. “Ok.” Chip said after thinking about it for a few seconds. In a few minutes he was fast asleep. But I wasn’t. Not for a long time after that.

Swimmingly Yours

“The County Recreation Center called an hour ago” my mom said as Chip guzzled his elaichi flavored Horlicks and I rummaged the fridge for an after work snack. “To confirm?” “No.” my mom replied. “They said lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays are cancelled. They have enrolled him for Monday and Wednesday and if that doesn’t work for us they will give us a refund.” “Ok. Same time?” “Yes. Same time- 6:20” my mom nodded. I glanced at the clock it was 6:05. “I think we can make it to today’s class. Dang. Why didn’t they call earlier?” I frowned. “Come on Chip, let’s go swimming.” Chip wiped his mouth on his sleeve, leaped off his chair and let out an excited scream. My mom dressed him while I changed and we stuffed ourselves into the car and drove to the Rec. Center.

It was 6:20 on the dot when we arrived. We ran inside and found the registration desk. I explained the situation to the twenty-something blond there and was told to wait in the corner of the swimming pool area for the instructor to show up. By 6:30 there was no one in sight. I went by again and found someone and told her my story. “Wait there, someone will be there soon.” By now Chip was getting antsy. He saw the water and was ready to dive in. “Wait a second, you teacher will be here soon.” I tried to hold him back. 15 minutes later and no one in sight, I let Chip go inside the baby pool. Ten minutes later, someone finally summoned us. Chip refused to get out of the water and cried for dear life, showing off his mighty lung power as I tore him away to another section of the pool where the classes were held. There were six other kids. All remarkably quiet and well behaved. While the toddlers looked on as the instructor (let’s give him an alphabet E) introduced himself to us, Chip’s eyes and heart were already in the toy bin where he had mentally picked out a red bucket he wanted to play with. “I want to play with red bucket.” He declared to no one in particular. I shushed him. First appealing to the good boy in him, then the big boy, finally threatening to give him away to a rakshas. That bought me a full 15 seconds while he squinted and did some quick mental math to calculate the odds of that happening after which he was ready to dive in the pool.

After refusing my help to step into the deep-for-Chip pool and trying to wiggle away to the water slides, Chip started Activity#1. “Wheels of the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round” sang Chip gleefully moving his arms in unsynchronized strokes. After the song was done, E cheered the kids and Chip declared loudly “Let’s sing Humpty-Dumpty now.” I shushed him yet again, telling him we had to listen to E, but he wouldn’t let go. “ I want to sing humpty dumpty.” He whined. So while other kids and their mommies and daddies listened to what the next activity was all about, Chip and his mother ended up singing humpty-dumpty, albeit softly.

The next activity involved buckets. Chip let out a “YAY” and clapped as E brought out the little sand pails. E went to each kid asking him/her to dump a pail full of water on his head and gently dumping a pail full of water on theirs. Chip gleefully dumped a bucket on E’s head and then several buckets on mine. While other mommies’ and daddies’ hair stayed nice and dry, my head was drenched by a very, very zealous Chip. While other kids stayed quietly in their parents arms, Chip splashed, jumped, kicked constantly.

Then came the barbells and the little duckie board and the hokie-pokie song. All in all, it was a BIG exercise for me. And while I was beating myself up for not jumping on the treadmill, I did end up getting a good workout just swooshing Chip in water and dunking him and doing all the activities with him, but mostly just trying to holding him still. Let’s see how it goes tomorrow.

Pink

“I want pink color.” Chip replies without batting an eyelid. We are getting out of the car parked in front of an art and craft store where we are headed to buy wool for my mom to knit a sweater for Chip. “Not blue or green?” asks my mother. “Nooo! I want pink sweater.” I throw my arms up in air. “OK. We will go see what colors they have.” Chip is all about pink these days. And Dora and care bears and princesses. A few weeks ago during the holiday season, Chip and BigGeek went to Sears to get a drill/hammer/random-equipment-for-I-don’t-know-what. Chip had also been in a popcorn phase then. He had kept chanting his popcorn mantra for days, when BigGeek saw huge popcorn tins by the checkout counter and asked Chip to pick one. Chip looked over Cars and other “boy” themed tins and gleefully picked a pink one with Disney princesses. When I saw the tim he brought home, I asked Chip what those figures were. “It’s a princess” he told me pointing to a clone-of-Barbie dancing princess.

A few weeks later we visited the doctor for an ear infection. She offered stickers to Chip – truck, cars, planes, he looked into the bin carefully and picked a pink Care Bear. “You don’t want the red fire truck?” She asked. Chip shook his head. “I want pink bear.” He declared, holding the piece of sticker in his tiny fist. He has thrown himself on the floor of a store for a Dora backpack and begged for a Dora cup. He has fought tooth and nail for a pink doll stroller. He imitates me wearing makeup. Does this bother me? I am not going to answer that question, not just yet. Because this is a bit more than pink is for girls and blue is for boys.

I once mentioned his pink obsession to Ms.L, his teacher. She must have sensed something in my voice because she put her hand on my shoulder and shook her head. “Don’t worry”, she said patting me. “He plays with trucks and cars and planes too.” It was because of a girl called J in his class, she explained. J and Chip are good friends and she is all about Dora and princesses. “J talks about them all the time.” I nodded as she tried to explain. “It’s okay.. It doesn’t bother me a lot. I like Dora. I have seen her show once.” I shrugged and told her. Chip’s class demographics are highly skewed too. In a class of 16, there are 13 girls.

I have wrestled with this issue forever. Even before Chip was born or even conceived. I wanted Chip to play with dolls and tea sets along with planes and trucks and had happily set out to buy him a doll when he was a baby. But BigGeek had a strong opinion about it and Chip had not demanded one just yet, so I let go. But when Chip started to take down and pots and spoons, and cook with them and serving his creations in wooden coasters, I started toying with the idea of buying him a tea set. Chip hadn’t asked for one and I thought BigGeek would not be too thrilled with it, so the idea stayed in my mind until a few days ago when we were over for din-din at our wonderful neighbor and friend V and A’s house. I mentioned my desire to buy Chip a tea set when V told me she an extra one, and Chip could have it. “Are you sure?” I cooed. “It is pink and has princesses.” She warned. “T had a white and blue set, I could have given that to you, but a lot of the pieces are lost.” We came home with a lovely pink tea set that night. BigGeek frowned a bit at the color (why can’t they make red and green tea sets with bugs on them, huh?) but allowed us to keep it and Chip has had a blast with it cooking idlis and chapattis and mac-and-cheese every day and I am happy for it.

But this has not been an easy issue. My thoughts on the whole “pink” thing are so jumbled that I am having a hard time sorting them out. I don’t mind Chip playing with pink princesses and sporting mermaid tattoos, but I don’t want him to loose his boy-ness. Which brings us to what boy-ness really means in the context of a two year old. Do I discourage him passively by ignoring him, when he pretends to wear make up? Do I play more rough and tumble games with him? Do I tell BigGeek to make it a point to have Chip around when he fixes things around the house? Or have him take Chip fishing? Do I leave the TV on when a football game is being shown? Or leave it to him to figure out gender identity by looking at peers when he is older? What if he asks to wear a skirt tomorrow? I don’t want to thrust gender stratification on him at this age, but unknowingly I do and I don’t think there is anything wrong with it.

For example, Chip’s little chuddis have Elmo on them and have “Slam Dunk” written on the back. I would have returned them to the store had Chip been a girl, but I don’t find it as offensive since Chip is a boy. Chip has a visible scar on his forehead from a fall and had it been a girl, I would have gone to the pediatrician asked for something to make it less visible. But since Chip is a boy, it’s no big deal, he can brag about it to his girlfriend later. I would much rather he plays football and ice hockey than dance ballet and do gymnastics if it’s up to me.

It’s a hard balance to achieve. Especially for boys. Girls wear pants and play with airplanes and that is quite acceptable, socially. As is a girl who prefers climbing trees and running outside to playing with her dolls. Gender identity for boys is much more trickier. Girls can take on all the boy characteristics and that is not only frowned upon, but even admired. With boys, society and especially future mates do want them to be sensitive but not effeminate. What’s a mother to do?

At the arts and crafts store, Chip has picked a ball of pink wool but now says he wants a black sweater. We pick some tan and brown wool in the end and as we return to the car, my head is full of pink questions. As we speed away into the cold night, I wonder if I will turn him to a chauvinist fool when I teach him to let the ladies go through doors first and to help them with their coats. I mull this over in my head, and later that night as I am about to fall asleep I realize I have known the answers all along.

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Edited to add: TAAMomma's awsome post on the same topic

His Mother's Child

Chip is peering at her. She is a mother and she has a toddler and she is on TV and she is quite pretty. And she is a toon. “Hanuman’s mother is nangoo(naked)!” Chip exclaims as he watches the toony Anjani toss a baby Hanuman in the air to the captivating strains of Akdam-Bakdam. I am speechless at the observation. “She is not naked. She is wearing a saree.” I say, in my most matter-of-fact, no-nonsense voice. Chip has a deep furrow on his forehead as he ponders the veracity of my statement. A couple of pregnant minutes later, he nods his head. “Ok. I want Hanuman chi Aie pahijey (I want Hanuman’s mom).” Just when I think the issue is resolved and closed, Chip comes with this. “You do? OK. Let’s go change into your pajamas first.” I whisk him upstairs to brush his teeth and put him in his pajamas. We wrestle over the toothbrush. I bite my tongue as she slathers liquid soap everywhere on the counter and makes bubbles. I turn away as he pours water in the toilet bowl and flushes. Finally getting tired of his own gimmicks, he washes his hands, wipes them on the towel, turns off the light, shuts the bathroom door and comes out; surprised I haven’t said a thing. I help him in his pajamas wordlessly and he says it again. “I want Hanuman chi Aie pahijey.” “You do? What will happen to Chip’s Aie then?” He thinks for a second. “Ummm… You go to the moon and the stars.” Already? “If I go to the moon, who will give you hugs and kisses and cuddle you and give you jam and poli (chapathi)?” I bet his Dad won’t be too averse to having someone like Hanuman’s mom around too. My active imagination spins into high gear. “Hanuman’s mother deil (will give). Doodh deil, grapes deil, apple deil.” He chants his favorite foods as he climbs down the stairs. Suddenly he stops. “Hanuman chi Aie oradtey, Chiiiiip? (Does hanuman’s mother yell Chiiiiip).” Now I realize what this is all about. The last few days have been rough. Chip has been very, very difficult and I have raised my voice almost constantly. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Don’t say this. Don’t say that. One thing after the other.

Chip and I sit down on the steps. “Are you afraid of me, Chip?” I ask. “Yes.”. I can’t believe he just said that. “Why are you afraid of me Chip?” “Aie oradtey, phatka detey (Aie yells and gives a swat).” “That’s because you don’t listen Chip.” I am trying to reason with him. “You can’t run away in stores. What if you get lost? And you can’t say rude things to people. But I will try and not yell. OK?” Chip smiles and heads down the stairs to the family room calling to his Ajji, “Ajji, I want Hanuman chi Aie pahijey.” I follow him into the family room, but he pushes me away and shuts the door. I am truly crestfallen now. I have a 2 year old who just told me he would rather have Hanuman’s cartoon mom than me, who has told me he is afraid of me and has shut a door to my face. Do I act like a grown up that I am and go inside and make peace? No. I decide to go hide under a desk. As I hear my mom tell Chip to open the door, I quickly dart into the dark study next door and cram my ample self amidst cables and dongles and other junk under the desk. I hear Chip open the door. “Aie, Aie. Aie.” He is calling out but I don’t make a sound. He goes into the kitchen calling my name and then is about to head back upstairs when his father sees him. BigGeek has no idea what has happened. “I don’t know where Aie is Chip, is she in the family room?” BigGeek comes by the study calling my name as Chip goes into the family room saying “Aie, I want Aie.”

From my vantage point from under the desk, I can see BigGeek opening the front door to see if I have stepped out when he catches me flailing my arms from under the desk. I put a finger to my lips and he understands. “Aie has gone away” he declares to Chip. Ajji comes out and joins the party outside the study. “Well. You pushed Aie out and shut the door, didn’t you?” My mother is looking to see where I am hiding and I wave to her from under the desk. “If you say sorry loudly, she might come back.” My mother is telling Chip. Chip shakes his head. “Say Sorry Chip, Aie will come back then.” BigGeek tries to coax him. Chip’s eyes are filled with tears. But his ego is still winning. He purses his lips and crosses his brow. And lets out a whisper. “Loudly, she can’t hear you.” I hear my mom say. “Sorry Aie” Chips tearful voice comes loud and clear as he peers out the front door into the dark, cold night, perched in his father's arms to see if his Aie comes back magically. I get off from under the desk and sneak up behind him. Chip breaks into a wide grin and dives into my arms. “Do you still want Hanuman chi Aie?” I ain’t letting go. “Nooooooooo” Chip squeals. “I want Aiechya kushit nee-nee (I want to sleep in Aie’s arms)”.

So, on that note, I bid adieu to 2007. Happy New Year to All. See you in 2008.