Why is my baby scared?

MM?

Her voice on the phone was nervous, jittery. Unlike her usual chirpy, vivacious self.

What’s wrong, love? I ask her.

She needs little encouragement and the whole story comes tumbling out. They’re a nuclear couple like the OA and I. But they’re luckier. They have both sets of grandparents living in the NCR, not too far away. But she’s as particular as I am and won’t leave her daughter with either househelp alone or send her to daycare. It makes for a tricky balance, but then we all know what it’s like to have a dozen balls up in the air and skates strapped on to our feet. So some nights if they head out partying, they drop her with her maternal grandparents. Other times with her paternal grandparents.

Until a few weeks ago she began to act up. Each time she was told she was going to her paternal grandparents home she would act up, misbehave, run and hide in her room. As it happens the mother is an involved, aware one and saw the pattern. Her paternal grandparents usually spoiled her rotten and she loved going there, so my friend was at a complete loss as to why she was behaving this way.

The problem with parents like us, again, the involved, aware ones, is that we’ve heard too much, seen too much, and worry too much. On the other hand, I think we’d rather be this way and worry ourselves bald, than not notice when things are wrong or live in denial. So we both knew what she was suspecting. But neither of us wanted to say the words. CSA.  Child Sexual Abuse. Three little words that put terror into the hearts of every parent.

The political issue here was that it was her in-laws. And while she feared that there was something going wrong at their place, she didn’t want to name her fears and neither did she want to upset her husband. Who to be fair, is as aware, involved and good a parent as any, and a great guy. Why is my child scared, MM, she broke down. Why is she scared?

Anyhow I calmed her fears, told her that if indeed someone was hurting her child, she was best placed to find out. And so the parents sat the little girl down, spent an hour talking to her and cajoling her and finally got the truth out. The grandparents had some regular visitors – neighbours. And of the old couple who visited, the gentleman was very fond of their daughter. He often jokingly told her he was going to take her home and keep her with them because she was so cute.She was terrified that one day he’d actually take her away.

This isn’t something we’re unused to. We hardened kids who grew up at a time when canings in school were par for the course and parents told us that the babaji down the road carried away kids who didn’t eat their greens. Were we scared? Hell yes, that’s how we ate our greens. Did we end up traumatised for life? Erm, no.

I don’t know how my friend plans to request the old gentleman not to scare her daughter but she and her husband did speak to the little girl and tell her that God’s plan was for them to be a family and no one could or would take her away. She went to Dada-Dadi’s house calmly the next night.

False alarm this was, but it was a wake up call. And it was a pleasant realisation that  parents in our generation are paying attention. And are willing to confront family even if it means a very unpleasant situation. Something our parents were loathe to do. More power to my friend and parents like her.

Have you guys seen this video, by the way? Can’t figure out a way to embed it. It’s a punch in the gut.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=542428999114351

Be aware. Stay alert. Keep talking to your child. Believe your child. Never mind who it is, stand up for your child. Always. Stay strong.

PS: In case you are wondering how to bring it up, this is how we talk about it with the Brat and the Bean.

Separate

Some of you wanted a Brat and Bean post and I know it’s been a while since you heard about them, mainly because their lives are slowly growing more private. They might not mind a potty training post when they grow up, but as they negotiate the real world, make friends and learn to deal with conflict I want more and more for that to be away from the public eye. That and the fact that milestones no longer fly thick and fast. Sitting up, standing, walking, talking, self feeding, first tooth falling, cycling without support…. I look back and it seems like their babyhood passed in a flash while I laboured physically to take them through each milestone.

But what has begun to fall by the wayside are the little leaps of mental evolution. The understanding, that I am a person separate from them. I realise that comes earlier to kids whose parents are working full time – they realise that mummy and daddy have a life apart from them. On the other hand, I’ve always been around to scratch an itchy back, soothe a fevered brow and rock a tired child to sleep while singing a lullaby so it is hard for kids like mine to accept that their mother has a life of her own and has indeed, even a separate body. I won’t comment on whether that is positive or not, but that is how it is.

The frustration that comes when they want something and Mama is *gasp* actually daring to take a shit (did I just say that on my blog?). The despair when they are upset over a fight in the school bus and Mama’s inability to make it better. These are little things that no one tells you about. Oh you read about them in books and now in blogs, but they don’t seem to amount to much. Unless you tend to feel everything 200% the way I do, and now I realise, my kids do too. I’ve passed my hypersensitivity on to them, through either nurture or genes and now we’re just going to have to deal with it.

I think it’s nice for kids to know that there is someone on earth who will always drop what they’re doing and be there for you – that is why you have parents, right? Someone who will always answer your calls. Someone who puts you first. And I don’t for a moment believe, that it gives them the impression that the world will do the same. They are, after all dealing with the real world on a real basis and seeing that it doesn’t cut it.

So yes, my biggest challenge has been to give them that limitless time and buckets of attention while still trying to maintain some semblance of a life of my own. Plentiful time and attention rarely spoil kids in my humble opinion. Trying to make up for the lack of either of those two with money or laxity on the other hand is what leads to terribly spoilt kids. I believe that all mothers must live their own lives and not let it revolve around their kids – technically. But I also know that it is a tough line to walk. Read this great piece from a son to a feminist mother.

Having said all of that I should admit rather shamefacedly that the intention isn’t always followed up by action. I work from home on a million and one projects at a time, and end up rather disorganised and flustered. So a cry for ‘Mamaaaaa!’ is usually answered with a snappy, ‘Okay, which one killed the other?’

But yes, should there be bloodshed, I’m there. If they come back from school and someone bullied them on the bus, they can talk about it over lunch. If they’re tired, I see it and sneak in an unscheduled nap. If they’re hungry and I’m not dying under the burden of a deadline, I can whip up something special for them. I don’t blame them for finding it hard to know where to draw the line.

Which is why I was pleasantly surprised a few days ago. The doorbell rang and the Brat helpfully ran to answer it, climbed up on a stool to open the latch, and knocked over a plant I had in the windowsill. I heard the crash and took a deep breath. It was okay, it was just a plant (and broken glass and dirt and a mess and more work for me!). And then he came running to me and said, “Mama, I’m sorry I knocked over a plant. I know you work hard to keep the house looking nice and we don’t have any didis to help you with the work. I’ll clean it up. And then I’ll help you plant another one.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement.

1. He’d rushed to confess and apologise.

2. He noticed and appreciated that I liked to keep a good home.

3. He acknowledged that I had no help and did everything alone.

4. He wanted to help me and make up for the loss.

It was more than I expected from a 7 year old whose mother ran circles around him. And at some level I guess it is not so surprising. He might be quiet but he visits other homes, observes how they are kept, sees how much help is available and oh dear God – he might just be a sensitive human being!

I hugged him, told him he might hurt himself on the broken pieces and sent him off to get me the broom and pan. That was all I really wanted from him.

A few days later I was in the toilet (Yes, I know this is the TMI moment) and the Bean yelled out to me. Now I am sick and tired of people wanting to have long, complicated conversations with me, the moment I ascend the throne. I’m good for a quick yes or no, after which I get distinctly cranky and hostile. It’s the last refuge of the tired wife and mother and you have no idea how frustrating it is to find no sanctuary there either. But no amount of sarcasm or downright nastiness seems to shoo them away. I’ve come to the conclusion that actually dealing with the issue and solving the problem (unless it’s something like – Mamma! He’s pushing pencils up my nose) is the only way to get rid of them.

So when the Bean yelled Mamaaaaa a couple of days ago, I resignedly yelled back, What?

Oh, said she, ‘You’re in the bathroom? I’m sorry. I’ll ask you later.”

I have to admit I almost fell off the pot in shock.

A realisation that I was in the toilet and an appreciation of the fact that I might want to go about my business in peace and oh dear God – an apology!

I know these little markers whiz by in the dailyness of life but both made me stop and smile. I might have missed them if I’d got too upset over the smashed plant or just as usual yelled something rude from the bathroom. Yes, I might have!

Missed real, honest to God milestones where they slowly evolve from parasites into human beings. Aware, sensitive and willing, once in a while, to give their mother a break. I know I’ve written very often about the gradual physical separation of a child from the mother. The weaning, the self feeding… and now this, the final and hardest break of all. Becoming an individual. Ego, choice, concern, love…

I went to bed smiling. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be home with them. It could be a year, it could be ten. But watching this, knowing this as I do, I can’t possibly look back in regret.

And while I’m here, let me share with you my current favourite song. The lyrics are awesome (check them out on the Coke Studio Pakistan site) and I love the way their voices blend. I’ve always loved Sanam Marvi’s voice and I don’t know if I can possibly love her more. And the Western influence towards the end is bang on. I can’t say enough, so I shall stop right here.

 

Before the street lights come on

It’s dark and I’m running down the little path, my heart palpitating, my palms clammy, my eyes seeking, seeking. I pass adults on cycles, dog and their walkers, guards slouched over lathis, and then in the distance, floating through the dark I hear two crystal clear voices. Mine, my heart sings out. They are. Mine, that is.

It is the first time I’ve let the kids go to the park alone, no shepherding and chaperoning them. And this doesn’t come easy to a victim of much, much child abuse. In my mind, a predator lurks in every corner. And yet, at 5 and 7 my brother and I were playing hide and seek across 10 houses and two streets. Yes, that was 25 years ago and in another time and place. But my children have a right to that freedom, that independence and that time away from mama.

I spent a couple of days agonising over it. Maybe I should give them a mobile phone so that I can stay in touch, I think to myself. But the very core of me rebels against that idea – either I let them go without that dog’s leash or I continue to guard them. The  free spirit won and I chose to let them live a little.

The start was inauspicious. They wanted to take their cycles but the OA’s fancy geared cycle was parked in front of theirs and they ended up buried under a pile of metal. I dug them out and threw them out of the house unceremoniously. Only to realise they were still in their flipflops. Get back in and wear your shoes, I called out and disappeared to get them a bottle of water.

I came back to find them gone. Had they worn their sneakers? Wouldn’t they need water? Who would keep an eye on the bottle as they played? Ours is not the safe environment of a high rise. It’s an open but gated community of sorts with many an opportunity for strangers to slip in and out.

I decided to get some work done since they’d gone and sat down in front of my laptop. It was dark when I looked up and my page was still blank. Where were my babies? And then because sunset wasn’t enough, there was a power failure.

I dashed out of the house into the pitch black, leaving the door wide open in case they came back while I was out hunting for them. And then I began to run to the park, gimpy knee forgotten. Which is when I saw the two figures come floating through the darkness. Blurred at the edges, chatting away in the clearest, dearest little voices. What struck me before all else was that they’d managed to come to a consensus as to when it was time to come home and were sweetly and carefully skirting the edges and heading back together.

I called out and they started. Then a squeal of delight and two sweaty, dirty little bodies flung themselves at me. Mama was here and now it was her job to look out for traffic; they could throw caution to the winds. I felt a surge of pride and satisfaction.

So I put all misgivings aside and gave them the line my mother was given before me, and her mother before her, ‘Next time, be home before the street lights come on.’

A generator roared to life and the street lights came on. We walked home hand in hand.

Tooth fairy comes calling

….and my little 5 year old comes home with her tooth carefully wrapped in a bit of tissue. It was hurting a lot in class and the school nurse pulled it out for her. Knowing more than her  simpleton of a brother who didn’t bother about the tooth fairy at 6 or the monetary gains, she guarded hers carefully and I was impressed.

Anyhow, the Brat had never bothered with the tooth fairy – he just whined about his tooth.  I am sure he will grow up to like his father and all other men who get in to bed because of a common cold. The Bean on the other hand, shows remarkable signs of being a true woman. No whining over pain or malingering. She told me some days ago that it was shaky, I nodded and patted her on the head. Over the last 2 days she mentioned that she was having trouble chewing. Again, I just nodded absently and got on with it. And then she simply got the nurse to pull it out, ending the matter neatly, much like her mother in matters of health.

I don’t know if second children just grow faster or if time flies faster once you learn to make your peace with the tedious parts of parenthood like dirty diapers and long nights. With the Bean, everything just seems to be flashing by like lightning. I remember blogging about the Brat being terribly sick and how we were sitting at the doctor’s clinic with a tiny Bean in our arms. Suddenly a lady across me asked me how old she was and I said – 3,4 months, whatever it was that she was. To which the lady asked me how long she’d been sitting without support, such a small child. I’d looked down in surprise and realised that they were right – she was sitting forward and trying to lean over my arm. But so busy was I with the Brat that I’d missed noticing and making much of her latest milestone. I also recall having a nasty, spiteful little troll on the post asking me what kind of mother doesn’t notice her child sitting up – a mother of a second child born close on the heels of a first who is unwell, I suppose! Makes me laugh to think back on the pettiness people indulged in at that time.

On a related note, I DO have some traditions with regard to the Bean and one of them is taking a picture of her alongside the Easter Lily in my garden. I want to know when she’s going to be taller than it. Clearly I am having better luck with the plant than with the daughter because it is still taller than her, 4 years down.

Anyone remember the old picture and post? It said simply  - The lilies are in bloom and when I stepped out to admire them, I found a little beady eyed bug hidden among the leaves… I wonder if it is dangerous.

And now for the Bean measured against the Spider lilies this year.

The little green bus

Yes, I’ve been madly busy and that’s always a good thing, right? Oh go on, say yes even if you don’t mean it! Make my day.

But something happened that made me want to stop and record it. Do old readers remember the green wooden bus Chhota Nana made for the Brat? For those who came in late, the Brat’s first word was ‘bus’ and living above the busy road that we did, that came as no surprise. I’d blogged about the bus because Chhota Nana sat with a carpenter and worked on that bus. If his first grandchild/nephew liked buses, he would have the biggest and best possible, no matter what it took.

It was made with love and care and thoughtfulness (Chhota Nana is well known for his thoughtful gifts) and it was personalised. Bicycle support wheels made its wheels, little plastic dolls sat as passengers and the number plate was the Brat’s date of birth – 555. It obviously went from Allahabad to Delhi and had Abada-Delhi painted on it, because that is how the Brat pronounced it in those days.

The bus did its duty and took them on my flights of fantasy. The years went by and they outgrew it but I couldn’t bear to give it away. And then we moved homes and I could no longer even find a suitable spot in the nursery in my new home. Buried under a bunch of stuff to give away it lay languishing and I still couldn’t let go. How could I ? It wasn’t just a store bought toy.

And then a few days ago I heard of a school for the underprivileged and I knew the bus had found its new home. I am sorry to say I didn’t let the kids know that I was giving it away. I didn’t want to risk them objecting because I had just about mustered up my own courage. They imagine it is still buried under the winter storage stuff. I’m not sure when they will ask for it – they have a couple of times and I’ve had to refuse them because I just didn’t have the strength to pull it out.

Lying around the house as it did, I’d forgotten how many memories I had of it. It took them on a space odyssey, some days it was a horse to their cowboy antics and on others it was a train taking them to Madras. Sturdy and built the perfect size to be ridden on, it was a ride-on toy like no other and had even once been pushed down the stairs ‘to see what happens’.

As the old bus settled into the back seat and  took off on its last long journey I knew I’d done the right thing. I hope it brings as much joy to those little children as it brought to mine.

This might not seem like much to most. But for those who’ve taken this journey with me from the start, you’ll know why this has been emotional. It’s a coming of age. That bus truly was one of the last few things I had from the Brat’s baby days and as I watch childhood slip away and my 7 year old frown over homework… I (wo)manfully hold back tears.