For the oneth of June

Beanism of the day: Dada’s birthday is on the oneth of June.

Yes, it was yesterday. We got him a gift, hand painted some cards and cut some Mango Mascarpone Cheesecake – I highly recommend the deli at the Fortune Select Excalibur. The cakes are delicious –  I’ve had friends bring them over for tea and so I finally made the effort to get the OA’s cake from there. Creamy, just the right texture, and being mango season it was a dream come true. They even had a fresh mango cake! The service was brilliant. I stopped there for a few minutes to pick up the cake and they bent backwards getting me water, offering me a chair and the newspaper.

After we put the kids to bed we went out to dinner to a little known place called The Banyan Grill at O Palacio. It’s got the worst location possible. Some MCD work going on and no parking so we parked far down the road and walked. A little crack between some asbestos sheets bang opposite the Hard Rock Cafe sign at DLF Place, Saket.  There were fuit vendors sitting around in the dark and flower pot sellers stacking their wares for the night. It was my idea and I checked twice with the OA if we should change our plans but he said we should learn to live on the edge. Right. I teetered in on high heels and a light cotton dress. And once we got past the worst a guard showed up, insisted on taking our keys and parking us in a safer, closer spot.

It’s one of those contemporary joints where art meets fashion meets food as we might have discovered had we come earlier than we did, at 11pm. Thank you, Gurgaon! The place opened up magically in the midst of the dust and dirt and the cliched but immediate image is of a lotus in a scum filled pond. A very Med feel with white washed walls, pebbled paths, fairy lights twinkling and tall palms waving majestically in the breeze. A tiny patch of  lawn and then high walls that open into a courtyard, a rickshaw full of potted plants parked in the middle of the greens. Steps lead down into the courtyard and the massive banyan tree  holding centrestage catches your attention. Tables scattered at many levels, windchimes ringing in the breeze, candles lighting up nooks, stairs leading off from the main area and an airconditioned room for those who choose to sit indoors. For a moment I wondered if it was haunted because it was deserted. And then suddenly the place came to light and staff rushed out.

The service was really fast and our crisp cool feta, rocket and pear salad was just right for a hot summer night. Actually, strike that, they had this huge pedestal fan in a corner and it kept everything cool and rather romantic with the leaves all fluttering in the breeze. I told the OA we needed one of those in the house. While waiting around we looked around and spied the boutique area – I’m told there are also sculptures by Yusuf Arakkal among others but by the time we got there it was really too dark and we were too hungry to feed our minds.

They had no alcohol other than wine. No sangrias unless they have a party, they said. Well, there goes my chance at imbibing, I shrugged. The OA who isn’t the type to get stewed to the gills unless there is scotch didn’t bother. I think we got high simply on the ambience and the  fact that we were the only patrons there. I don’t think it’s doing too well and if I had to find something to pin the blame on I’d say it’s the location. Haven’t they heard the rule of location, location, location?  I’m told it’s run by a designer, so maybe not.

The two girls serving us didn’t know much about the food but smiled sweetly and served fast so that they could head home, no doubt. The OA messed up my order while I wandered around taking pictures and instead of a Chicken in Veloute sauce I ended up with a Jamaican Jerk Chicken that I was just not in the mood for. The chicken was slightly undercooked but adequate once I got past the first bite.  The OA’s Rogan Josh (the man kills me!) was aromatic, delicious, juicy and served creatively. Portions were generous. My favourite naturally, was dessert –  Marilyn’s Lava Pear. A stewed pear drizzled with Belgian chocolate sauce  flavoured with star anise and decorated with walnuts, served with ice cream. Very nice. It does seem rather fitting that our birthdays are getting less boisterous and tastier!  I’d love to come back here on a winter afternoon and enjoy a relaxed lazy lunch in the dappled sunshine. There is a red snapper and a prawn in peanut butter sauce that has my name written on it. A meal for two should come to Rs 2500 without alcohol.

This review is the OA’s return gift to all of you. He believes that I write about everything except what he loves the most – food! And so since this is the family blog I’m going to make an effort to write more about everyone’s interests. And no, that does not mean there will be a dinosaur section.

PS: The pictures don’t do the place any justice.

 

More spirited behaviour

Yesterday I forced myself to do something that broke my heart. The Brat’s stubbornness is legendary. It’s the bad stuff that my blog is made up of. Now I am equally hot-headed – as you can see from my comments – and that makes it difficult for me to remind myself that I am the older person, the parent, the one who needs to stay in control of my emotions and let him get it out of his system. If only it were easier.

So yesterday he got back from school and I told him I was taking them out in the evening and suggested a  nap. The Bean obediently lay down and slept. The Brat said he didn’t need one. Fine, I suggested some quiet time. He lined up a row of AC and television remotes and began some game. A little later I realised he’d falled asleep.

I gave him an hour and got the Bean ready and then began to wake him up. He cried and wriggled and wailed and I carried him to wash his face, applied his sunscreen, dressed him and fed him a cool milkshake all the while talking him into a better mood. Please note, this is not easy for me because I was in a rush, I had errands to run along the way and the heat was getting to me too. And then just as we were ready to leave the Bean picked a book to read in the car. He threw a tantrum – it was one of his dinosaur books and he didn’t want her reading it. In a bid to reduce hostilities I siad I’d hold the book  and read to both of them. At this point the Bean picked up a dinosaur and said she’d like to hold it all the way in the car. Now I don’t know if she was doing it to annoy him or not, but it really pressed his buttons. He threw a huge tantrum saying it was his. The Bean rarely plays with his dinosaurs so I don’t know why she picked one. But he has about 50 of them  so I saw no reason for him to lose his shirt. I tried to reason, I offered him another, but he wasn’t having it and I didn’t think it was fair to take it back from the Bean. So I finally said I was leaving and he could come or not, as he pleased.

I went downstairs, cleaned my sandals before I wore them, filled a bottle of water for them to drink in the car, dialled my number so that the maid could redial me if she needed something. And basically gave him enough time to change his mind. But he was having none of it. I yelled out one last time that I was leaving and he could still join me. NOOO he screamed. I left with the Bean.

We were out for a whole 5 hours and he was at home with the maid. No TV I’d said, but he could go down to the park and play with the other kids or swim. He was so upset that he just sat with the maid when she took him down and didn’t even join his friends. I felt really bad being so heartless but on the whole I felt it was a lesson he needed to learn. We’ve had these tantrums before but it always ends with me either kissing him and hugging him and carrying him to the car or then losing my cool and picking him up and marching to the car. Either way, he cools off in a while and is fine. This time however, I wanted him to face the consequences of his choice and I left him alone.

The last few weeks have seen him get more firm on what he will do and not do, mostly ending in him cutting off his nose to spite his face. I want to help him but as someone who is guilty of the same crime, I am not really the right person. His birthday was an unmitigated disaster. Now that we live in an apartment complex we have to invite the kids who live here, we have our Delhi friends and now that he is older, classmates. The crowd was too much for our home. My cook was on leave and I got in a temp who came really late, delaying dinner, and the heat was unbelievable. Even with the ACs and coolers on we were all sweating, the plan was to take the kids down to play but one minute it was hot as hell, the next minute a storm brewing (this is the second time we have had a summer storm ruin the Brat’s birthday plans) and the humidity had us all cranky. I set up the cake and all the kids kept poking and licking the icing off it even while I was trying to put the candles on. The Brat wanted to light the candles and I said no playing with fire. And then just as I lit it, all the other damn kids leaned in and blew out the candles before he could (is it just my opinion or are kids getting more badly behaved everyday?) and he lost his temper – naturally, he’s only six! I would have lit them again but the room was full of people, everyone sweating more because the fans were off, and I couldn’t be sure the kids wouldn’t blow it out again and neither could I scream at them to leave his cake alone. So I gave it one minute of begging and then sadly let the Bean cut it because we just couldn’t wait any longer. Naturally he sulked some more and stomped off without even tasting the cake. I gave up – exhausted, sweaty, cranky and wishing I had thrown the party in Switzerland. Next year it is 6 kids to a kiddy movie and lunch. No need to return all the invitations we receive if it is going to kill us. And yes, doing it at McDonalds will also kill us.  And oh – this is one birthday we have no record of because the OA and I were so run off our feet that we didn’t take pictures.

The long ride in to Delhi with the Bean suddenly made me understand what parents of single kids talk about when they talk about feeling  complete. It’s happened to me before when I took only one of the children out, rare though those occasions are.  I don’t sit there feeling like a limb is missing. It is usually for a reason that one is not part of the event and they are always in good hands. And when you live in the moment you realise that it is very easy to feel very complete. Not because the other child is not important but because the relationship with each one is so complete in its own way that you don’t need the other around to make it feel whole. Do I make sense? Any other parents of two kids who want to explain that last bit of gibberish I wrote?

And oh, I came home to a very subdued Brat who has promised to behave better. Let’s see. Tomorrow is another day.

Six years of being a Brat

Six years ago today my life changed forever. My son was born. I became a mother. But I hated him on sight and refused to even nurse him for the first hour or two (some of you read that story) so great was the anger. I was shocked at how mercurial my feelings towards him were. One moment he was inside and I was waiting eagerly for what I hoped was a daughter. The next minute I am told its a son and I feel a surge of disappointment, frustration and exhaustion. This isn’t what I waited 9 months for (we can blame this on hormones, can’t we?).

But we all get what the Good Man up there thinks is important and I think for a feminist like me, having a son was necessary. I needed to see that men are not the enemy. That men are not always aggressive. That men can be fair. And I needed, with my strong views on equality, to give back something to society – a man brought up by a strong mother. And that is where the Brat entered the picture.

I am happy that God gave me this little man to show me what it is like to love a male unconditionally. To know that humans with external plumbing can also be thoughtful and gentle. I am happy that God knew what I needed, better than I did – a little chubby cheeked bundle of joy who continues to delight me everyday, even if the chubbiness melted away, leaving just ribs on show.

I thank God that he gave me a child I learned to love for the person he is, as opposed to a daughter whom I’d have rejoiced in simply for her gender. It was an important lesson and one that only got clearer over the last  couple of years. One that trashed all stereotypes and made me eat humble pie.

Gentle, sensitive, compassionate, stubborn, affectionate – he is everything that the OA is, ten times over. And for the first time, he is not the enemy. He is  mine. Born of my womb, my flesh and blood. Guarded fiercely by me instead of the other way around. Before I knew it, I had the easiest most lovable baby ever and I was itching to have a second one. As I often say – the Brat was the sales pitch. If I’d had the Bean first I’d be too ragged to even consider a second one. He was and is my ideal child.

We’re getting ready for a party and he scrambles into my closet and pulls out a crisp white cotton kurta, dupatta and churidar. “I’ll tell you what to wear ma,” and he hands it to me. When I am dressed he takes the bindi off my mirror and settles it crooked above an eye. I correct it. “You look so beautiful” he says.  I feel my heart fill up with joy. I’ve always dressed for myself and today a little 6 year old telling me I look beautiful makes me feel beautiful.

It’s a hot afternoon and I lie down in the nursery telling them that I will kill them if they disturb me. They play quietly around me. Using stencil cards as cash. Selling each other pet pythons and mammoths. I drift off listening to baby voices bargaining, giving change, coming up with new ideas. I wake up, stretch and thank them. “Thanks for letting mama sleep without disturbing her, babies.”

The Brat responds gravely – “We could have been quieter I think. We made a little noise. Next time we will try harder to be quiet.” He’s a good little man. Someday he will be a good big man. And I can’t take credit for that, anymore than I could have taken the blame for him being anything else. This is just him. His nature. And this is proof that men come in all shapes, sizes and types and some of them – are just a plain blessing. My son is my blessing. And yes, I am aware that I sound like a typical Indian mother!

He walks into my room and grimaces, his finger in his mouth. I kneel down in concern – what’s wrong baby? He has a shaky tooth. I feel something flip in my stomach. This is my child. And I’m not prepared. I’m not prepared for my son to lose a tooth. It seems like he only just got them.

I hold him close and explain to him that he is turning a big boy and soon he will lose the milk teeth and get big boy teeth.

Will I be a big boy then? he asks.

I nod and pull him closer. Refusing to put into words the awful fact that he is growing up.

He presses his face against my chest. “I can hear your heartbeat, mama…” Silence in the room as he listens attentively.

The he looks up and asks suddenly “Will you still be my mama when I am a grown up? Will you still love me?”

Uh huh, I nod… just as long as you can hear my heart beating.

Happy Birthday sunshine. Happy Birthday bright eyes. Happy Birthday mama’s life. Keep smiling, keep shining…

ALERT – for all those who think he looks grown up here, this picture was taken at four. He is now even more grownup and looks very different Yes, that shatter was the sound of my heart breaking.

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.

 

The Bean’s third birthday party

If I have to rank the various aspects of my parenting on a scale – I’d put my throwing of birthday parties at the bottom. I never seem to have the enthusiasm to throw a theme party or anything of the sort. So if my kids want to hold something against me, it’s going to have to be that I didn’t throw them parties in McDonalds and didn’t have a tattoo artist. I think it’s the person I am.

I didn’t go through the whole ‘I have to lose weight to look good for my wedding pictures’ thing that most girls go through. Dude – they’re only pictures and sooner or later you gain back the weight you lost and you never fit into any of the clothes made during that time. Also, if its a love marriage, the man has already seen you and loved you for what you are. Are you really fussing so much to impress a bunch of strangers who are only going to go home and say the food was crap and the bride was over made up? I spent more time fretting over whether I was choosing the right man than what colour my lehenga should be. The man has served me longer than the lehenga and I am not in touch with 99% of the people who attended the wedding and neither do I open the wedding album so I don’t really think I made the wrong decision!

Anyway – my point is, I take a lot more pleasure in planning their weekend outings than I do in planning the annual birthday party and I often wonder if they’ll grow up and find it lacking. Frankly I don’t think fussing over my kid just for that one day is good enough. I know parents who spend weeks planning and lots of money too – but I have limited time and money so I’d just much rather spend the weeks running up to the party, also, partying! Plus I do hope they’ll be able to look back in the years ahead and say they had fun every week, rather than just big bash birthday parties. Sometimes I feel we put too much emphasis on the celebration and not what it stands for or means. I’d like the kids to think about celebrating life on a daily basis – not just on certain days.

There is no judgment involved here and hats off to those who can do it, but I am just not that parent. Someday they will be old enough to ask for their parties to be held in certain ways and if I can afford it and approve of it, I will do it, because its their choice to make. In my head, the guidelines for my children’s birthday parties are  -

- I want the parties to be thrown at home. No matter how small my home, it is my home and my children’s home and we’re not ashamed of it and neither do we mind the mess and the chaos. We welcome it. Plus – there is a certain similarity and anonymity to throwing McDonald’s and Pizza Hut parties. Its so much nicer to eat the different food that each home prepares, the different games organised, the different atmosphere each time. Not the same damn bouncy castles and the need to be constantly entertained. I recall so many birthday parties from my childhood simply because each was so different. Different aunties, different food… each distinctive. No need to keep up with the Joneses and do exactly what the other person did which is what the kids are sadly geared to. My kids sometimes ask when we leave for a party – will there be a train when we get there. And I tell them, no, its going to be absolutely different. And it is, and they have a blast and I’m glad we still have a few good old fashioned friends to keep our kids grounded.

- I might cater if I am really short of time, else I don’t believe in catering for kids because they’re so busy playing that they barely eat anything. So I keep it simple home made food – sandwiches, popcorn, alphabet pasta salad, chhole and puris, sausages, kebabs, juice and cake. The food might vary but it’s home made and simple and will not upset a child’s stomach. I do wish I were a better cook, but this is the best I can do and I haven’t got complaints, neither have people dropped out

- I try to entertain them within my means. The way we did as kids. You put 10 kids together and you let them loose in the nursery and you don’t need a tattoo artist or a magician. They are always happy to have a new set of toys to play with. Stuff that they don’t own. In a year or so when they’re old enough to play by the rules its going to be passing the parcel and musical chairs or pinning the tail on the donkey. As for themes – I thoroughly appreciate them when we do them as adults – but for kids of this age, it just ends up being one more headache for all the parents and once the kids reach the venue, they get busy playing and forget all about the theme. I’d think the early teens are a good time to start, when they can take responsibility for their own costumes and decorations etc.

And so it was that this year the Bean’s party came at me out of the blue. Caught up in running for admissions for the two of them, I wasn’t even thinking of a birthday party. I knew it was coming up – I just didn’t realise how close it was. So a week in advance I remembered and quickly invited some good friends and their children. As a working mother I have very little time to spare and I racked my brains to see what others had done – Most of them throw parties in malls – so I thought I’d have to go that route this year. At the last moment however pride kicked in and I swore I’d throw it at home even if it killed me. I didn’t want to give up what I felt was a principle, just because I am a working mom now and take the easy way out. Pride will kill me soon. Trust me. And maybe I’ll cave next year, but this year I’m clinging on by my fingernails.

A few days ago the kids and I had planted chana and rajma in jam jars and they’d loved watching them sprout and grow. Some days the two of them have sat for an hour arguing about whether they’d just seen the plant shoot up a bit or not. When I asked the Bean what she wanted to give her friends, she said she wanted to give them chana in a jar. And so I spent one night cleaning out my kitchen, hunting for 13 small jars. Switching masalas to other bottles and soaking them in a tub of water to get the labels off. Then I let the Bean line each one with cotton wool and throw in some chana and rajma. And then I had to remember to water it everyday.

The return gifts were books from Pratham. The proceeds go entirely to charity. Everything was packed in brown paper bags. We picked up a pinata of course because the excitement is insane. And the beauty is that all the little kids, except for two older kids, chased the confetti. The older ones took almost all the goodies home and the little ones didn’t mind so it worked out well. The loot bags too, were just recycled newspaper bags. I asked all the maids to leave – I hate those parties where the damn maids jump in and start pushing to get the goodies for their wards. Damn mothers also stand around and allow it instead of telling them to let the kids just have fun.

My 19 year old cousin was quite open about his disapproval of my choice of return gifts. “You and the kids like planting and reading – others may not… ” I had a simple answer – we only give gifts that we believe in. If you believe in Ben 10 and Hannah Montana – then you give those as return gifts, and we are happy to accept what you think is an appropriate gift… Similarly, I believe in this, I think its awesome for kids to learn to nurture plants, to read.. and so I will give those. He didn’t argue it and I really do hope that people appreciated the effort that went into what I did. Because I spent a week with my kitchen counter cluttered up with jars and jars of seeds!

We spent the entire afternoon blowing up balloons till we were breathless, making sandwiches, setting up a circus tent that the kids have, putting out a trampoline and some more stuff until our little balcony was swamped. (I forgot to move the cactus but I remembered soon enough after the kids began to push each other around right next to it!)

I also got tubs of playdough, skittles and a few other new toys and laid them out. The party began by 5 and we wrapped up at 7.30. And those 2.5 hours were a blast. Whistles being blown, children driving a motorised bike around the house over our toes, swinging, screaming, eating cake, dropping juice….

And the Bean got a whole bunch of elephants. Her birthday cake was – what else, a Heffalump. By the time the party ended, the house was a mess, the Bean and the Brat were exhausted, the other kids were refusing to go home and the OA and I were satisfied and happy to have had the party go off smoothly.

The best part of the party was a friend’s 4 month old. She was crying nonstop and driving her mother nuts. I took her and rocked her and she fell asleep in my arms, giving her mother a break. I think children sense your growing annoyance which is why often the OA would succeed in rocking our kids to sleep when I couldn’t. I spent a large part of the evening running around organising things with this baby in the crook of one arm, forgetting that she was there.. so tiny and quiet was she.

Made me realise how completely easy it is to have a third kid when you’ve already brought up two and love kids. Specially tempting now that my ‘little’ one is three years old! Aneela’s visit drove the same point home. Oh well – it isn’t meant to be but there’s always the joy of snatching these little moments. The Bean fell in love with her and I sat on the floor in a corner while the Bean patted her, stroked her and kissed her while she slept on. I always assumed that the Brat accepted the Bean into his life because she came so early. But I realise now that it is more to do with temperament. Both my children are free from jealousy and love having little babies over. “Can we keep her, mama? I want her to stay here so that I can keep playing with her nose..” said the birthday baby Bean.

Anyhow folks. Thats what the party was like – 3 days later we’re still getting confetti out from under the couch. I think that pretty much says it all.