The Big Mysteries of A Mom's Life - Unearthed

If they were to draft historical accounts of my life say, for the purpose of studying a life unexamined, there would be two significant periods that would emerge. Before the birth of my daughter (Pre-Saanvi) and after (Post-Saanvi).

Now I have vague recollections of what my life was before my tornado-swept daughter came along as a moderately-turbulent upheaval in my life — I cry myself to sleep when I think about it just how much room there before was to sleep in peace.

Pre-Saanvi, I got my beauty sleep, preceded by a cup of chamomile tea and a feel-good classic (*cough* Lady Chatterley's Lover). I skipped work/college to watch pretentious movie marathons at the International Film Festival. I didn't break into songs like Skip to my loo at any given time of the day. I NEVER stepped out in starry PJs and flip-flops and giant heart-print bags doubling up as bottle-holders.

You can say in the pre-Saanvi period, I always held it together. [Carefully wipes off memories of drunkenly-throwing wooden straws on random people at a bar.]

My older sister was one of the first people who showed me the other side of parenting — you know the scary-ass, SOS side. I was in my late teens, fighting acne and sleep, worrying about lesser mortal things like what to wear or how to tame my curls. And my sister - she always looked like she could really use the snooze button on her alarm. She was the world's fastest Indian to shower. While I gave myself bonus shower time to recuperate from the horror of her uncomfortably short one, which was always interrupted by a loud "Ma" on the door.

Her life was a big mystery to me back then, just as much my current life situation would've been.

So it occurred to me, there are some things that one may not necessarily relate to (or "get baffled by") until one steps into parenthood:

1. What multi-tasking is really about:
If you are the sorts who thought doing Math while listening to music is multi-tasking, wave hello to newborn-parenting. While the entire process of reproduction may have involved a lot of parallel activities in the background, here's when it gets out of control. You're wearing a baby sling with your baby somewhat trying to latch on as you do laundry, chop vegetables in the kitchen, attend an urgent phone call, fight back a pressing bladder and sometimes, in dire circumstances, stuff your face with leftover food like a crow.

2. Why a mom's social media feed looks like she's running a little crèche all the time:
I mean there may be new world orders, earthquakes, change of presidents but a mom's social media feed is always talking about poo or sleep-deprivation or potty-training or DIY costumes, right? I mean isn't it annoying?

No, it's not. When your kid reaches the coveted potty seat, it means you don't have to sniff diaper pants any more, a welcome graduation to merely washing and perfuming his/her bum. It's cause for wide celebration. And the cute pictures? Let's face it. Kids in costumes are adorbs.

3. The curious case of the mom bun and ill-fitted shirts:
The 24-year old me used to see these moms, all sporting the same messy-bun hairdo and wearing ill-fitted gingham shirts with leggings and I, the aspiring fashionista, would be like, "I could so style these women."

Guess what? OOTD and style quotient are miles away from a new mom, buried deep underneath fantasies of long hairwash rituals and reading beauty magazines. She may be the most organized mom, running her baby five-course meals by the clock, or a klutzy, house-upside down mom perennially out of time. What she's wearing, in terms of being fashionable is usually the last thing to cross her mind, well, after she's convinced herself to not use the 15-minute beauty time-slot to take a nap.

4. Where's the father/father figure in all of this:
I remember as a kid we had these family lunches with all my friends and their families assembling at somebody's house, playing memory games that involved figuring out, quite literally, "Who's the Daddy?" We rarely met anybody's dad so it was all a bit confusing. Three decades on now, we're still somewhat struggling with getting dads to participate equally, perhaps with some trite hand-on dad definitions like "Oh, look. I can do her nappy." or "Come sweetie, let's take your cycle for a spin today."

Fathers are unsung heroes, "bread-winning", saved-the-day-by-showing-up parents. Even though I'd say my husband is a hands-on dad, we, as a culture, are still miles away from equal parenting.

5. Why do you have to bring kids to the movies if they're not going to be watching it?
I remember how I used to dread going to family movies because there'd be dozens of kids ruining the movie for me with spoiler alerts, loud ill-timed chuckles, antsy walks and screeching wails. And then I'd come back thinking, "Why can't parents control their kids? Why do they have to bring them to the movies?"

The answer is they need to get a break too. They're people. They don't have any other place to leave their kids. Besides, they probably wanted to watch Deadpool but picked this one cos it's appropriate for child-viewing. So cut them some slack.

6. Contemplation is a luxury. But hair-washing?
 I used to hear all these new moms go, "Oh, I cut my hair cos I had no time to wash it, let alone de-tangle it." And it crossed me as strange. All they have is a little human, incapable of walking and running into trouble, sleeping most of the time, perhaps, just crying for milk and attention occasionally.

What we don't see is baby vomit and food getting in her hair. All the freakin' time. What we don't hear is attending phone calls and cooking and cleaning after her baby's mess and juggling kids' activities and grocery-shopping (with a baby) and scavenging for food. What we sleep through is her baby wailing through the night that got her to hit the snooze button eight times to let go of her mid-week scheduled hair-washing at 6 am.
With a baby, hair-washing is a pampering ritual, at best reserved for Sundays.

7. What sleeping like a baby really means:
And if you have one of those rare, miracle-of-life babies, who do actually sleep 12-14 hours at night, even through their post-midnight snacks, pray to God everyday. Cos you will need God to fight venom from your sleep-deprived peers. A typical night with a baby involves a lot of fumbling in the dark and rocking your baby at different hours of the night. You invariably keep a tab on the party people as they come blaring back at 2.00 am, listen to the chirpy birds who seem pretty pleased with their life, and appreciate the gorgeous sunrise horizons with misty-eyed, blurry vision.
As one of my mom-friends put it, "The person who coined the Sleep like a baby idiom didn't really parent any kids."

8. Why do moms carry a hideous, monster bag:
My sister would be taking her babies for a stroll till the end of the road and she'd be armed with an intimidating bag with refreshments and tissues for a year. I didn't get it. You just fed your baby. What could possibly happen?
Well, maybe she was standing in the line waiting to board a flight with her baby for the first time when her baby threw up and started producing these supersonic-frequency wails. And while she rummaged her fetchingly gorgeous new travel tote to fetch tissues and prepare milk under piercing, judgemental looks from the other passengers, she was internally telling herself, "Must buy giant bag with ugly, accessible pockets holding ready-milk and tissues at all times.

Any of these things eye-opening for you? Well, I'll come back for more while you go hug that tired-looking, unkempt mom in your block :).

Random Bits And Pieces To My Grown-Up-Version Daughter

It's mid-afternoon in Mumbai, the month of December, but a scorchingly hot day, straight out of mid-May. My four-year old daughter is wearing three layers of clothes - my sheer jacket, her fur-vest and my ridiculously large-bowed plaid shirt that fits her as a maxi. (The things I buy for compulsively keeping up with fashion.) She's twirling all around the room, drunkenly swaying to "Love you Zindagi". Her eyes have got this virgin sparkle, going with the theme of all the pink and purple sequins that she's tossed on the floor in the name of art. Of course, it's completely normal in our house to have some degree of tacky pinkness on the floor or on our faces at any given time of the day.

To my dear girl as I look at you today,

I can see it in your eyes that there is no other acceptable form of life for you right now, except the one that involves you in the centre of your bubbling joy. It doesn't matter who joins you in your over-the-top party. You are your own party. As much as I enjoy looking at this right now, I can't help wondering if you would eventually, like the rest of us, cross this rainbow-zone to join us in the world of self-restraint, measured happiness, shuffling forever between aspirations, the past and future, never quite belonging to the moment. (Pray not.)

And that is why I've decided to write to you some random bits of wisdom, nothing of too much consequence, but hopefully nothing you'd want to pay a deaf ear to or filter off as "These Millennials - they'll never understand us."

Take it from me love. While mother-daughter gyaan is subject to change as we move forward, these are some valuable words that'll come to your rescue, when the Google search engine won't. Oh, and while we're on the subject, can you promise me never to Google medical symptoms? Instead, look up idioms on Urban Dictionary. Or indie artists on Wikipedia. Or any wickedly charming anti-heroes you fancy. Try Pablo Escobar.

You might look up Escobar. But the rest, you're going to disregard. I can tell.

One day, you'll leave my cushy nest and embark on your own journey. For all the little things in life, of course, you'll have your friends and cousins and aunts and uncles and parents and grandparents to turn to. Even then, the only counsel that will matter, at times, is that of your heart. And that's when it'll all get very confusing. I can't blame you. You heart what you heart. And that heart of yours - it's a tricky beast to capture. The only way I know about it is to take a step back, slowly disentangle yourself from its lure and remind yourself that you're enough. It may work. It may not. But always sleep on it before you go blindly chasing what that nasty red devil wants.

This one too, you're going to disregard. I can tell.

OK, so for all practical purposes, why don't I just tell you things that'll actually be of some use to you, instead of giving you trite, self-help mantras that everybody quotes at friendly brunches but nobody actually follows? Maybe, these'll make the process of growing-up less complicated.

Or not.

25 Bits And Pieces From Mama (Enriched With My Half-Life Experiences)

1. You're never too old/ too fat/too full/ too sick to eat  ice-cream: And I'm safely assuming you're not going to be the vegan/ froyo/cake-trumps-ice-cream category. God, p-l-e-a-s-e, tell me you aren't. First of all the cake vs ice-cream argument is moot. You can have both! And ice-cream's a life-saver. Got me through heart-aches and headaches. Brightened my dull days. Kept my food down during my final pregnancy term. So, please just keep a tub of it handy in your refrigerator. Right now, you love it so here's hoping.

2. Never give up your seat: Well, you should make an exception to pregnant women and senior citizens. But definitely not to anxious-looking, grouchy aunties and uncles. They're still going to look as miserable so one miserable person is better than two.

3. Travel. Alone or with your tribe: And if a spontaneous plan comes up, fight for it! Cos that's the only time when all of you will be available. Learn new languages, eat with chopsticks, however futile it may seem, karaoke, and never sit it out when you want to. ( I'm referring to strictly dancing here.)

4. And while you're travelling, take a polaroid cam: No staged-camera pictures and duck-face selfies (or whatever animal you're channelling these days) with mountains in the background please! Polaroid may be ridiculously retro but film cameras make the perfect holiday postcard. Plus they pack a lot of memories.

5. Clean the kitchen top before you sleep: 'Cos if next morning Shanta mausi doesn't show up, you'd not have to drag yourself with half-open eyes to the kitchen and moments later, storm out of it in utter disgust only to head to Starbucks.

6. Look in the mirror and find something you like: Yes, that silhouette is fascinating on you. Your smile is worth a million-dollars, your curls frame your face nicely and no, that tiny stain on your brand-new, white pants isn't that pronounced. (I just saved you half-hour.) Incidentally, that is the gist of what you're saying to me now. ("Mom, stop staring at the mirror. Your hair looks great!")

7. Don't leave the house in PJs. Not even the cute starry ones. They're not the most flattering in bright lights.

8. Always keep wet wipes in your bag: By the way, you introduced me to them. And boy, are they a miraculous find! Work on stains, smudged kohl, and dirty leather alike.

9. If a boy/man pulls a chair for you on the first date and leaves you stranded while he goes talks to his friends on the second, he's not worth it: Human behaviour is inconsistent. But such swift inconsistencies, you can do without. You'd rather be with someone who doesn't pull a chair for you at all.

10. Don't be a quitter: And if for any reasons involving your sanity you are one, have a back-up plan and don't look back.

11. Don't swallow your feelings or pride: And if you must, don't gorge them down with cold French fries or old doughnuts. That's wasting precious calories.

12. Step out often: But wear sunscreen. Actually just wear it regardless. We've fuckin' polluted every place.

13. Be somebody's speed-dial: And have someone on speed-dial. Or whatever you're calling it these days. Especially useful for post-midnight apocalypses.

14. Knock lightly before you open a deserted cabinet. You don't want poor unsuspecting lizards dropping on your feet.

15. When you get to your thirties, always make room for Aunt Ruby. She can barge in any time. (You may want to look up Aunt Ruby under long-dead idioms.)

16. Is it worth doing it everyday when you hate it so much? Just learn to trust somebody with your laundry.

17. There is such a thing as the chain of assholery: Please don't give sweethearts grief for what jerks did to you. Cos Karma's watching and she's a bitch who loves moving in circles.

18. It doesn't help to be stressed-out and whiny:  (Something I'm working on personally.) Take it from me. Things will be out of control once in a while. And nobody likes a whiner. Plus it brings on early wrinkles.

19. Always carry something to a party. Even if it's just rye-bread. (No, not rye-bread really.)

20. Once in a while, know how to push the right buttons. Cos the world moves on push-technology, if used correctly.

21. Saying 'Sorry' shouldn't be a knee-jerk reflex: Don't we often end up saying "Sorry" for being trampled on? Train your reflexes to not do that. Right now, you assess the situation and damage before saying you're sorry. In other words, I have to eyeball it out of you. You got it babe.

22. Don't watch any classics or Jane Austen based movies with your man: Cos he'll ruin it for you. I can't watch Pride and Prejudice with a straight-face any more.

23. As a rule, I know you're going to disregard everything over-concerned Aunties tell you. But if you find an aunt with large, pop-coloured eyeglasses/crazy purple hair/a biker jacket/a stack of Virginia Woolfs in her library, pay close attention.

24. Greet everyone and treat them as you'd like them to treat you: Cos a kind word goes a long way. Besides, you don't want the server spitting in your coffee.

25: Never wear white-on-whites: Top five things to get jinxed. After freshly-ironed hair in monsoons and spotlessly clear skin before a really important day.

I asked you what you want for your 5th birthday. You couldn't decide between a long vacation, a labradoodle or a superhero party. Eventually, you gave up the idea of a party cos you were afraid you wouldn't get enough gifts.

I hope you  keep this thirst and spirit for life, however material and self-absorbed, alive.

Cos kid, you're worth so much more to me.

The Introverted Parent Trap

Image Source: Presspack

Scenes From An Early Morning School Drop-Off:

[Dark, greyed elevator...something of a quiet place to shut your eyes in for a few seconds.]

I hop—wait, I am merely sliding in —with my four-year old daughter gleefully jumping into it first with her eight-watts smile, disturbing the whole atmosphere without even saying anything. Morning person much? A man and two other women join us, hounding and blocking what I consider my free breathing space. Each of us moves to light up our destination digits, makes brief eye contact and zones out in our individual fortresses.

I pick the dark corner that also lets out a secret vent for my benefit. Saanvi continues to intrusively study everyone, keeping her wide-eyed smile. Of course, she can't stand still even for ten seconds. She notices something and yells at me from another corner, pointing crudely at the only man in the elevator.

 "Mom! Mom! Look at him. He is wearing dad's t-shirt."

Of course, that remark is open to wide interpretations and I'm mortified. But I've learned the hard way that whatever I do in a desperate attempt to salvage is only going to backfire. So I just give her a half-smile and avoid eye-contact in general. I'm counting in my head to get the fuck out of everyone's hair when comes another uninvited remark.

"Uncle, can you give it back? Papa really likes that t-shirt."

Obviously, now I have to dive in head first with apologetic giggles that only get drowned in the roaring laughter coming from the seemingly-polite ladies in the elevator.

Kids say the ballsiest things, don't they? That's cool.

Mostly, they say things that overwhelm you and outnumber you in rapid sentences. And that's OK too I guess.

But if you're an introvert like me, it can get exhausting.

Last year, we went on a holiday to Bintan. Saanvi had just turned three that year. It was her birthday. We had a quiet dinner at an Indian restaurant so she could have her lunch staples—roti and bhindi—as opposed to Ramen and pizza. She picked the table next to a sweet Indian couple. The entire time we were there, our tables were shuffled incredibly close together with her chair facing the Indian couple. I felt sorry for them 'cos they seemed to be newly married. My husband took a picture of us from that day. The couple was downright jubilant to be in our company. Saanvi was in mid-sentence. And me - well, I had this sheepish, awkward smile.

Like I wanted to get out of there as fast I possibly can.

And that is definitive of how I feel when we're out as an introverted mom and extroverted daughter duo. 'Cos here's the thing about being an introvert. You want to be able to control the volume of conversations. So, when I'm talking to people, one-on-ones with people I know are ideal.  Group-conversations are next best cos you get to catch your breaths a lot. Of course, I love my friends! I'd meet them with their kids too, sometimes craving for a cup of coffee with them in the middle of the night, imagining the kids all tucked in with a nice classic, say Wizard of Oz, while we sit outside and indulge in some petty, slanderous gossip about everyone we know.

But the perennial introverted parent trap arises in one form or the other. Like in the following situations:

• When you're amidst strangers in a long journey and you're forced to engage in conversations 'cos your chatty daughter won't have it any other way. And she won't even nap cos that'll get in the way of discovering new people. (New people are over-hyped.)
• When you're in the company of society park moms who're engaging in long conversations with your daughter asking her interesting open-ended questions. And you kind of feel obligated to do the same with their kids.
• When you've had a long, tiring day of relentless conversations with your little jabberer and you're ready to call it a night. And your daughter asks you to cook up a fairy tale from your imagination and narrate it to her. One that does not end with, "And she was tired, miserable and sleepy ever after."

I know what you may be thinking. Am I even remotely implying that my energetic daughter is making me miserable? So what if she talks a lot?

Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful each day for having a little ray of happy, bouncing sunshine in my life. And she's a good conversationalist. Not kidding. She talks like a grown-up. She'll talk about anything from fun science facts to philosophy, sometimes she'll just make up her own trivia for the sake of conversation fillers.

But for me, in order to be a functional mother, who listens to her and  nurtures her with the same sort of love and energy every day, I have some alone-time mandates. Maybe, it is a little selfish. But my me-time refuels me, sometimes more than a good night's sleep, more than my other basic necessities in life.

And that's when I knew what I need to do in order to survive motherhood. So that I can over-indulge myself in uninvited conversations. So that I can make it through birthday parties without feeling like a deflated party balloon. So that I don't go looking for a spiritual connect before letting another person into my space. So that I can flit from one group to another without having to feel like an alien. Which is the hardest part for an introvert by the way. When we find a comfortable space, we cling to it with all our might. So chances are, even when I'm out on a social spree, you'll always find me with the one person I started my first cocktail with. That is if said-person hasn't abandoned me. (I do have social abandonment issues.)

So here are some everyday guidelines I've laid down for myself:

1. Tuning out from the world completely: Alone-time is not hard to come by since we're a nuclear family. So, I put my phone on silent, sit with a book/writing pad /mindless television, whatever the need of the hour and stay put for as long as it takes to feel rejuvenated.

2. Starting my day ten minutes earlier than everyone: Sometimes, all it takes is five deep breaths,  a dose of morning fresh air and quiet to get me up and about.  The realization that the world hasn't started needing you yet  is divine energy.

3. Having a job that doesn't necessitate face-time: Because honestly, what good can come of a room full of people trying to fill up air with their own stuck-up ideas and making themselves look important? Fine, maybe greater good that can potentially change governments. But fortunately for me, I'm still trying to get all the way back to jump-starting my career and I realize that with my skills, I could potentially even work from a remote island. As long as it has WI-Fi.

4. Music: Big part of my survival kit. I can absolutely not do any sort of physical activity without my playlist. It is therapeutic. Irrespective of whether you're an introvert or extrovert, it's important to have at least one thing in your life that is meant just for your personal pleasure. My playlist is one of them.

5. Letting it go: You may try to mingle more and be more receptive to others and put yourself out there more often. But you can't change who you are. I try to accept that and not beat myself about it. I fail miserably but I try again.

Of course, it fills me with an inexplicable envy when I see bright, cheerful moms who can fill the room with their positive vibes and radiant energy. But I've come to healthy terms with the fact that I'm just not one of them. I'm happy to spend my alone-time refuelling for random play-dates and spontaneous social events that tend to drain the life out of me.

As long as I'm there in body and spirit, I'm enough.

Miss Vanity Insanity - When Did You Leave The Building?

Dear Previously-Vain Mom,

I know exactly what’s happening with you of late. It’s shopping season. Yea babe, of course, it’s time to treat yo’self, to go back on all your Pinterest highlights and impractical wishlists, to pull them out of their wretched misery. It’s time to approach the pent-up towers of day-time fantasies that whizz you on the streets, your personal runway. You’re walking with your lil daughter wearing matchy-matchy, hot-off-the ramp fall outfits, even though deep down you know there’s no such thing as fall in Mumbai. I can feel your dizzying excitement, your shaky hands reaching out for that icy blue,  cape-top that you’d wear to theatre, friendly cocktails, brunches... Oooh, maybe even your kid’s cramped school parties, just to add a touch of wonderland to the whole meh set-up. I am with you woman, with my pom-pom lace-up sandals that nobody would really understand, even though I've tried to make everything about them (and not the boho-tassled jacket that I fought the urge to get on).

I know love. As unlikely as it sounds, you haven’t had the time (or the inclination) to go to the salon for months at a stretch, growing out your eyebrows. Here's hoping that they’d be as “on fleek” as Carla Delevigne’s in the bargain. (Upper lips? What, isn’t it Movember already?)

We've all been there. A clumsy stack of wishlists and to-do beauty appointments all neglected — taking a hard blow with the ever-changing indices of time and money. You cross by a salon in a mall while getting your groceries and you’re wondering, “Oh can I go in there for five minutes, just for a pep talk if nothing else?” And if the pretentious stylist with the mermaid highlights insists, perhaps a new haircut and whatever gets your game face on.

Pff…just keep walking. Fast!

I know you think just how risqué it seems to place yourself above your family — even in your mind. Maybe you haven’t even had the chance to think about what your kid’s Santa wishlist is or just how much your loving husband needs a new laptop. You don’t want to even get to your “pocket-size” realities, wincing at the mounting holiday bills that won’t look the other way even while you do a furtive swipe.

So you do the most parent-thing ever.

You make a futuristic-looking budget sheet with Draconian red highlights for where you should be cutting back and cute green stars for where you just can’t. You make amends to your lifestyle. For that week, there’s gonna be no takeaways and no wine. Insufferable yes but you gotta suck it up. We’ll call it detoxing OK. You’re now close to blocking your favourites on your shopping destination. “Know what? I’ll go right now and swipe my credit card just to show just how much I want to marry you, red block heels.”

With bated breath, you get to the store, cross-crossing and shoving your way to your trophy. You’re through with the two stages leading up to a purchase -
1. Getting down on your knees and proposing.
2. Justifying your unadulterated love to an imaginary jury, one that features Morgan Freeman just for his intimidation quotient.

But then, out of the clear blue sky, there comes this creepy voice that sounds so much like your mom, “Drop the reckless heels and turn back right now!”

In your mind, you’d imagined a 5-piece orchestra to celebrate that moment when you get your hands on those seductive beauties. I mean just look at them. They’re elevating your naturally-distressed tee to glam rock status in one awkward slip. But that voice — uggh — as always, it’s a party pooper, right? Blinking back tears, you step away from the counter — dishevelled, sweaty, brow-growing, unhappy mom leading the way to a blooming teen, blinged to perfection.

Meanwhile, your cute little princess has wandered off to find impractical furry boots for herself. Now, it’s your turn to be that menacing voice. You look at her sternly, thinking, “Yea, yea, drop the act, Droopy. I invented it.”
“We’re not getting you furry boots!”

And you have the jury on your side. In a trice, her adorable yelps have turned into blaring screeches in some kind of supersonic frequency. Everybody is staring at you. You’re a haggard mom who’s had her candy snatched away from her. You have every right to be made of stone. That sweet girl from the queue is now strutting towards you with her “Aww. Have a heart” look. You fight the urge to run with her shopping spoils. Before she can say anything to you, you say to her, “Wait till you have yours.” You vaguely expect her to giggle in understanding but she looks at you and says the last thing you’d want to hear, “Come on Aunty, it’s Diwali.”

Wait, what? Yes, you have a kid so you’re an Aunty. But biologically speaking, that girl was old enough to have a kid the size of yours. Arrrgh! So now you’re gritting your teeth violently and looking more and more like an addict OD-ing in broad daylight. Your kid continues to stare at you, clutching tight to her furry bunny boots, with Bambi eyes.

This was supposed to be a happy, self-pampering, shopping bags-swinging-in-arms sort of day. And there you are. Having a breakdown.

You take a deep breath and grab the boots from her. You make a beeline for the counter. One short click and paper-rustling later, you’re on the other side. Without your block heels.

But strangely, you feel a heavy weight shedding away instantly. And when you look at your daughter now, you don’t see an annoying, clinging predator raiding your shopping lists and personal ambitions. You see a little girl, so much a part of you that her radiant smile is the only thing that matters. Sometimes, even before yours.

It’s Diwali and you may not have got even close to getting what you want for yourself. You may have had spells of longing and mood-swings thinking about how much you need to refuel your fashion and beauty lusts. You may even cut the detoxing short — it’s not your best “Happy Holidays” version but you do what you need to cope. Sooner or later, your husband offers to take you shopping, and you’re back to feeling loved and wanted and sane.

And one day, most likely during a Diwali wardrobe cleanse, you will stumble upon a completely impractical, gorgeous, chiffon halter with choker beads. Wearing with pride an expensive price tag. Hesitantly, you’ll take the trip down the memory lane. You will chance upon the the impulsively-broke girl version of you in her early twenties with an empty wallet and a closet full of secret clothes she’s still to wear for her dreamy fairytale moment that’s yet to happen.

You smile to yourself, hold the weightless relic from the past to the sun and wonder, “Miss Vanity Insanity — when did you leave the building?”

New Motherhood - The Spoilers (Series)

There are these defining moments in your life when you realize you've finally got your shit together and you're doing the best you can in your microcosmic world and it makes you feel elated.

If you're a mom and you're reading this, I know what you're thinking. "Pfff...Like that ever happens." 

But if you're going to be a mom, I know that you've been struck by this feeling more than once. For starters, the moment you entered into that comfy zone where you openly started expressing an interest in going at it unarmed (without your birth control ammunition) it was greeted with an unreal enthusiasm and wild cheers from your entourage. Some of them said ," Oh I'm so happy for you dear!" or "I'm gonna be such a cool aunt!". The rest, the ones who were already on the other side, immediately got to the business of referencing formula feeds, stroller brands and words you'd heard for the first time like 'epidurals', 'doulas' and 'lactation' were tossed around. Despite all the mumbo-jumbo, everyone gave you the general reassurance that you're already on top of your game and you're gonna be a great mom! No wonder then, you start anticipating, a bit too obsessively, for those two pinky-winky lines, looking forward to your first pee and candle-lit ovulation nights.

But it also gets you wondering, "Well, I've been an aunt before. I know what's coming. But I mean do I really know what's coming? What are these mums with their dark secrets and darker under-eye pools not telling me?"

And then you think, maybe I'll Google about it, you know, just to get a heads-up. But Google's known to freak you out. Remember the time you typed "Headache" and "Symptoms" into it and you were led to believe you may potentially have meningitis?

Here's what your mommy friends may be telling you: "Motherhood is challenging." Here's what they aren't telling you: "On occasions, it is bone-crushing. And nerve-wrecking." What they're telling you: "Motherhood is empowering." What they're not telling you: "Ever tried negotiating with a toddler for basically anything? We don't know shit girl!"

The truth is we, as moms, may pretend to hold ourselves together, not need help, know everything and have everything under control. To a would-be mother, motherhood looks calming, serene, like in the movies, sitting in a plush garden in the lightness of delicate breezes and baby talc scents. But in reality, you're constantly imploding from within, the cracks of which may come to the surface once in a blue moon, if not in the presence of your loved ones, maybe, in a dark, undemanding closet.

"Becoming a mommy is like being reborn," a wise woman told me in my last few, painstaking weeks before labour. But I didn't get time to reflect on that statement as I was busy lounging in my own hell, like a turtle on its back, all pines and needles, my mind getting bogged down by labour horror stories and medical trivia I didn't need to know about.

From one woman to another, it sure gets unnerving to step into a new role, especially when you're suddenly getting privy to all this information that you don't know what to do with right away. But just for fun, while you carve out your own presence in this anything-but-dull gig of motherhood, I thought I'll give away my top spoilers. Just in case you were wondering what mommies aren't telling you.

Warning: Spoiler Alert!
Disclaimer: But again, this is my experience so it may not be true for you. At all.

1. It's not about you anymore (and yet it is):

When you're in your pregnancy, everyone's wondering if you're well-fed, even if you look like you've eaten for four, and everyone's complimenting you of how your skin's got the peachy glow and how motherhood is doing you wonders. Well, hold on to that. Record it if you want to. Cos the moment your hatchling is out, the universe moves on. The good news is, so will you. You'll be happy to give away the spotlight and everything else (and a little more) for your tiny wonder, whom you're mostly terrified of. But there will be some days you'd hear yourself screaming from within, "Yea, yea, you're cute. But can it just be about me for a little while? How about you give me five minutes to take a shower?" But then again, you feel the tender searching hands of your baby at night, smiling ear-to-ear in her sleep in response to your touch. You overhear your dad saying how much HIS little girl has bloomed and transformed into a responsible adult.

And you know you're not invisible after all.

2. You're gonna hate breastfeeding (at first):

Sure you've seen those pictures of moms oozing with Ambrosia-like energy with their babies latching on, the happy sucklings they are. And you've found yourself, mostly just before labour, staring down at your nipples wondering how it all works. You don't have a goddamn clue but you still think you're internally thriving. Brushing past the awe-inspiring miracle of birth that's left you in a glorious high, when you get to the point of actually attending to your bawling baby's hunger pang, guess what? Neither one of you knows what to do. Enter the lactation specialist. (Thankfully mine was a woman.) She's this stone-faced person who's been assigned and designed to humiliate your upper anatomy any chance she gets. She manhandles them at least ten times a day, prescribes you lactation powders and watches you suffer as you figure it all out. But stay put. Cos once you get the hang of it, you'd find it's the easiest, the most gratifying thing in the world to do. Just pop open your shirt and watch your wailing baby turn into a monk. (Potentially a disturbing visual.)


3. You'll never pee alone.

And I don't mean that figuratively, like "Hey, I can't mentally tune off my baby even for ten seconds to take a piss". I mean the moment you feel a biological urge, it'll be sucker-punched with an equally life-pressing emergency in your household. So, you tell yourself you've been doing Kegels religiously and you can hold it for some more time. You comfort yourself with the thought that you'll make a mini-vacay out of your next bathroom break. You glide into the bathroom after everything has quieted down, the smell of strawberries luring you to wash your hair. But the moment you reach your sacred sanctuary and peel your pants off — I hate to tell you this —you will hear a shrieking voice. Your toddlers will be barging through the door cos they have lost a crayon or your husband will need a baby wipe or when you're alone, the doorbell will ring.

And that is a universal truth you just have to deal with.

4. The moment your baby starts moving his limbs, it's apocalypse now!

Oh what a miraculous thing to witness your little one explore the world on her own! Before you know it, they're already up and about, running off wherever their little feet can take them. Except, they won't be running as much as they'd be running into things. That harmless glass-top table with easy wheels —it's now a death trap. Your open window on a high-rise ushering in that lovely monsoon breeze — now whizzes in an air of premonition. You'd be tempted to gasp every time they just try to cover ten feet of floor space without toppling over like a pile of dominoes. But please. Save the melodrama cos there are still unexplored staircases to fall from.


5. Welcome Guilt trips (And Chocolate-binging)

Mommy guilt is the most common syndrome plaguing mothers. I thought it'll pass as time moves forward. But I'm pretty sure as the years go on, the pain of it becomes overbearing. Some mommies realize that maybe it's time to channel that guilt and pass it onto their kids. That's when you'd hear your mum say, "You don't know just how many sleepless nights I've been through with you." Or, "When you become a mom, you'll know what I feel."
Here's the thing. Most moms feel what they're doing is not enough. If you're a working mom, you're hampering your child's need for affection. If you're a stay-at-home mom, you're not challenging yourself enough. Right from the point when you choose an epidural over natural pain, you invoke raised eyebrows all around you. Even a ten-second elevator ride can have you emerge from the elevator sobbing hysterically cos a neighbour observed  how your three-year old daughter ought to be wearing slips underneath her white tee.

Or not. Cos, you just have to tell yourself everyday that you're doing the best you can. And the only person that you need to be is a happy mom who has it together and knows, or at least pretends to know, what she's doing. Just throw in new statistics in your favour to old-time, judgemental moms and watch them get baffled.

I'd love to go on and tell you more things about what's in store for you. But maybe, you don't need to know this after all. All you need to know is that beyond the dirt and labour, frustration and mood swings are doting scribbles and finger paints, random giggle loops and first words that start with “Ma”, and tiny hands and toes that latch on to you for your every approval. Beyond the wall of judgement, there lies a renewed bond with all mothers and you may find that you have more things in common with your mom than you had ever imagined. 

So brace yourself. For your world is going to go upside down. But then again, maybe it's because you're looking for monsters under the bed with your toddler :).


If you enjoyed this, I'd love to hear from you readers! Be my guest and write in about your experiences and your shared wisdom.

Let's Redefine Manners

“Now sweetheart, let’s revise this. What will you say to every one of your guests as they leave?”
“Thank you for coming. I really enjoyed your company.”
“Good girl.”
“But dad…”
“No buts.”
“It’s my birthday party. Why do I have to invite the entire neighbourhood? I’m pretty sure I’m not going to have fun with the Mathur brats. They’ll mess up my toys any chance they get.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to be polite to our guests. Now let’s do this again. This time, do it with a smile.”

I gave him a forced smile and then stretched it all the way to stress upon the fact that it’s mighty fake.

My dad, as we were growing up, always told us how important it was to keep up appearances, maintain relationships, avoid slander at any cost and always be accommodating and respectful.

It is an important time-honoured lesson to teach your kids as they’re growing up. Manners are of utmost significance. They’re a mirror to good upbringing. They’re the one thing that you can depend on to bail you out of most social crises you encounter in your adult life — and, mind you, there’ll be situations aplenty where they’d give you a fighting chance to win.

As Indians, as an inherent part of our culture, we’re just taught to suck it up and be respectful. To mince our words. To open our houses to uninvited guests. To share our small plate of food. To never say ‘No’ to elders, and if it’s absolutely necessary, to soft-cushion the impact of it. To run errands against our will for the pados waali aunty, even though our schedules may be running as crazy as that of a political candidate during elections.

I have grown up keeping this valued, sometimes stifling, lesson in the back of my mind. And it is only now, as an adult raising a child of my own in the big city, that I have to say with gloomy realization: It is time to toss this universally accepted, age-old attachment to manners in the trash.

It’s not because I think my parents were wrong. It’s just that I don’t necessarily think that manners are awfully significant in today’s context. My parents lived in quaint townships most of their lives, with their own circle of people who’d be ready to bail them out of life-altering emergencies (or help them babysit while they enjoy a movie date). They had job security for life, a good work-life balance with no tweets to answer and no self-perceived social media pressures, giving them enough time in hand to volunteer for charity work, social obligations and cultural events. More importantly, getting from point A to B in the towns we lived never took more than fifteen minutes, unless we were visiting another city. Time hardly came into the equation when we had to step out of the house. The only thing that we had to worry about was to be fashionably late cos getting held up by traffic was a rarity.

We had house-parties over the weekend spent playing dark room and Pictionary with our friends, while our parents swayed to the sound of oldies, roaring laughter emerging from the living room as we tried to keep as quiet and still as possible, in the backdrop of large, lavish spreads of home-cooked buffets and shandies. You get the picture. Of course, come Monday and our dads would be dutifully back to their eight-to-five jobs and our mums would be back to their gruelling groundhog days of clearing the aftermath of hosting parties and making mundane life happy and easy for us — while also finding enough breathing space to gossip about Mr.Sharma’s sleazy drunken comment and Mrs. Roy scandalously “smoking with the men”.

What a wonderful, upbeat thing it was to grow in a small township. No wonder we have such good manners.

Cut to today. You live in a big city. You’re a parent who’s constantly racing against time to get your kid to school punctually. You hop on in the elevator of your high-rise building and some random guy holds it up cos his wife’s probably forgotten to pack pickles in his lunch box and she is sorting the choicest ones for him as her morning endearment to him…while we continue to wait. Another girl, probably an alien, is new to the concept of ‘no-network in elevators’ and starts to get really nasal and high-pitched with her Helloooos (which briefly takes you back to Adele’s version of it). When you finally make it to the bottom, as the doors open, anxious disaster survivors (I can only assume) are storming in before you can get out. You fight the urge to tread on their feet with your pointy heels. Anyway, you head out and the first thing you’re greeted by to start your conceivably uneventful commute is a giant stash of dog poop parked right in your walkway. Suddenly, the day is not so uneventful. Now, you’re an avatar in a game involving jumping over puddles, suspicious piles of gunk and in-your-face garbage dumps. As a mandatory Monsoon-level skill in Mumbai, you’re also required to twirl with your kid in your arms to avoid speeding car splashes over your kid’s crisp, clean uniform. You save your hot breath of fire, your choicest cuss words, for His Highness the rickshaw driver who averts his face like an angry wife on hearing where you’d like him to take you. But since you’re taught some restraint on your part, you start with basic manners 101, notching it up to kind pleas, and then in vain you try to reason with him. But hey, how do you even reason with a guy playing deaf? So out comes a stream of words you’d heard through your school cafeteria and road rages for his benefit.

Anyway, you drop your kid to school. Of course, you have been delayed by unforeseen forces and your caffeine urge is now soaring to the skies. So you think, what the hell, I’ll stop for some coffee. Your local barista comes immediately to mind with his “come hither” expressions. You get there, heaving and expectant, but what do you see? There’s a huge line. But you try to empathize. I mean you’re part of the crowd, right? People need coffee to get their motors up and running. So you stand in the queue. When you’re one person away from the counter, the young boy in front of you decides he can’t tear himself away from early morning social media traffic even to place his order. Come on, he’s very important in the virtual world unlike you. So he continues tapping away and smirking to himself. The seemingly miffed barista, who may just wind up accidentally spitting in your coffee instead of his, tries to rush with his order with pointed questions. You’re a well-mannered person. So you look the other way and give the boy a break. But the person behind you is now persistently nudging you to move further, constantly shoving you with their leather bag. Apparently, now it’s your fault that the line is not moving. You give them a nasty stare and a bonus grunt and continue on the journey to chase your golden caramel latte.

Phew…You’ve dropped your kid to school, against all odds, you've had a great cup of coffee, and now you’re back home. You've got that “what do I do next” sort of vibe going on. You gobble down your breakfast cereal with vitamins. And just when you’re settling down to use your precious me-time to do your own work, the bell rings. It’s the neighbour. Well, of course. You’re a stay-at-home mom and you can spare some time for chai and gossip. You nod curtly through the conversations and give monosyllabic answers. Not hint enough. So then you say you really should be getting back to work. “What work?” “Oh, the writing.” “How do you find time for hobbies,” comes the curious afterthought. You explain how it’s not a hobby and that it really is your work. “Well, so are you paid for it?” You’re not one to exaggerate so you’re forced to tell them you’re not. And suddenly, even though, your neighbour’s giving you a pitiful look of understanding, you’re really, really angry. But thankfully, good manners come to the rescue. You bite your lip and shrug your shoulders.

Now here’s the thing. I want my kid to be well-behaved. I do think it is important to reward kindness with gracious words, love with affectionate smiles and thoughtfulness with gratitude. I want them to follow the manual of good upbringing as we did. But I'm not a big fan of it. I don’t hold good manners above keeping your level of sanity or holding your ground. I don’t want them growing up to accept things and keep silent in good manners. I don’t want them to say they’re OK when they clearly aren't.

I don’t want them to be afraid of saying ‘No’ in the guise of not wanting to hurt sentiments, especially when it is imperative to say it. When manners come in the way of honesty, I think in the long run, it’s better to say bitter truths rather than not saying anything at all. Manners may be necessary in a lot of contexts, probably in also learning the art of shaping words that cannot be taken back, but I don’t think they’re the primal end we should be striving for in our kids for this time and age that comes with its own quirky stress inducers and self-proclaimed achievement indices.

So, kids of this generation, here’s a new clause to the manners lesson you have learned in school and at home. Good manners breed good manners. Most of the time. But watch out for assholery and douchebaggery. If you find them, f*** good manners.

The Dreaded Dhokla Chronicles

One of the ambiguous pleasures of being a mum to a morning-school going toddler is having to fix her breakfast tiffin. I don't necessarily think that going to the kitchen the first thing in the morning before even addressing my camel breath is a mood-kill. I love cooking, so in a way being Ambrosia-like even at seven am gives me joy at some masochistic level. But get this. It was Thursday. Which spells the dreaded words D-H-O-K-L-A on her weekly menu. Nahin!!! Ye dhoka hai. 

Like Seriously...what's your secret?

For those of you who've never gone for high tea in an Indian household or have managed to overlook the savouries in a desi mithai shop or still haven't found their calling to take the great Indian train yatra to just about anywhere in India, let me paint you a picture. Dhoklas are light, airy, yellow savoury cakes made out of chickpea flour and semolina. Spiced with a bit of chilli, tempered with popping mustard seeds and curry leaves, garnished with coconut, soaking in a bit of sugar syrup for a mysterious angle, they're the most irresistible of street snacks.

Since even the street-corner chai waala seems to serve these airy delights with a breeze (pun not intended), I thought it only makes sense to open my somewhat-deft hands to them - well the pressure of cracking them seemed immense considering it now featured in my kid's weekly menu. Peer pressure in a nutshell y'all.

Let me just say that I've had my fingers burned, literally and figuratively, in the quest of making my Gujarati sistas proud (or just have me sit at their table.)

The curtain raiser to every one of my dhokla attempts started with my house-help talking about magic spells and secret ingredients (Did anyone whisper Eno?) and swishing of wands - aka - whipping spoons. I thought to myself, "Hmm...there's too much dependency on voodoo going on for a savoury delight that's as ubiquitous as the "I've got kids" hairdo at school drop-off." But whatever. I did everything diligently, with my nimbu mirchi on the side, and a prayer in my mind. Alas, it didn't rise. The first time. Or the second. Or even the third. I had to get my house-help to do it and it rose to the rooftops, like a surgically-enhanced bosom, shining in all its sun-kissed, velvety sheen.

I don't get it. Am I not giving it enough space? Is my dhokla relationship crumbling under the weight of pressure? Am I the cursed one?

Making instant dhoklas in the kitchen has been like living  in my own self-raised hell, for reasons I can't even begin to understand. But today something had changed. You see I put the dhoklas in the steamer and went to get dressed and just out of the blue, I got a strong whiff of smoke. I raced back to the kitchen waiting for a brand new disaster to greet me this morning. I opened the steamer.  Et voila! Amidst the mist of smoke, I could see the dhokla batter revealing itself to have risen perfectly! Tears of joy stream down my eyes as I attempt to unveil the pillowy magic on my plate. But no....wait! Let me do the tempering first. In a ruse to add the Jamnagar to  my nerve-jamming production, I temper it with mustard seeds and curry leaves and decorate it with coconut strands. 

I do a flip like the way the cooks on Masterchef do it, in my head the tense drumbeat ushering in uptempo flute-cello in the background. 

Wait, change that to an anti-climax music score. It was stuck. Even though it was perfect and airy outside, it was all gooey and mushy on the inside, much like me on Dhokla Thursdays.

With quivering lips, I gather it all up in crumbs and stuff it in Saanvi's tiffin. It's a gloomy Thursday. We're walking down to the rickshaw and I ask Saanvi to watch out for fresh dog-poo on the side, before staring at it for a good twenty seconds to appreciate the uncanny resemblance of it to her dabba contents.

Well, as Matt Preston would say, it's the taste that counts :).

Have any memorable cooking disasters to share? Nothing to be ashamed of, people!

Welcome To The Sorority of Mothers!

Image Source: Pinterest

I ring the bell. A young-ish, attractive lady with dark rings under her eyes, which I think is a trademark feature of nearly all moms including me, answers the door. I greet her with the sort of enthusiasm that deep down I know is kinda fake but on the surface, it seems only natural. She greets me back with a little less enthusiasm. I enter the room and the conversations gradually die down. It's a bit stifling to stand there, when four pairs of eyes that instantly flocked to me in warm welcome earlier, are now holding me at the door, sizing me up. OK, fine. I haven't seen them in a while and things are bound to change one way or another.

But wait. Is it me or do I sense a bit of hostility?

Me [sheepishly]: What's up guys? Am I late?
Mommy 1: No. Class is just about to end. Where were you?
Me: Oh! It's just that I come to the park a little late now. Household errands to finish. You know how it is.
Mommy 2 [looking straight out of a soap-opera ending]: We mean where were you at the beginning of class? We came in and saw Saanvi all by herself!
Me [quizzical face]: What do you mean all by herself? Mommy 3 told me class is going to start in ten minutes. And she asked me whether I wanted to stay to meet the teacher or leave. I thought I'll meet the teacher after class. And since, Kid 3 and Saanvi had settled down to play, there was no reason to stay.
Mommy 2 [catty smile]: WE wait for the teacher to come. Even though we'd love to take off for a run just like that.
Me [cattier smile]: Oh, do you? Join me tomorrow won't you? You need it.
Mommy 1: Stop it guys! Accha tell me. Is Saanvi going to a big school yet? Have you at least thought about which school you're enrolling her in....

I don't know how picking up my kid from a class quickly spiralled down to being an audition of "Who's the Crappiest Mom?"

But I know what was happening there. The sorority was beckoning me. They were punishing me for being lax with my kid. And taking them for granted. In the world of moms, UNACCEPTABLE!

Umm...have I lost you? Let me explain.

Maybe I should start by saying something about myself. You see, I have never been the kind of person who like to belong to a sorority or a club or any group of like-minded people. For that reason, I never was a part of any. I didn't join Rotaract or AISEC in college, even though most of the people I'd have liked to get to know better were a part of it. It's cos I'm just so much better at one-one conversations than group discussions. I also think that when you are a part of a big group, you act and behave differently — groups have a tendency of bringing out the ugly side of people. Fine, I'm just being weird about it. Well, the truth is I'm an introvert so that's got a lot to do with what I feel about large groups and gatherings. Sure, I'd love to belong to a sorority where everyone's got my back. But I've got my family and friends for that. That's just redundant then, isn't it?

So, it only came as a surprise to me, that after I became a mum, I was unknowingly pulled into the biggest sorority ever - the sorority of mums.

Initially, I didn't understand. I was enjoying the whole new independence of taking my baby out to the mall by myself but on an unfortunate day, she'd start wailing, producing unfamiliar, high-voltage sounds that could bring down the whole mall. I'd look around helplessly, pretending she wasn't my baby. And just out of nowhere, an empathetic mom would emerge and hold my baby for me while I got her feeding bottle out. We'd be sitting at a restaurant — well, I'd be sitting and my husband would be taking our baby sight-seeing around the restaurant while I continued to wolf down my delicious, steaming-hot sizzler. A mom from another table would look at me, smile and say, "I've been there." I'd be in the ladies room, in one of the booths with my three-year old daughter expounding at length the sacred ritual of my private business for the benefit of everyone. And I'd hear a giggle from the other booth and while washing hands, another lady, smiling ear-to-ear, would tell me how I'm never going to pee alone. EVER.

It took me a while to accept my unannounced, lifetime membership into the Universal Mommy club. But now that I am a somewhat-known member, I'd like to say Thank You! Thank you stranger moms for having my back when I needed it the most. Thank you society park moms for listening to my rants, even though most of them featured DIY jellyfish costumes, Peppa Pig anecdotes and the very popular "What are you paying your kid's nanny?"(Not that I have one.) Thank you mommy groups for teaching me how to say "Hang in there." or "I know what you mean" to other moms before sucker-punching them with "You should have known better."

Mostly, I'm happy to be in this beautiful, all-inclusive club that comes with  free playdates, Ellen Degeneres type heart-to-hearts and party favours. Although, I still don't know if I whole-heartedly BELONG to this wonderful tribe of women raising children. There are times when, I won't deny, I feel like I'm above just being a mom and I want to have a life of my own. A life that includes uninterrupted Game of Thrones marathons, writing guest columns for Vogue, Sangria nights with single women-friends and talking at length of vague, cotton-candy dreams and high-flying vacation itineraries. It is in those moments that I find myself withdrawing from this club. I find myself taking other moms for granted and judging them. I cringe away from moms who speak their mind a little too blatantly and tell me how to raise my kid. I feel both inspired and intimidated by moms who go a little over-the-top to add magic to their children's lives (while all I can do is add Maggi Magic Masala to my everyday aloo-gobhi).

But even in those weak moments, my sorority comes forth to the rescue and pulls me back. Sometimes, my tribe wants me to tag along and do everything with them, exactly the way they're doing it, including talking about the baby's bowel movements and romantic  in the same sentence. But mostly, they just plain understand me. And when, in my confused identity, I started relating more to my single friends or married friends without babies, my tribe stood there by me and guided me back. They make you appreciate how much fun it can be to raise a family and yea, the fact that they're also pretty much like me. Juggling their personal dreams with familial reality and going a wee bit crazy on the way.

And it occurred to me, that no matter what they'd say to me, no matter how much we'd annoyingly ramble on about baby fat, no matter what I'd feel about them, no matter how much I'd run and hide from them, we're sisters of the same sorority. For life.

And I can't tell you how comforting it is to know that.

Are you a happy mom? But do you also sometimes feel the need to pretend to be, you know, NOT a super-mom and just an ordinary girl wanting your ME-time? Mommies, I'd love to hear from you!

Finding Beauty in Slowing Down

There's something magical about watching your kids race to the finishing line. When I went to Saanvi's sports day, I was among the fifty-sixty odd parents, hunched at the edge of my seat, shifting uneasily, watching from a vague distance an adorable line-up of tiny kids at the starting line of their big, or rather, only momentous event for the year. But then a ridiculous analogy danced in my head briefly. It was something I'd read in a book earlier about dancing monkeys.

And that made me feel really uneasy.

I'll not deny it. I did, even if for a minute, ask myself this. Am I pushing my kid, really early on in her life, into getting into the winners' stand, just to prove we're exceptional parents? That morning, I did incentivize/bribe her with a visit to the mall and a surprise gift, if she were to win. I mean, what was really keeping me at the edge here? Sure, I want my kid to win and make me proud. But she's just three and half and it's safe to assume that she's pretty much oblivious to the race of life. So then the win is just for me, right? Is it my need to show to the world, "Oh look what a multi-faceted prodigy my kid is! Or "Well, don't make big of it but yea, she's practically the next P.T Usha." Oh, I'd remember to upload her picture with the winning trophy with touchy-feely messages that'd get all the peer parents saying, "Bravo! Great parenting right there!" Or maybe it's the want of a mushy anecdote on her little win to tell at the family dinner table thirty years from now, one which will get me all teary-eyed on the dinner napkin. And what if she doesn't win? What makes me lose my cool, skip a heartbeat, sink back in my chair in dismay when my child doesn't win? What makes me give excuses for her, blame it on the sweltering heat or even her loose strands of hair that may have doused her otherwise Arjuna's resolve to get to her target? What makes me blatantly call out the cruelty of competitions at such a tender age if my child loses the first three spots on the winners' stand by a small margin?

There was something calming in these largely cynical reflections on children that barged in through my unsuspecting mind, one after the other. You may wonder why I let myself get swayed into such pessimistic thoughts moments before my little girl, in the midst of all the buzzing excitement and ceaseless laughters, ran to the finishing line. Of course, as parents we want to inspire and encourage our children to find their potential, give everything their best shot and hope (and cheer violently) for them to succeed. And the inherent goal of being in a race is to taste the glory of coming first (or atleast in the first three spots) at the finishing line, right?

But something took over me that morning and the uncomfortable bolts of anxiety that ran through my body gradually died down. The atmosphere became a little too subdued for a racing event. The little kids stood in the heat, squinting at the sun, their attention directed to every little thing but the race. Some even did this little jiggy to the popular runner ballad that was playing at the time. And then it all began. The shrill whistle woke me up from my meditations.

But the rush to the finishing line was only a haze.

Instead, I slowed down. I watched the kids sprint as fast as their little feet could take them. They kept looking out for each other on the way. When they reached the mid-line, they had to pick oars made out of cardboard, hang them around their neck and sprint forward. They were so determined to do it right that some double-checked to see if it was hanging right. They looked out for each other yet again. Some dropped it on the way as they sped through the track again, but they went back coolly to pick it up. While these little unfortunate mishaps paved way for clear winners to emerge, the ones who were left  behind, continued running as fast as they were instructed to do and finished their race in the shadows. The world looked past them and cheered on to the winners, who were getting rewarded with medals and wild applause. I looked at the children who were left behind. They had finished the race too. They held a vibrant smile on their faces. Of accomplishment. Of doing everything they were asked to do. Of running alongside their friends. My daughter was among them.

And I cheered wildly for them.

It's remarkable how these kids took the pressure off of winning for me at that very moment. I looked around to see if other parents had witnessed what I had. Some were celebrating their kid's win with triumphant selfies. Some were immersed in some sort of psychobabble to the effect that winning or losing is part of life and it is participation that matters. Some just sat looking at the field, maybe lost in their own childhood or enjoying some quiet reflections of their own.

I, on the other hand, waited with bated breath for my little girl to come to me. I saw her from a distance, looking a little frazzled. I wondered if she had somehow got the sense of losing in the participants resting camp, so early on in her life. She came up to me and said, "I didn't get the medal mommy."

But I looked at her with pride and said the six words that I had read about in an article a long time ago. The six words that every parent should say to their kid after a competition, irrespective of the outcome. The six words that carried more meaning to me than any words of exaggerated motivation or consolation. The six words that made her smile.

All I said to her was, "But I loved watching you run."

2015 in Memorably Cute Conversations With My Three-Year Old

Hello readers!
And a happy 2016 to you! Well, I meant to ring in the year with beautiful memories of 2015 earlier but then as usual, time has been scarce. Scarcer, especially when it's spent arguing (or to put it constructively, discussing) with your three-year old about trivial things like how bright red mittens cannot be worn to school, no matter how well it brings out your pink sweatshirt. (Considering also that it's January in Mumbai and it's still 30 degrees C outside.)

2015 has been a long and fabulous year. It was the year when my brother got married to his best friend. It was the year when I thought we were going to be struck down by an earthquake. It was the year when we travelled to new places, of which Singapore took all my wide-eyed, mouth-aghast, shopaholic fancies in just about three hours. It was the year I stopped staring down at my belly flab and decided it's had a solid three years run and it's time to bid it farewell, hence yoga. Of course, the year-end pigging out just fuelled to its unwelcome tenant streak and I find that it's right where I left it. It was also the year when I finished my first short story (however lame it reads now) and started a book. Remind me to get back to writing it.

Above all, it was the year Saanvi grew from a cutesy, chirpy kid to a chatty, sassy, a-liitle-too-earnest-for-her-own-good drama queen. And it's a pity that I haven't quite captured that side of her on my blog, when in truth, I have new material everyday! Let's not forget that memory is far from being my strong point and the fleeting nature of it demands that I pen it down right now before new memories erase the old ones.

So here's 2015 in quirky conversations (mostly fledgling memories that left an impression long enough to be scribbled on a notepad or on Facebook) with my spiritual guru meets queen of sass. They left me stumped, in splits or just frozen for an inordinate amount of time in a curious puppy expression, wondering did she really just say those things or is it my mommy, wannabe writer's imagination gone too far?

2015 in Memorably Cute and Awkward Conversations With My 3-Year Old Princess

1. Early in the year, I had started understanding the gravity of potty training for Saanvi, when it had finally dawned on me about how simple life can be after your kid discovers the magic toilet bowl. So I took her off diapers. Here's what happened the first day I took her to the playground sans a diaper.
Unfriendly Guy in the Elevator [clearly not engaging in or inviting conversation in any way]: Hmmph.
Saanvi: Helloo Uncle.
Guy in Elevator (Don't know what it is about elevators that makes people put on their best poker face): [Half Smiles]
Saanvi: Aaj maine diaper nahi pehena hai. (I'm not wearing diapers today.)
Guy in Elevator [doubletakes]: Huh?
Saanvi [louder]: Aaj maine diaper nahi pehena hai.

Hiding my face.

2. Just about the time she had started developing an unnatural fondness to Halloween:
Aunty in the playground [going round asking every kid]: Sweetie, what do YOU want to be when you grow up?
Saanvi: Umm, can I be a vampire?
Aunty [looking at me with burning judgement]: Haha...How did she come up with that?
Me [scarlet]: Yea, whatever happened to doctors and pilots right?
Saanvi: I can be a zombie. I like zombies.

3. You know how, when you follow fashion blogs, you want to embrace one of those new fashion fads that could potentially look outrageous to everybody else? No? K, just me then.
Me [excited to wear my new fringed jacket but appraising my profile with a raised eyebrow to the mirror]: How does this look?
Sumit [trying to say something diplomatic and husbandy]: Umm...isn't it a little too much?
Me [launching into an irrational argument]: But I never get to wear these kind of clothes!
Saanvi [entering the room]: Oh mommy, you're a jellyfish.. I want to be a jellyfish too.

OK, problem solved.

Move Over Duck Face

4. Like all moms and dads, we personally screened all the cartoon videos that Saanvi gets to watch and among them, Charlie and Lola was my favourite. Well, until one day:
Me [with a plate of food of Saanvi's regular go-tos: roti, dal, subzi, shrikhand]: Saanvi, food's ready.
Saanvi [pointing to carrots in the veggies]: What's this?
Me: Naatak nahi karo. It's a carrot.
Saanvi: I will NEVER, not ever eat carrots
Me [Aila, ab ye kya naya but too tired to argue]: OK, I'll give you only aloo.
Saanvi: I will NEVER, not ever eat aloo. No potaytoes. (In a brit accent.)
And that went on for a while...
Me [cursing under my breath]: Lolaaaa, teri....

5. Saanvi started getting oh-so-neighborly and visiting the neighbors a little too much for our liking. So she insisted one day to spend the day there after having broken the curfew at their place the previous day and I was about to lose it and yell at her in my standard high-pitched voice, "You're not going anywhere. You can cry all you want." But Sumit, the rational, marshmallows-interior dad steps in and takes me to the side and says, "Let me deal with it."
Saanvi: But I want to go to Saloni di's house.
Sumit: Look Saanvi, you've been going there everyday and it's not nice. Let Saloni di call you. She'll be busy.
Saanvi: But I will go only for five minutes.
Me: [uggh...this could go on. Let me take a shower]
After fifteen minutes:
Saanvi [crying]: But I want to go to Saloni di's house. I will not disturb her.
Sumit: But we just went over this. You have to let her call you.
Me: [ OK, I'll go cook lunch till then.]
After half an hour:
Saanvi: I want to go to the temple with Saloni di's dad.
Sumit: Saanvi, you're a good girl. OK here are your options. You play with your toys now and then in the evening, I'll take you to the temple. Or you can go to her house and stay there.
Saanvi: But I want to go to Saloni di's house.

Hell hath no fury like a three-year old with a stubborn streak.

Welcome to my show!

6. As I've already mentioned and I need that comforting reaffirmation of being on the divine path of spirituality and fitness, I started doing yoga! While trying a really complicated yoga pose (for me anyway) and looking more like I got electrocuted on the wall as opposed to the half-moon I was going for, I hear Saanvi giggle in the background.
Me: Oh ya! Why don't you also try it?
Saanvi [rolling her eyes]: Main to already hundred times school mein spiderman ban chuki hun. Translation: I've already posed as spiderman like a hundred times at school.

Hmm, not as funny in English.

7. We discovered the joy of bedtime reading and it doesn't matter how long the story is, Saanvi is a rapt listener. We curl up in bed together and switch from classic tales with a twist like Rapunzel and her Ever So Shiny Locks to Enid Blyton's Bedtime Stories to pictorial books, the works you know. But just the other day, Saanvi discovered a running theme. And a deeply unsettling observation.
Me [reciting Rapunzel]: "She was jealous of all their friends. For the first time in her life, Rapunzel felt lonely."
Saanvi [interrupting]: Why is she lonely?
Me: Well, she doesn't have any friends.
Saanvi: Like Anna? (Anna is this sad character in an Enid Blyton story who wants her doll to come to life cos she doesn't have any siblings or friends.)
Me [anticipating her next words to be the likes of wanting a baby brother or sister]: Yea sort of like Anna.
Saanvi [looking dejected]: Everybody is lonely sometimes.

That got me misty-eyed and sniffly.

What We Do Best

8. In that little space between being a mom and being a girl craving alone time with soul sisters, you've gotta make amends and take your kids along to your girl dates. And pray that your kid is well-behaved.
Me: Rant, rant, gossip, rant rant...
Friend: I hear ya sister. Gossip, rant, rant...
Saanvi [taking her scheme of entertainment to the next table with a group of young girls all belonging to a dance troop]: Hello!
After a much-needed one hour of ranting and gossiping and keeping a vigilant watch on Saanvi, who only came to our table to eat bites of cake in between and went back:
Me [ hollering to Saanvi]: Will you get back here now sweetie?  It's time to go.
Saanvi [to the group of dancers] [animated laughter in the background]: OK, I'm going now. I'll meet you here Wednesday.

Did she fix a date with her new pals? And that's how instant and obvious making friends is for her. Lesson Learnt: Adults are just a bunch of picky prudes.

9. How to give compliments in disguise:
Saanvi [applying talc all over her nana's Santa Claus chest and grunting]: Uggh...oh. This is hard work.
Nana: Very good Saanvi. Thank you!
Saanvi: Nana, jab mai baby thi, to meri bhi tummy golu thi. [Translation: I had a round belly like yours when I was a baby.]

10. Getting to school late:
Teacher [to Saanvi, but obviously directing her cross remark at me]: And you're late again Saanvi!
Saanvi [dramatically swaying her hands in despair]:  But Papa is always getting up late.
Teacher: Errr...mummy drops you to school, right?
Saanvi [missing the connection or strategically showing her dad in a worse light]: But papa is always getting up late. He sleeps late. He gets up late. He's a bad boy!

Nice save, Saanvi!

11. On getting money from her grandpa, Saanvi comes rushing to me:
Saanvi: Mummy, mummy!
Me: OK, what did you spill now?
Saanvi [handing me the money]: Yeh lo, meri shaadi ke liye. (Here, save it for my wedding.)

Only if we had some tragic background from Les Miserables to match.

12. Me [to Saanvi]: God, why are you growing so quickly? Please. Stay a baby.
Saanvi [diverting all her attention to my new-found inches from my brand new high-heels] But my head is not growing like your head, mommy. Why doesn't it grow?

Umm. Of all the things that are growing, definitely not my head, hon.

Radha In All Her Antics

Some of these conversations really had me wondering about the darndest things kids can say. Well, here's to 2016 and all the funny, quizzical moments with my girl I can only anticipate for in mixed feelings of awe and dread.

Would love to hear from you about your funny conversations with your little ones. Do share in your comments below.

Well Barbie, We Meet Again

Photo Credits: Her Uncle, Surya Chaturvedi

Is there a girl on this planet who hasn't been moved by the appeal of Barbie? Either it tugged at all your heartstrings until you broke into a Barbie ballad or it vexed you to the point of chewing off her head. And her beautiful shoes.

Or like me, you were somewhere in between. I was sorta a doll person but I was an easily distractible child. My interests kept moving from skinny, poker-faced dolls to congenial-looking, fuller puppet dolls and robust superhero figures; basically whatever lent to the tone of my tea party, life-saving quests, tree-climbing escapades and other pastime lures. I didn't really idolize Barbie too much, but I gotta say her glimmering mermaid gowns and lulu skirts were too haute couture to resist. Add to that an unattainable hourglass figure, a smashing boyfriend, a dream shoe closet and knees that bend both ways and you know you want to grow up to be just like her!

Obviously, for those very reasons and her annoying 'come hither' expression, there comes a time in your life when you loathe her with all your might. And poor Barbie still struggles to prove her worth to the world at large, including feminists - that she's not just a pretty face living in a fancy bubble. She took her exact same measurements and doll face across diverse, smart professions. She was a photographer, an astronaut, an US presidential candidate, a rock diva, a doctor and thanks to recent commercials, a professor, a soccer coach, a vet, well everything that you could possibly want her to be. And if parents like me are getting peeved with her empty stares, Hola new Barbie! The Hello Barbie series is programmed to have intelligent, politically-correct conversations with children belonging to various ethnicities, recording their responses and leading with new questions. Of course, the immediate concern with that one is won't her engagement come in the way of her role-playing ability in child neverland?

When I look back at the journey of Barbie, I feel a bit sad for her. I wouldn't say she's necessarily a bad role model. In fact, I'm even tempted to go ahead and say that the reason Barbie is trying so hard to please everyone is because of her to-die-for figure and her beautiful face. Had she been a little hard on the eyes, or carrying a bit of holiday weight every now and then, or sporting some occasional acne like us lesser mortals, she wouldn't have to try this hard to prove her worth. She wouldn't go on to fight against phrases such "You're such a Barbie" to imply insipidity, narcissism, an all-hair-but-no-brain existence and above all, a woman who's perennially a damsel in distress. Maybe it's her trademark commitment to flawlessness and anorexic waistline that make us feel threatened. We fear that our little girls would in some way internalize that perfect, skinny ideal and not appreciate any other shape as acceptable. Barbie, frozen in her utopian bliss, could potentially be tipping little girls over to the real world of body shaming, low self-esteem and food abuse.

Nevertheless, I feel for her, for as far as I can recall as a little girl, she was super-fun. And yet, when I see my three-year old girl slowly edging towards the 'Barbie world', only to linger on with her for hours, I am a bit wary. Cos now I'm an over-analytical, paranoid parent who believes that little children draw lessons from everything around them. So if I watch her play with a tad too many pink princesses, I fight back temptation to throw in a scientist doll. I try to bring in a bit of diversity in the hairstyles and dresses she sports and when Peaches fusses over her hair, I emphasize that she doesn't mind frizzed-out hair once in a while.

And then I think to myself, "What the f*** is wrong with me? She's a plastic doll. Peaches plays with her the same way I did. She's mesmerized by her tiny bags and shoes and little pets. Her body proportions and appearance make for a cute playmate but they don't really matter to her that much. Barbie in an emerald mermaid gown is dragged into a diaper-change situation or a hill-climbing adventure in much the same way as she's cordially invited to a tea party with bunnies in tuxedos. Sometimes, Peaches insists she wears her baby tees cos she thinks her dress is not too comfy. Sometimes, little Barbie falls sick, even though she couldn't look less airbrushed to perfection, and she's administered orange juice in a dropper. And while trying to slide on a pair of jeans on her that Peaches has washed for her benefit , I realize that even poor Barbie has 'real' moments when her jeans are too tight to go over her hips.

And it occurs to me that all the Barbie-bashing and stereotyping actually happens in my mind as an adult. The real problem is not Barbie's fake eyelashes and unrealistic body image. The problem is that I read too much into it. Cos as parents, we either probe something too much to the point of irrationality or we just stare at it blank-faced in incomprehension; right before falling into an awkward slumber, exhausted from thinking, manipulating and pointing cautionary fingers.

The truth for now is that my little girl is discovering a world of her own, alongside Barbie - a world where everything goes. Where a head-turner doll in high heels and short skirts could very well be a palaeontologist if she wants to. And a world where Barbie doesn't get her way just 'cos she's pretty and she'll still have to wait for her turn to go on the slide next to pudgy piggies and slow turtles.

So, quite contrary to my beliefs earlier about not wanting Peaches to get swayed by dolls and runway dresses, I've decided I'm gonna let her keep her Barbies and dollhouses. I'm going to let her pretend-wear my lipstick once in a while and watch herself in the mirror, etching her grown-up diva self in her reflection. I'm gonna let her get caught up in designing her own wardrobe (well in her case, it's going to be the shoes that come first) and every candyfloss reality that she cares for. For, as long as I can remember, girls have had a vision of an enchanted life in which all eyes are on them. I read the classics as a little girl and imagined myself in one of those lacey, lilac, tight-corsetted Victorian gowns, even if it meant getting nebulized in them later. I imagined how it would have been to go to one of those ball dances and be the center of everyone's attention and then sneak out to have my own after-party with a select fraternity later. Girls need their excuses to dress up and have everyone swooning after them and their magical existence.

However, I am going to keep a watchful eye on the saturation level. And maybe direct her penchant for fantasy and attention-seeking to dance, music and theatre. And if she gets a little too involved in her appearance, so beat it. It doesn't mean she can't have other interests, such as animals, food and the world around her. Maybe, there'll come a time when she'll echo the beauty and popularity ideal dictated by the instagram of the fashion brigade. As being the turf of those who fit the Barbie image of being slender and tall and goddess-like. She'll probably even paint their reality as idyllic with their days filled with rosy escapades of shopping, fine dining, fitness routines and high-flying parties with tiny, vibrant-looking canapes and selfie props. Of course then, I'll have to try harder to ensure that this obsession of superficial gloss of it doesn't stay with her for long and she can move on to more constructive things in life.

But aside from this grim, adult vantage point of her fake charmed life, let's not forget that Barbie, to a little girl, remains a dedicated playmate who is true to her self and is venturing out on her own into a world of possibilities. So she does it with extra sparkle but that couldn't hurt anyone.

Thus I vow to not give Barbie any more flack for her itsy-bitsy waistline and bunion-giving shoes. Sure her choice of make-up and footwear seem a bit impractical, especially in a lab coat. But she wasn't really meant to mimic real life and I'll let Peaches call her bluff by herself. Whenever she's ready.

But sure as hell, I'm going to be a total grinch and say no to Barbie-themed parties, oreo cookies for Barbie, Barbie bathroom sets and pink furry pencils with lil Barbie mascots.

That's where I draw the line on the Barbie infiltration...