Happy Father’s Day Dad….19.06.2006

MONDAY, JUNE 19, 2006

Happy Father’s Day Dad….

Yesterday was Father’s Day and almost the entire world remembered it but me. I mean it came to me in bits but those were the bits when I was busy doing something and while I don’t really believe in celebrating ‘days’ (it’s not really an Indian thing but it’s caught on like wildfire) I figured there is no harm in calling dad and telling him I love him.

I called on the way to a friend’s place to dinner and he was thrilled about a dinner he had made – stuffed chicken breasts with mushroom and cheese…. he was stitching the stuffed chicken when I called and then again when I called he was done with eating it too. I had to cut him off again because we had reached our destination…. I felt terrible later that it was way past midnight and too late to call him back. So dad – here’s something small to tell you how much I care ( yeah I seem to be doing a lot of this lately!)My earliest memories of dad are having a bath. He’d get the mad brother and me in to the tub and we’d have a whale of a time splashing around and making a noise. Mum would try to get us out after an hour of horsing around when the water was absolutely cold, but we’d splash her out of the bathroom.Later I remember picnics, trout fishing, campfires and sitting around the fireplace with him playing the guitar, singing hymns and choruses…. An absent minded father he had no clue how old we were or which grade we were studying in. And when it was time to go to college there was no one more surprised than him because he didn’t even notice that it was time.

He was the one that sat me down, opened up a bottle of Glenlivet and told me to have a drink because I was going to college, I deserved it and most importantly, he didn’t want some guy in college getting me drunk! He let me have a shot at his cigarettes but I spluttered and wet up the tip and refused to be a better pupil. He also taught me to whistle at boys with two fingers in my mouth…

When I brought home my first boyfriend he teased me for hours and sat on the couch and slouched and fidgeted just like him – things a 15 year old me had not noticed! And then supported me when I broke up with him because he joined the navy.

With the second boyfriend he decided he liked this quiet guy who played the guitar with so much soul and appreciated music from the good old days too… And stood by me when I broke up with him because we were at different places in our lives.

We were perhaps the only family in our small town that was open about my love life and in hindsight I realise what it took for them to be open about it and stand by me. To the extent of joking and telling people that I changed my boyfriends more often than I changed my clothes. Yes – I had two boyfriends by the time I hit 22! Big deal! Woo hoo! I now realise that was his way of dealing with it – joking about something that made him a little uncomfortable. But he taught me to hold my head high no matter what I chose to do with my personal life. And while I didn’t need to flaunt what I was doing, I didn’t need to be embarassed and hide it either.

And when I finally met the man of my dreams, he was a little taken aback. He was the first to realise that I was rather subdued and not my usual noisy self ( what can I say, I was smitten!) Taking my mum aside he told her he didn’t want me marrying a man who had broken my spirit! Oh! of course I got over the honeymoon period and I was back to my noisy self within a couple of weeks so that put him at ease…

I yelled at him and threw a tantrum ten minutes before my wedding because I wanted him to wear Indian clothes and not a suit, I take his trip mercilessly for being a momma’s boy, I fought with him because I wanted to retain my maiden name and he wanted me to take my husband’s (yeah, how weird can you get?!), I played up hell because he refused to listen to what any doctor said during my pregnancy and made my life miserable… I could go on….

But you see a pattern emerging, don’t you? I am the only one in the family who yells right back at him, thinks like him, is passionate about causes like him, flares up violently but forgets immediately, like him…. and I guess that is because I am the spitting image of him.

So on Father’s Day.. Thanks dad… for everything…

 

TUESDAY, JUNE 20, 2006

In response to the Father’s Day wish….

So my dad read my post and since he isn’t very tech savvy, he wrote something for me. He has no clue what a blog is and so you must bear with me. This post will tell you why I am the mush pot I am and why I adore him.  Please note, we are from small town India and blogging isn’t really common there – specially not with his generation. They are lucky if they can figure out the music system remote control!

A Blog to the Blog or whatever you call it.

When my daughter rang up to wish me it was bad enough and I got through with a ” Oh is it ? and a brief “Thanks sweetheart”not knowing what else to say on such occasions as “Fathers’ Day”. Getting wished on birthdays, anniversaries and such things is okay and one gets used to it over the years. But Fathers Day?

A little later my son rang up to wish me and that really got me thinking. Were the kids ganging up to tell me politely after all these years that I had been a terrible father or had they suddenly realised my contribution to their growth? I choose to believe the former.

I mean getting wished by your daughter is one thing, because you expect daughters to be a little mushy on these silly days, but when your son also gets into the act you know they probably think that their old man is growing old and getting soft in the heart and even softer in the head.

Mothers Day is one thing but a Father’s Day sounds superfluous. Mothers are the ones who have spent precious hours patiently bringing up the painful brats and so the poor things probably deserve a special day in the year – but fathers?? Mind you I am not talking about the new breed of fathers – these guys are different and I’ve seen them rock the young ones to sleep faster than the mummies can.
Now fathers like me thought they were there to ensure that the food was on the table, the fees are paid and then spend any available time just having fun with them. Now this doesn’t amount to much – not enough to have a day named after them anyway.

The only other time the father thinks he has a part to play is probably when the daughter comes home with some guy she wants to marry. Grrrrr…. every guy looks like a potential psychopath with greedy paws. So you try to appraise the poor guy every which way you can and then decide he is better than you were at his age and let him off the hook.

I guess its not that bad with sons – with them you only hope they will do better than you did. So life goes on till you become a grandfather and then life takes on a different hue. You are suddenly everything you should have been as a father and that makes your kids look at you with a “where the hell was he all this time”?

So maybe they should scrap fathers day and make it Grandpa’s day instead. Any G’Pas around? Well a Happy Grandfathers day then.

Love
Dada

And we’re moving house again…

… so bear with me as we try our luck once again at themadmomma.in. Yes, we’re persistent if nothing else. Read this post and then head there to the other post waiting for you. 

FRIDAY, JUNE 16, 2006

Wait till you have grandchildren…

….is my mother’s favourite threat. And this, is her beloved grandson feeding her popcorn. They have also been known to eat a single biscuit from opposite ends till they meet in between – this has him dissolve into giggles and he lies on the bed shaking like a little bowl of unset jelly, gurgling helplessly – positively the best sound I have ever heard in my life. And all the while the grandmother shrieks with laughter along with him while her eyes well up with tears of joy.

I don’t know what it is about grandchildren that melts stern, forbidding adults. I remember my mom and uncle shaking in their shoes when my grandfather lectured them. All the while I would sit on his stomach and play with his ears, while my brother ran dizzy circles around his armchair displaying creative genius and singing, ‘Dadu the bum, drinks only rum.’ This used to amuse my grandparents hugely and looking back I can’t imagine why we were not smacked and put in the corner.

My son was born in my family home and I tried hard to exercise some control over his care. I religiously worshipped atwww.babyfit.com and www.babycentre.com everyday and I was quite clear on how I wanted to bring up my baby. This called for a daily battle of wits and then one day, when my baby was about 15 days old I went shopping with my mother to one of the most crowded, dirty and busy areas of our small town. We decided to leave the brat with his grandfather (henceforth referred to as G’pa). How much trouble can a 15-day old be, we reasoned. G’pa’s chest visibly puffed up with pride at this great responsibility as he took over his grandson who had been fed and diapered and was fast asleep.

We got back after two hours and as we neared the room, mother’s instinct kicked in and I rushed to my parents’ room. There was G’pa with only a towel around his waist, holding on to the brat enveloped in a huge fluffy towel, the AC and fan switched off, G’pa and G’son dripping with perspiration and my son looking very unhappy and whimpering. All this on a sweltering May afternoon in the plains of North India.Apparently his grandson brought up a little milk after we left and G’pa had no idea how to hold such a small baby over the sink and clean him. So he filled the bathtub and got in with his grandson and bathed him. Now my son had shown a great love for water even at that age and would howl his lungs out every time he finished his bath, but G’pa was not to know that. No sooner did he get out than the brat decided to voice his disapproval – so he howled loud and long. The brand new G’pa has no clue what was wrong and finally came to the conclusion that G’son has caught a cold. So there he was, standing in the heat and rocking my poor brat to sleep.

This is just one example. Our home is fully carpeted and once G’son began to crawl, there would be accidents all over the place during our visits (I only cloth nappied in case you’re wondering how that happened). I would be horrified and mortified and all the other ‘fieds’. But G’pa would calmly tell me to take G’son and wash his little bottom while he picked up the ‘accident’ and disposed of it and cleaned up the carpeting.

The G’pa and G’son are inseparable when they are in the same city and G’son goes to G’pa’s office, sits on his desk and holds court. The staff love it when I am in town because the moment they see trouble brewing one of them begs me to walk in to the office with him. And G’pa is completely distracted and absolutely besotted and all is calm on the western front once again.

He eats on their bed and G’pa feeds him messy chocolate and is hugged and kissed by that mucky little face. They get up early in the morning to sit in the garden and listen to the koels singing, they watch the fish in the pond, they go for a drive in the open top jeep and they play in the mud with the three dogs.

I don’t mean to paint a picture of a filthy home! This is the home of two very houseproud people. The brass and silver shine and the vacuuming and plants require one dedicated person. Yet the grandson goes wild and both grandparents sit by smiling proudly and encouraging him.And this is not really an ode to the grandfather. The grandmother is as bad if not worse. She refuses to keep any social obligations if her grandson is in town. She has to be pushed out of the house and sent to office and she is back much too early. Her daily soaps are given a break and she is up and down and round and round the house with him. Her friends are welcome home only if they sit and adore her grandson and worship him.To his credit he doesn’t really get spoilt with all this attention but its more than I can handle. I mean I used to be the star attraction earlier. Now when I get down at the railway station, he is whisked out of my arms with out a glance being spared for me. The last time I watched them hurry off with grandson and luggage while I stood there feeling lost. Eventually, diva that I am, I threw a tantrum on the platform till they walked back and hugged and kissed me too. When they call, they barely get past civilities and want to know what new their grandson is up to. Which is not much considering they sometimes call thrice a day.

Where is this post going? I am not sure! I guess I am just surprised by what I see my son doing to my parents. Just like motherhood and fatherhood are special, being a grandparent is perhaps even more so. The old joke goes that God gives you grandchildren to make up for having given you children. Often I check my mother for spoiling my brat and she looks up at me with revenge writ large on her face and a “wait till you have grandchildren and your daughter gets in the way…”Sigh….ok.

And now off to themadmomma.in, all of you!

Oh bugger! Check out the bus! Bye bus! – 10.06.2006

SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 2006

Oh bugger! Check out the bus! Bye bus!

.. So it’s finally happened. My 13 month old said his first few words. At first I was convinced that I was just a fond mother reading too much into gibberish. Till he did it again and again. We live on the third floor and our balcony overlooks one of the busiest roads in Delhi.

When he was an infant I would put him out on the balcony with his toys on a blanket and let the winter sun strengthen his little limbs…. And I would sit by chopping my veggies or editing copy. As he grew older it was where he took his first steps at ten months ( grist for another post!) and any visitor would be dragged out to sit with him and look at the traffic go by.

My dad visited and I remember him saying, “This bugger is going to say car before he says Mamma or Dadda.” I laughed it off till a couple of days back a bus honked at the traffic signal and my son screamed ‘bus, bus!!’ and charged out to the balcony as fast as his short little legs could take him.

A few days later the maid dropped a couple of utensils in the kitchen and my son was stacking rings. Without missing a beat he says “oh buggeh!”.. I swear it. I guess he picked up his grandfather’s favourite phrase when no one was listening. Yes, yes, it’s only funny right now and hopefully he will forget it before repeating it in public.

I have always maintained that I have no vices other than swearing like a truck driver. It has always shocked those who meet me for the first time to see me virtuously turn down a cigarette and a drink, sitting with my legs decorously crossed at the ankle only to let fly the choicest abuse when something doesn’t go my way. I figured we had a while before we minded our Ps and Qs and forks and spoons, but I guess it is finally time for me to give up my only indulgence( uh huh, I am going to be completely repressed now.)

The last straw was following the maid to the door on her way out, waving to her and calling out “bye, byeeee.”

Yes, it is official. My 13 month old has outgrown his parents and now no longer needs us. He has learned all the words he needs to get him through life. I mean what more do you need if you can hail a bus, vent your frustration with an ‘oh bugger’ and wave bye to people.

My mother loves telling people how I learned to walk at nine months and was talking full sentences at almost a year -wipe that look of disbelief off your face please, its rude! Well we didn’t believe her, particularly the Other Adult till he was shown albums of a pre first birthday me running around smashing cups and tripping over a little house coat!!

We also had evidence of my talking from a lot of other witnesses. My mother had my brother within 14 months of me and I was taken to the hospital with all the other relatives to see my new baby brother. A favourite Grand Aunt of mine used to exclaim “oh mother save us!” very often. As luck would have it, I was dressed up in my favourite little blue dress and was walking up the stairs when I fell in to a little rain water drain (you can have your laughs, but I spoke at 9 months!)and said “oh mother save us!” The teasing is yet to end. People constantly bring it up as an example of how I started talking early and didn’t stop after that.

Apparently I was also not used to sharing the attention and when we brought the new baby home I was busy telling my father a story of the smart fox and the greedy crow in Tamil (the nari and the kaka). Dad was getting my story on tape when the little fellow howled and mum got up to check on him. Irritated at losing my audience I yelled out, “Shut up Tambi, no one calling.” And of course the value of that tape went up exponentially. It was played for years to come to show visitors what a chatterbox and little jealous cat I was. The tape still exists but fortunately we no longer have a tape recorder, only a CD player – so I am safe.

Enough about me – I spend the last 10 days wondering whether it was a fond mother’s imagination or if my son really says a few words. And he does. He waves ‘byeee’ to the mailman, milkman, maid, his father and anyone else who heads to the door. He drops all else to rush to the balcony and scream ‘bus’ when he hears it honk. And of course every time there is a bit of a to do he will look up seriously and say, ‘oh buggeh’…..

 

Let the record state – 07.06.2006

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 07, 2006

Let the record state

… that a few hours before giving birth to my son I was picking up the father of the child-to-be from the railway station. I had already been told that for various medical reasons I was going to have a C-section ( no need to go into reasons in this post) and it was only a question of fixing a date so that the other adult could make it. And so we chose a Thursday since that was the earliest he could get a flight. A full ten days before my due date to avoid any further complications.

The morning of the delivery dawned hot and sweaty. And I went to the station to collect the other adult with my mother. My MIL had already arrived and was having kittens watching me run up and down the stairs at my size ( I had gained 17 kilos despite being the most active preggie woman in the country) and the thought of venturing out on the morning of a major, albeit routine surgery was more than she could handle. Although I think she was rather touched at the devotion to her beloved son.

We all set off to the hospital – the rest of the family in their Sunday best and me in a raggedy nightie since I was merely the person delivering. Ma prayed all the way and had been praying for the last 20 days. And I was growing more irritated by the minute. Statistics show more danger to mother and child in natural birth than C-section and she was behaving like I was not only doing something terribly pathbreaking and dangerous, but also betraying entire womankind by doing something so unnatural in the process.

I had not been allowed to eat as is usual with surgery and to top it all, I was not even allowed to drink water. The heat was increasing. My belly was getting to be more annoying by the minute and the baby was kicking with increased might and regularity as if he or she knew it was time to get out.

My little cousins J&K sweetly sat by me placing a wet spoon on my dry lips every few minutes and once in a while cheating and letting a few drops of water trickle in when the grown ups were not looking. Yes, those were the last few hours that I was still officially not a grown up. The room was full of anxious family and I was getting nervous and impatient. Mum was looking more miserable by the minute and looked like she would burst into tears any moment.

That is when someone pointed out that it was 05.05.05 and a Thursday or the 5th day of the week. The child would be very lucky.

Nurses and doctors floated in and out and various shots were given without explanation. I think I shocked the family and the MIL when I lost my temper and finally yelled at a nurse who just walked in and started rubbing my already sore wrist to inject yet something else. Unused to a mere patient questioning her uniformed self she almost dropped the syringe. I refused to let her give me the shot without telling me what it was that the doctor has asked her to give me. Losing control over everything I was clutching at straws to assert myself!

In the midst of the chaos a junior doctor walked in to calm my fears. And then pointed to the prone form of the OA stretched out on the bench beside my bed. What is wrong with him, she asked. “Oh, 9 months of pregnancy have exhausted him,” I replied caustically. I finally learned what they mean by beating a hasty retreat. I don’t think she was willing to continue facing me in that mood.

A couple of women went into labour while I was waiting for my turn (I had been scheduled for 12 noon) and because of fetal distress were rushed in for C-sections. Finally I was to be taken in at 4.30 pm. The hunger, thirst, impatience, exhaustion and excitement were taking their toll on me. The other adult in the mean time was trying to rig the number 5 business and ensure that the baby was delivered on the stroke of 5, with my numerologically obsessed father egging him on. I of course couldn’t care less by that time. Get the baby out, I begged anyone who gave me a moment.

At 5pm I went in and all hell broke loose. I had been promised general anesthesia by my gyn who had checked that I was fit enough for it, instead of a spinal. Why the insistence? Well, because the gyn herself has admitted that spinal anesthesia often left you with a backache for life.But doctors preferred it to general because general meant monitoring a lot more and needed to be much quicker. Basically the easy way out for them. Whatever.

By then I was almost hysterical and was refusing to let them give me the shot in my spine. Anyway its not easy to roll up like a prawn when you are the size of a whale so that they can give you the shot in the correct location.

I think the doctors met their match in me that evening. I wriggled my toes in impatience and my legs refused to cave in and go numb under anesthesia.

On the outside the other adult was trying to sneakily find ways to be with me because he had already been refused admission. He made some rude sounds about the “village” I belonged to and began to form his own underhanded scheme.

Many years ago I had heard of banking cord stem cells and I knew that I wanted to do it somehow. Fortunately by the time I got pregnant it had come to India – we were one of the first 50 parents or so to avail of it and were in august company like Raveena Tandon and Karishma Kapoor! The Life Cell head office was in Chennai and as luck would have it, we were posted there at that time. The other adult picked up a refrigerated and specially packed kit from them and flew it in for the delivery.

So this was his wild scheme. We had already informed my gyn about our desire to bank the cord blood but the rest of my little town and the little hospital had never heard of any such thing. The junior doctors had been given certain peremptory orders by my Gyn and they had no clue why they were doing certain things. The prepping for the operation was not beginning because of this confusion of course and my gyn who was late and still with the last C-sec, was not there to explain. Nobody bothered to check with me.

So there I was, huge beached whale lying on the table, the lights above me taking on scary proportions, chaos abounding and my toes still wriggling. The OT door burst open and I saw the OA sneakily trying to follow the gyn in. I also saw him being shooed out in an undignified manner. He had decided to come along on the pretext of teaching them what to do with the kit. I give him full marks for trying. And a zero for believing it would work. Most people in my little town were shocked at the thought that he would want to be with me even for a natural birth, let alone try so hard to hold my hand through an operation dripping blood.

The rest is a blur. They made me smell something and pass out because I wouldn’t shut up. Or stop wriggling my toes.

Now I wish I had done some sort of drugs in college because I believe you should try it all, but I was a funk and I didn’t. Anyway, the next half an hour passed in a psychedelic daze and I saw the most bright and amazing visions – like the visualisations in Windows Media Player!

And then I regained consciousness and could feel them pressing down hard on my chest. Lots of hands touching me and pressure from every side. And disjointed voices saying that the baby was stuck. His head was too big and they had to cut some more. I could feel hands moving around my insides and when I opened my eyes, all I saw was black – they had taped a piece of cloth over my eyes and tied my arms down so that I didn’t accidentally touch one of the doctors. The overdose of restraint coupled with what I could hear them saying made me panic and I started crying and thrashing around. I think. Before I knew it, they made me inhale and I was out like a light again.

And then, filmy style – I heard a baby wail. I keep replaying the thrill in my head. It was worth all this nonsense. And I unsuccessfully tried looking through my blindfold, and then passed out again. When I regained consciousness, I was all stitched up and good to go. And the baby was nowhere to be seen.

Desperately I looked around and asked the nurses if it was a girl or a boy. A boy they answered. I don’t think they had ever been faced with such a reaction before. Still quite doped out, I broke down and cried hysterically,”I don’t want him, please give me a girl, exchange him with any of those who want a boy.”

I wish I could describe the stunned silence. This is small town UP where a boy child is worshipped and a the birth of a girl child is mourned. In rage they pushed me out of the OT and left me lying there all hooked up and stitched up, on a trolley in the corridor.

I lay there wondering how long I would have to suffer for my sins! Fortunately my friend came by looking for me when they realised it had been an hour since the child had arrived and there was no sign of me. Wheeled to my room I was taken aback by the crowd. I rolled in like a diva and spoke in tongues. Yup. I was doped out of my head and spoke to everyone in all 7 or so different languages I knew. But I still didn’t want to see my baby.

And then my mother insisted that I stop acting childish and open my eyes and look at my son. Small, pink and white, with bright beady eyes looking up at me. I wish I could say I fell in love with him immediately. I didn’t. I felt nothing. Not even when a room full of people urged me to feed him. I glared at them to get lost while I gave this breastfeeding business a shot. It was not fun.

The rest of the time in hospital was not fun either. The contractions that pulled at my stitches when I fed him, the injections, the drip, the catheter, the pain when the anesthesia wore off, the inability to sit up and lead a normal life, the inability to have a cold shower in the hot, dry, north Indian summer, the inability to change his nappies or even carry him for two entire days. Even after his birth I was not allowed to march up and down from my first floor room with him in my arms. And oh, they didn’t let me bathe for the 9 days that the stitches were in and finally my mum had a bed carried into the toilet (ah the joys of old rambling homes) and then lay me down there and bathed me top half and bottom half, excluding the stitches because even she could see that I was sweating and miserable in the May heat.

Mum swore her natural birth was less painful and if she’d been given an epidural life would have been different. Barely any labour and absolutely no recovery time. All those who think C-Sections are a style statement - you have another think coming, and I take offence. Pregnancy is not easy. Neither is childbirth. And I don’t think you are in a position to diss something you have never tried and hopefully never will.

Sometimes I looked down at the C-section scar and wish I had fought the doctor for more than cosmetic reasons. But scared first time moms cannot be blamed for caving into pressure. Check out this mother’s traumatic experience and the trauma of another mother who expresses her trauma through art.

It doesn’t matter anymore though. I have the most adorable son and I love him to pieces. Literally. Sometimes I squeeze him really hard and hope that will make him stay this size forever.

 

Sure could use a little good news – 05.06.2006

MONDAY, JUNE 05, 2006

 

You are tagged

20 years ago I . . .
1. was about to start grade 2
2. was dying for a Barbie doll
3. didn’t know what a computer looked like

10 years ago I . . .
1. was 10 days away from my first day of college
2. was wondering how I would survive college in Chennai ( fortunately I didn’t find out)
3. joined St Stephen’s and realised how uncool I was!!!

5 years ago I . . .
1. was 6 kilos lighter
2. could have been up at this hour and not been giddy with sleep
3. had a crush on the other adult and it was the beginning of a beautiful relationship!

3 years ago I . . .
1. was on my honeymoon right about now
2. learning that shaving and waxing don’t really matter
3. learning to bring home the bacon for a husband who was straight out of college and not yet working

1 year ago I . . .
1. was learning that my 1 month old baby didn’t care if I hadn’t painted my chipped nails
2. breastfeeding was a great way to lose weight
3. was more bothered about my stretchmarks than I am now

So far this year I . . .
1. have a few great freelance offers
2. am back in Delhi, a city I love
3. am the most comfortable I have ever been in my skin

Yesterday I . . .
1. started considering actively working towards weight loss
2. been thrilled because a friend in Bombay, M had a son early in the morning and another friend M has just discovered she is expecting! Baby boom time!
3. realised that I could not have married a more wonderful man (yuck…mushy but true… )

Today I . . .
1. have not done a shred of work
2. cuddled the brat while he was eating his breakfast and let him get porridge all over my dress
3. forced myself to eat bitter gourd for lunch in an attempt to set a good example.

Tomorrow I will . . .
1. hopefully go for a jog
2. start work with a new magazine
3. spend up all that I earned last month

In the next year I will . . .
1. probably be diaper-free
2. hopefully be preggie again
3. probably give up hope on a career at all

In the next minute I will tag . . .
1. Candy 2. Jedi 3. Dipta

 

—————————————————————-

Sure could use a little good news…

 

I used to love this Anne Murray song as a kid, called A Little Good News.

It makes me heartsick when I hear it now and sometimes makes me wish I had not brought a child into a world where we wake up every morning to a newspaper carrying bad news as the headline. I found a site some years ago called goodnewsindia. I check it out once in a while as an upper! Check it out some time when you feel that the country and the world are headed for disaster. They might be, but its nice to know that someone out there is chronicling what is right with the world. And here are the lyrics to the song I love.

A Little Good News

Anne Murray

I rolled out this morning
Kids had the mornin’ news show on
Bryant Gumbel was talkin’ ’bout the fighting in Lebanon
Some senator was squawkin’ ’bout the bad economy
It’s gonna get worse you see,
We need a change in policy
There’s a local paper rolled up in a rubber band
One more sad story’s one more than I can stand
Just once how I’d like to see the headline say
“Not much to print today, can’t find nothin’ bad to say”, because

Nobody robbed a liquor store on the lower part of town
Nobody OD’ed, nobody burned a single buildin’ down
Nobody fired a shot in anger,
nobody had to die in vain
We sure could use a little good news today

I’ll come home this evenin’
I’ll bet that the news will be the same
Somebody takes a hostage,
Somebody steals a plane
How I wanna hear the anchor man
Talk about a county fair
And how we cleaned up the air,
How everybody learned to care
Whoa, tell me

Nobody was assassinated in the whole Third World today
And in the streets of Ireland,
all the children had to do was play
And everybody loves everybody in the good old USA
We sure could use a little good news today

Nobody robbed a liquor store on the lower part of town
Nobody OD’ed, nobody burned a single buildin’ down
Nobody fired a shot in anger,
Nobody had to die in vain
We sure could use a little good news today