First day of big school

Dear Brat,

It’s happening. The chain of events that you set in motion with your admission. We’ve moved, we’ve changed our lives and you start school tomorrow. I just want you to know that we’re behind you 100% and more (is that possible?)  - if this is what it takes for you to be happy, this is what it will be. This evening I came back from work and went hunting for my babies. I found your sister gathering rocks. And then I saw a pink cheeked, sturdy legged little boy with sweat-spiked hair running around playing football, screaming out to another little boy  - Dost, dost.. idhar!! I love your strange accent. I love how you make friends without even knowing their names. I love how all that matters to you right then and there is the then and there. For you and from you, I’m going to learn to do the same. To not whine about Gurgaon and to see the silver lining.

Have a lovely first day at school and may this be the beginning of something beautiful.

I love you,

Mamma

On moving

Dear Brat,

A little while ago you and I had a moment that I wanted to store up. A cool dark room – the hot, Delhi summer raging outside. A mother and son skipping lunch and sitting on the cool marble floor, eating ripe peaches and mangoes, dripping juice over themselves and the floor.  Your eyes twinkled in the dark. Your mouth curled up at the edges, a little pink tongue darting out to catch the runaway juice.

This is our last day in this home as a family, darling. I’m taking you to visit with Nani-G’pa and when you return, it will be to a new home. In the suburbs. A new life beckons.

Why are we doing this? Well, because you’ve finally got through a lovely school, all by yourself. Oh they grilled your father and me. But they talked to you and the Bean too and you got in on your own steam. Something I am grateful to the good Lord for. I really didn’t want to be beholden to someone for getting you in and we’ve been spared that situation.

When you got through the school, we were overjoyed, your father and I, mostly because it was a school that fit our philosophy and ideology. It wasn’t like  getting into just about any old school. And then they dropped the bomb that we’d have to move closer. I will admit that I went home and cried into my pillow. I don’t know what to say. It’s the end of an era. I’ve enjoyed every bit of motherhood until now. Your father and I have been the parents who took our 4 day old to a car show room, trekked with our 5 month old in a sling. Partied, picnicked, shopped, travelled, done late night drives with the baby asleep in his car seat… the list is endless.

I’ve not grudged you the years of my life I stayed home with you, the cesarean, the colicky nights, the puking down my front, nothing. But if there was one thing your father and I clung to, it was the life in the city. We’re good parents if we say so ourselves, hands on and enjoying it. But what kept us going was the ease with which we could slip out after you’d gone to bed. A movie, a night out at a pub, a walk around one of the old monuments… anything. A quick cup of coffee with friends.

I’ve often had debates on this blog where people said – “Oh, you’re staying home with your kids now and you’ll end up being the mother who tells her kids she sacrificed so much for them, and guilt trip them endlessly like most SAHMs.” After a point I didn’t bother to correct them.  I knew I was happy and I knew I had never done anything for the kids that I didn’t want to do. I was expecting you at 25 and I know I’ve missed out on a lot of fun that others have had, but I didn’t really mind because your father and I really do live it up.  No real regrets. But we didn’t want to become boring old suburban parents who were exhausted after the long commute home and only crawled into bed and turned on the TV. And yes, very frankly, the resentment raged on for a couple of days.

And then we had no more time to think of it because the madness began. Househunting and looking for a school for the Bean. I don’t mind admitting that I carry some more guilt over that. It’s quite unfair for a younger child to get dragged around for the older child and it’s going to take some time for me to make my peace with that. At some point as we examined houses and checked them for playgrounds, security, safety within the home, proximity to school, ease of getting to work from there in the hot blazing, Delhi summer, dehydrated, cranky, snapping at each other… we forgot to be resentful.

It must have been the nth house around which your father and I forgot the heat, the sweat, the distances and began to have fun. Between the hand holding and the running around to smack him on the head for making fun of my tired bum knees, a broker asked us how long we were married and looked surprised when I mentioned that we had two children waiting for us at home. I doubt it’s because of your father’s shock of black hair (not!!) and my slender (not!!!) figure. It was because we were just having so much fun.

And just like that, we went over to the dark side. Sold out. And made our peace with being suburban parents. And began in earnest to look for swimming pools, tennis courts and all those amenities that make the suburbs tolerable. I’ll tell you my prob with suburbs in India. They’re the frickin opposite of suburbs abroad. You move out of the city and instead of ducks and rabbits like Tambi maama has frolicking in his garden, the skyline is dominated by high rises, concrete and neon signs. Its quite disgusting. Try any of the major cities and that is all you will find in the suburbs. Or else you will find neat little row houses that are too small to accommodate even my big toe and all that remains is to have Noddy come around the corner honking in his little red and yellow car. The grey dreary buildings all have awe-inspiring entrances and lush green lawns but the sameness of the buildings makes my skin crawl and it doesn’t matter how well you do up the inside. I refuse to accept my home beginning and ending within those four walls. I hate opening my doors into a balcony that has another along side, where our conversations are overheard and we’re subjected to someone’s early morning love of *gasp of horror* Himmesh Reshammiya, maybe!

One of the complexes we saw had young mothers with babies in strollers, maids walking dogs (!) and old people watering their hedges. Dada looked approvingly at this picture of suburban bliss while I felt panic fill my heart and I looked around for a hole in the hedge to escape through.

What’s wrong, asked your father, sensing by the look of absolute horror on my face that something just might be. Astute man, this one.

I’d rather die, I confessed.

You weird, twisted woman, he grinned… I love you.

And so it is that after much debate we settled on one of the complexes. We have friends nearby, a nursery school for the Bean at hand and it fit our budget. We’re not over the moon but we’re already seeing the silver lining to this cloud. You’ll have friends in the complex, your security is taken care of and I might even go back to full days of work because you’ll have a half day of school until three, after which you will come home and wash up, have a snack and probably run off to play with your friends. You won’t miss me. (Cue for mournful music). You won’t need me

I feel like a bit of a traitor moving houses while you are away and I have told you about it but I don’t know if you understand. I shall bring you here to visit when you come back from Nani-G’pa’s house.

For now my darling, soak in this moment, this home that has been ours for five years. With its three stories of endless, bone jarring stairs, its wide open balcony where the winter sun warmed our frozen limbs, your sunshiny room filled with music, the cool darkness of mama’s bedroom, the corridor you learnt to cycle in, the windows we sat at and watched the skies darken and the rain come down, the always occupied guest room, the lawn that you played ball in, the driveway where you stood and watched traffic go by. I’m glad you’re going away. I don’t do farewells very well. I don’t want you to watch your mother break down and cry as I leave the home you took your first steps in and your sister was born in.

Tonight I take you to Allahabad, to your grandparents, uncles, aunts, dogs and fish. And then I come home to a house that has sent its soul away… and soon I will leave the empty shell and move on too.

I write this to you so that you know why we moved to the suburbs inspite of my strong feelings on  living in the heart of an ancient and strong city like Delhi, feeling its pulse and soaking up its history. And should you ever feel that I resented doing this for you, let me tell you, that in that one moment when you looked up at me, your innocent eyes shining, your cheeks pink with health and mango dripping down your lips on to your little Batman-vest encased belly, I lost my heart all over again. And all I could think of was how I’m going to spend my life ensuring that you never lose that light in your eyes, that you keep smiling as delightfully and that we’re always in Delhi in the mango season!

I love you sweetheart

Mamma

Wet, wet, wet

Dear Bean,

I got ‘the call’ from your school today. You’ll understand how unpleasant this is when I tell you that over the last 3 years I’ve never had ‘the call’ with regard to your brother. You on the other hand, look like trouble.

Apparently you went to the toilet, did your business and then, since the wash basin looked particularly tempting, you decided to take off your jeans and wash them.They found you dripping wet and had to send you home in somebody else’s shorts.

I don’t know if the long term plan is to start a laundromat, but for now I’d suggest you get busy with the abacus and leave the laundry to the experts.

As the teacher who has only taught you two days (and was the Brat’s teacher until two days ago said) said to me – “Ma’am, he was such a little doll.. and she is err.. quite a handful.” *Sigh* I could have told her that.

I think she admires me a little bit more, now that she’s made your acquaintance. Anyway, do try and stay dry in school tomorrow. And oh, if you spill your tiffin on your clothes, we’ll be happy to launder them at home. You stick with the ABC.

Yours gratefully

Your hopping-mad-mother.

Edited to add: Damnit. Here’s additional info turning it from comedy to tragedy. On further interrogation she admits that she went to do susu and wet a corner of her jeans. Hence was trying to wash that out. And whats more, she is now very sad and very confused and earnestly tells me – Don’t get angry mama… I won’t do susu in school ever again.

*bangs head in remorse*

Dinaben and the Lions of Gir

I’d like to present our very own stars, bloggy pals and now published authors, Praba Ram and Meera Sriram  – and their book, Dinaben and the Lions of Gir. Did I tell you guys how insanely proud of you two I am? And incase you don’t know, Praba is the force behind Saffron Tree, the children’s book review blog I contribute to.

Published by Tulika, the book talks about the Maldhari tribe, whose main occupation is dairy farming, and also the Asiatic Lion. Read this to know more about the story behind the story. And read this to get to know more about our two authors.

We’ve all been going on about saving the remaining 1141 tigers - but did you know there are only 350 Asiatic Lions remaining? Are you as horrified as I am? Go on and read the review and then go out and buy the book for your babies. And oh – can we start a Save the Lion campaign too?

I started it in my own small way. The Brat loves lions and when I told him that soon all the Asiatic lions will be dead and he’ll only be able to look at them in picture books, like his beloved dinosaurs, he was most upset.

He had this school fancy dress competition a few days ago and when I asked him what he wanted to be, he said he wanted to be an Asiatic lion!! So that is what we went with. I got him a pair of brown trousers, and hunted in vain for a plain brown shirt or teeshirt. Finally on our Mussoorie holiday I found a very cute yellow sweater with a lion made on the tummy. On our return I began work on a mane. I picked up a brown woollen cap, and brown wool and began to pull long strands through it. But the wool wouldn’t fluff out like a mane and he just looked like a very weird little girl in a wig. Of course that upset him because even he, at 4 and a half could see that he didn’t look like a lion! We finally got (read: tailored!) a brown body suit and got a mane and taught him his lines, – which included the last cheeky line – “There are only 350 lions like me left. Please save me before you save the tiger.”

The OA and I roared with laughter each time he said it and the Bean went as a little fairy because that is her current craze. When we reached school on the big day, there were the usual round of social messages – donate blood, save the earth etc with some very well made costumes. One parent whose kid is learning classical Indian dance sent her in her dance costume and her tape and she first spent a good three monotonous moments telling us what she would do… and then another 4 -5 minutes dancing. She was only 4.5 and undoubtedly learning, but it wasn’t meant to be a dance recital, it was meant to be a fancy dress – so coming and performing something that you have been learning for a year isn’t the deal. My personal favourite was a little drop of water who said her lines beautifully. The one that really got my goat was someone who copied last year’s winner – a Thank You card to the school. Gah – apple polishers. Did I mention there were a whole bunch of tigers asking to be saved too!

I gave the Brat very few lines and he drove me nuts when I was teaching them to him. He’d change them everyday and say anything he pleased – “I am an Asiatic lion and I like chasing deer… ” or “I am an Asiatic lion and I am going to eat you up. Growwwwwl”. It would be funny if I weren’t trying to get him to stand still on stage and say his lines. After his recent setback and suspected learning problem, I didn’t want his school to have yet another reason to complain about him. Day after day the OA and I chased him around pretending to be lions, laughing, joking, having fun, practicing in front of the mirror with a comb held like a mike. But the Brat would not say his lines right. We shoud have realised he would say it eventually after  last year’s drama over the fancy dress but we didn’t want to regret not trying hard enough.

So as I sat there watching the other children shuffle on to stage and slowly and indistinctly mumble lines that no one understood I crossed my fingers and prayed really hard that my son wouldn’t get upset by the crowd and run away. I saw him standing in the wings and smiled at him. He glared at me and growled. I gave up hope and made my peace with the fact that it was after all, only a children’s contest.

And finally his turn came and I felt my stomach clench. And then Someone Up There smiled down on mother and son and the Brat bounded on to stage cheerfully where every other child had reluctantly shuffled on. He grinned confidently into the audience, bestowed his sweetest smile on me and said his lines beautifully after introducing himself. Loud and clear. His words distinct, his voice ringing crystal clear across the audience. I felt my eyes well up and I fumbled to take pictures of him. Perhaps I am biased and if I don’t write it down here where else will I – I think he was the best. My little lion cub rocked his few simple lines, bowed and said thank you, and walked off stage.

Maybe if this were a hindi movie like Taare Zameen Par, I’d be able to end this saying that he came first. But he didn’t so I can’t. The apple-polishing Thank you card came first (the grapes ARE sour !!;)). But it didn’t matter at all. I think he had wonderful stage presence and if he lost out at all it’s because we didn’t trust him with a more complicated message. And perhaps because his costume wasn’t the most creative either.

It’s also a lesson to me to not expect so little of my son. Other parents have high expectations and are disappointed when they aren’t met. I tentatively give my children lower benchmarks to meet and end up pleasantly surprised when they surpass them and also kick myself for not  helping them push that bar higher.

The Bean on the other hand spent a good fortnight preening in front of the mirror and saying her lines to any visitor. The OA was after me to give her a nice lengthy poem to go with it but I figured the point was to just participate. With no house help (again!), my job, a recalcitrant Brat who was refusing to learn his lines and the  Mussoorie holiday bang in the middle, I really didn’t want to rock that boat. She was just doing so damn well that I didn’t want to add to my work.

A good thing too because she woke up on the morning of the show and began to cry for just about everything. She didn’t want to eat, to dress, to brush her teeth.. anything, nothing.

We reached school and she howled while waiting her turn. A lot of the other 2-3 year olds were also crying and parents were encouraged to go on stage with them. I walked up to her, carrying a little handful of fairy dust that was to be thrown the moment she said her lines. She decided it was a good time to play Holi with me and by the time our turn came she had my face shining like the moon.

She wrenched herself away as we walked on to stage and I groaned inwardly. Kicking myself for thinking less of my son and too much of her. And then the moment she reached the mike, the little diva in her took over and she grabbed it, grinned confidently at the audience and said her lines. I threw her fairy dust over her and we walked off the stage to applause.

End of one headache for the year!!

Anyone want to predict the next?!

Let me end by thanking Praba and Meera for their lovely book and the idea, once again, and wishing them luck. Anyone else want to join hands and start a proper campaign for the Asiatic Lion?

Nursery school age cut off

The Brat, born in May, ends up being among the older children in his class. I couldn’t be happier, because it means less stress for him. In fact I did try and talk to the school about letting the Bean repeat a year while she is too young to realise it –  that way she stays two years junior to the Brat in terms of class and also, becomes one of the eldest in the class instead of the youngest as she is now.  Bean happy, momma happy – win-win. 

But it was not to be. The teacher told me she’s fortunately way ahead of the class and they wouldn’t encourage me to make her drop a year. I left, unconvinced because I am worried that even if she does fare well now, I don’t know how hard the pressure will be later.  Also I truly believe that a 3 year old should not be in nursery, learning to spell. I even had grand plans of moving to Noida (they take nursery kids at 3.5 years instead of 3 and even 6 months makes a big difference) hoping that it would help the Bean drop a year but that didn’t work out either.

Then Kapil Sibal made this grand announcement, just a year too late for my benefit. And I read articles that talk about people worrying about their kids getting one less year to apply for competitive exams. Who are these people and why am I stuck on the same planet as them? They’re more concerned about a year less later, than the extra pressure on baby brains right now? I feel like sharpening melon seeds and poking my eyes out, just to distract me from the pain they’re making me feel for their kids. I pity kids whose parents are already hoping they’ll take competitive exams. I bet they planned conception and delivery according to school year.

Take me away now, Lord. I don’t want to see my kids hanging out with them and getting influenced by their parents and their ridiculous ideas!