That security blanket I don’t wish to give up

Easily, the most nervous 10 minutes of my day are those that I spend at the bus stop waiting for D’s school bus to drop him home. A few minutes here and there from the scheduled time and my heart is in my mouth. Legion thoughts run through my mind as I keep peering at the watch. “Why is the bus late? Are the kids safe?” The nervousness soon turns to ecstasy when I spot the yellow bus trundling down the road. The thought of seeing D -- weary from a long day at school, half asleep – jumping out of the bus, makes me feel heady.

It’s been five long years since I decided to quit my regular office job and take up freelance work from home. D was 2 then, a toddler who loved clinging to me and insisting on taking his afternoon siesta in my lap while I sat and worked at the table. He is now 7, far more independent, with a personality of his own and a vehement voice that loves expressing itself rather emphatically. He doesn’t fit into my lap anymore (though I secretly miss those days when he was that tiny) and there is no time now for a post-lunch nap. Yes, D has grown up and things have changed.

I’d be lying if I say I haven’t considered getting back to a regular job. Working from home is definitely not as rosy as it sounds and taking on steadfast deadlines while you are in your PJs is certainly not one of the most professional experiences. Yet, I am winging it. Why? Because I yearn to be with my son.

When I am with D, I am my most calm self (of course, his antics are enough to make me bust a capillary, but that’s another story). I feel excessively comfortable when he is around and as long as I can, I would never want to change a thing about that. I sometimes wonder if it would make a difference to D if I were not around to receive him when he comes back from school. I don’t know the answer to that. But what I know is that it will certainly make a difference to me. It’s almost as if being with him is more my need than his.

When he comes back and narrates the day’s happenings in school, I feel reassured. When I fix his lunch and watch him devour with great flourish, it makes me happy. When we sit at the window and enjoy the rains, giggling together, I feel thankful. When I drop him off at the playground in the evening and watch him wave at me as he rushes to his cronies, I feel content.

For now, D is my security blanket and I am in no hurry to get out of its comfort.

Growing up and other things

So, another year begins at school. D is now 5 going on 15. He has learnt to do most things by himself: that includes daily ablutions, eating three square meals, jumping up to the switchboard and flicking on the light, ringing the doorbell, going off to sleep and running upstairs to mommy’s friend’s house when there has to be a give and take between her and mommy.

He is now a little person himself with decisions and opinions and quips and reprimands and tantrums. These days, I have often found myself switching roles with him. Like last night, when I was lying in bed with a bad migraine, he ruffled my hair and told me, “You sleep. I am right here. I am not going anywhere till you sleep.”

On nights when my husband’s travelling and it’s just D and me in bed, I have found myself cuddling up to D like he’s my dragon slayer. And there have been umpteen times when I have told him to sing me to sleep and he has promptly done so, albeit, a couple of times I have had to fall asleep to Lungi Dance.

D has also started showing an uncanny love for the kitchen. On most days, when he’s playing with his clay, you’d find him profoundly mouthing a recipe. I used to think he’s probably got that from the myriad cookery shows I have made him watch with me. But now, he comes to the kitchen and insists on ‘helping me out.’

So since the past few days, he has started fixing his own breakfast. He has learnt to beat the egg, pour it onto the pan, flip the omelette and then put it onto his plate. Today, wearing my apron, he proudly declared, “I am the Masterchef. You are my helper Mama.” I thought I’d give myself a fancy name too. So I said. “I am your sous-chef.” He was exuberant. He didn't care who a sous-chef was, but he was happy with his lofty title.

So that’s one more thing he has learnt to do on his own.

Sometimes, I wonder to myself: five years down the line, there will be many more chores that have been added to his list of achievements and ‘can do on his own’ tasks. I have friends who are in a quagmire thinking about how once their children become independent what would become of them?

I have never really thought that way. Yes, five years down the line, D may need me much lesser than he needs me now. But does that mean my role has been obliterated? Can we say that about our parents? Probably not.

Ever since D came into my life I have learnt to live in the here and the now: whether it has been quitting a job or going back to work, deciding to work on professional commitments from home or not taking them up at all, staying in a joint family or moving into a house of my own, cutting down on expenses or deciding to indulge. And yes, most of the decisions have centred around D and they always will.

But I have also learnt that the ‘needing’ part between parents and children is mutual. He needs me as much as I need him. So we’d probably leave the decision of what I’d do with my life when he doesn’t need me, to a later time.

As of now, I am busy playing the sous-chef and dreaming about the day (probably five years down the line) when I get to lounge on the sofa on a Sunday morning waiting to be served by the Masterchef...

Of a mad frenzy, bunny ears and a frog named Little Peter Rabbit

It’s past 10 by the time we enter the house on a wretched Sunday night. The drudgery of the week is playing heavy on the minds of all three of us. We are back from a trip to Pune: one that was filled with utmost anxiety. So we are no doubt what you could safely call ‘dead beat tired’.

I am about to call it a day when I suddenly realised that D’s school was to have a Jungle Day celebration or some such the coming week. The Pune trip had been an urgent one and I hadn’t found the time to plan anything for a costume for him.

With trepidation I ventured towards his school planner and there in bold letters were words that make my heart sink.

Jungle Day: Monday, October 21. Children shall dress up as animals

There’s no escape now. The costume has to be made. I tell the boys (father and son) to pull up their socks and get ready for some handiwork.

We have to begin at the basics starting with zeroing in on an animal first. “What do you want to be?” I ask D. “Lion,”: his pique reply.

Lion it is then!

We rummage through our brains and cupboards for ideas and material respectively. We start with trying to fashion out a mane from some yellow paper. The mane should go around D’s face. Unfortunately, when it actually does it makes him look more like a sunflower than a lion. If only the theme was a little different!

Consequently, the idea of the lion is vetoed for logistical and technical reasons (read lack of time, material, patience and the will to think of ideas)

D meanwhile is busy giving me his famous rabbit –like grin. That’s when the brainwave hits me: D shall be a bunny rabbit! The idea sends us into a tizzy: D is animated; his father and I are fretful for there is a lot to be done.

Finally after much hullaballoo, we manage to fashion out a pair of ears for the rabbit.
I try to teach D some lines to go with his costume.

“Say, ‘I am a rabbit. I love carrots’.”

But the precocious child is far from happy with such vanilla stuff. He decides to add his bit. “I am Little Peter Rabbit. I love carrots!!” (The said character is sourced from one of his myriad CD collections)

Meanwhile, the father is teaching D to hop like a rabbit. The hopping action has caught D’s fancy. He has seen it somewhere before. Right, he has seen a frog do it (again in one of the CDs from his eclectic collection!) He figures out a connection.

When we urge him to say his lines once again, he rambles like a veteran. “I AM A FROG. I LOVE CARROTS!”

It takes us a while to convince him to stick to being a rabbit. Meanwhile, the father has managed to make a nose and two jutting-out teeth with some paper. We hold the shape over D’s nose, but he smugly reprimands us because we are covering his eyes and “he can’t see a thing.”

The nose and the teeth end up in the trash bin and we stick to only the ears. The rest shall simply have to be painted on!

It’s 1 am by the time we wrap up our little project. The debris of our teamwork is strewn all over the place. I look at the rubble.

The ears aren't the prettiest a little bunny rabbit could have. But it doesn’t matter. There is no soft furry costume for D to wear and he has to make do with his white kurta pyjama. That also doesn’t matter. We could have done a better job instead of settling for the solitary ears. But that doesn’t matter either.

What matters is that it was some great teamwork! What also matters is that after a really harrowing trip, we still managed to stay up for the costume -- all three of us.

That is what D does to us. He makes a team out of us. We become one and think as one when it comes to anything that involves him. He is the little skipper who leads our team and ensures that we deliver!

We clean up the room and hit the bed.

The frenzy has died down. I look at my little chief aka Peter Rabbit aka Frog sleeping peacefully.

It’s just all worth it.

An old picture of D. We could not manage to click one in his latest Lil Peter Rabbit avatar!

Playing ‘Mama’

One night, D dragged one of his stuffed toys, plonked it in his lap and started patting it vigorously. “What are you doing?” I asked. “He is my baby. I am putting him to sleep. He is sleepy naaaa,” he said in a slow drawl, a new way of talking he had mastered.

After the whole pantomime of putting to sleep (read thrashing), D picked up the poor toy and promptly planted a kiss on its lips. “So who are you? The baby’s Papa?” I enquired.

“No, I am his Mama naaaaaa,” the drawl is back.

D had never played with stuffed toys before, though he has several, most of them gifts. I had seen my nieces play Mama to their toys. This was the first time D had done it. My mind made a quick note that he had said ‘Mama’ and not ‘Papa’.

I was happy that D was already oriented into a culture that whenever he fathered children, he should be okay with playing a mother too once in a while.

The world is a nice place, at least in our house. D enjoys playing with ‘boy’ as well ‘girl’ stuff. He loves to play with a range of kitchen paraphernalia. The cooker, the ladles, the spoons, the rolling pin, the mixer, all separately and together, often form a part of his makeshift toys. Relatives and friends have gifted him kitchen sets and he often spends time making idlis, veggies, sheera or tea in them. We are all invited to partake of the feast.

I have never wondered why he chooses to play with items considered as the erstwhile ‘girls’ toys’. Most of his cousin brothers too love playing with kitchen items. That does not mean they don’t enjoy automobiles or what is termed as ‘boy stuff.’ D loves his cement mixers, Lorries, fire engines, Nanos, aeroplanes and helicopters as much as he adores the kitchen gear.

I believe I could safely say that D gets this from his genes.

In the five years of our relationship, the husband and I have never done things because ‘women are supposed to this’ or ‘men are supposed to do this.’ The husband contributes to several household chores just as I help plan our finances (except that the husband takes the ‘planning finances’ part a little more seriously because I suck at it and I take the chores part a bit more seriously because he does not perform exceptionally well there)

He has never been chivalrous to me. The only time he has ever opened the car door for me was when it was child locked and I was trapped inside. The only time he has pulled a chair for me was when it was stuck and I couldn't pull it out by myself.

But seriously, I love it that way. Is chivalry really needed in a man-woman relationship if there is enough respect, space and love, necessarily in that order?

I really want D to be like his father. I want him to understand that it is okay to not be chivalrous as long as he knows how to respect people. I want him to understand that he should know how to cook, clean, mop or swab as much as he knows how to earn money, drive a car, ride a bike or guzzle a beer.

I want him to know how to play Mama when the time comes so the real Mama gets to enjoy some moments for herself.

I want him to understand all of this and more.

Just like his father does!

God’s little people

I think children and God have a special connect. They just bond without much effort!
At least mine does and I realize I don’t put in as many efforts as I should to strengthen the bond. Thankfully for me, he loves to be by himself in such matters.

I don’t remember the last time I sat down and prayed. I do pray sometimes, but not necessarily sitting in front of the little devghar in my house – a corner in the kitchen where all our Gods reside.

I am not an atheist, neither am I into rituals or religion. But I know I am a firm believer.

As for D, he loves sitting in his grandfather’s lap as he performs his customary morning pooja. He loves putting tikka on the Gods and ringing the bell. He even wants to hold the idols in his tiny palms. His grandfather anoints him with an orange tikka and he comes to me triumphantly displaying his acquisition with a ‘Mama tita’.

For some time at home, we had this evening ritual where we all came together and prayed. I used to stand and join my hands. D once smugly instructed me to sit down and bow my head.

It’s been a while that we have prayed together now. But D has his daily dose in the morning. His grandparents have taught him some shlokas which he recites to the T looking all the more adorable.

I don’t know what I am going to pass on to him when it comes to beliefs and traditions. I have conveniently left that to his grandparents. All I know is I want my child to have some faith. Faith, I have realized, brings with it a sense of calm, serenity, assurance, confidence, strength and power. In life’s worst moments, it can keep you composed and grounded.

So now I have started this small routine at night to close my eyes and say a little prayer with D. I have told him it’s our ‘thank you’ to God every night. The prayer is neutral, not referring to any God in particular. D can develop his own affinities whenever. He loves listening to the prayer and makes me repeat over and over again. At one point, I have to stop and tell him we will do it again tomorrow.

Last night, I quietly pried my eyes open and found my little one with his eyes tightly shut and his hands joined in prayer.

Long after we finished praying, he still kept saying ‘Thank You God’.



D spies me clicking a picture, grows conscious, forgets to join hands and only manages to close eyes.

What you talkin about Mum?

On days when D is in his element, you will find the room strewn with toys, kitchen items, hangars, clothes pegs, CDs and much more. It looks no less than a battlefield. Of course, D himself is missing from the action because in all likelihood, he is in another room replicating the same design.

Even as I huff, puff and pant to clean up, the imp is back – all rejuvenated to bring the mess on the floor.

I have sometimes made the futile attempt of trying to teach him a thing or two about being non-messy. I try some lame pep talk like “You have to help Mama keep the house clean.”

Most often, he stares at me as I deliver the gibberish till I myself realize he is just two and doesn’t need the sermon really.

Ditto for our meal sessions. The latest discovery in D’s life is picking food from the plate and thrusting it into his mouth or eating with a spoon (actually two spoons – one in each hand). Even as some of it does manage to land in his stomach, most of it is on the floor. Though I have read reams and reams on how one should allow the kid to eat with his own hands, the whole nine yards of cleaning up after him make me jittery.

I still surreptitiously feed him even though he loves to eat by himself hoping that at least there would be a few morsels less on the floor to clean up.

I don’t know when I became so fastidious about cleanliness. I know I wasn’t born like this or I wouldn’t have had ‘those’ sessions with my mother. All I can remember is I was conditioned into it by her. Throwing clothes, books and toys around invited some wrath from her, so although I must admit, it was difficult, I still managed to come around after a lot of counselling.

She always ensured that things were organised in the house so much so that a friend would often remark “Your house looks like it has just been ironed.” Mum liked it that way, I endured!

The point is my mother worked on making us, especially me, realize the importance of being organised. When I moved out of my parents’ house and started living with roommates, it wasn’t easy because clearly our mothers had taught us different things.

Now, I think to myself that I need to pass all this on to D because as they say it’s better to start early. Then I look at my little one as he jumps in glee hurling the clothes I had neatly folded.

I realize he still lives in a world that believes flinging things is great, eating food with both hands is chic, and creating mess is en vogue. But then his world also believes in forgiving, forgetting, letting go off, crying, giggling, being innocent, learning, working without deadlines, sleeping without alarm clocks, living without fear and cuddling in Mama’s arms.

Then I look at myself. Isn’t there a lot more mess in my life? I realize my not-so-perfect ideals have no place in his perfect little world.

Toy story

D and I sat cross-legged on the floor last night and we made a sun, a spoon, a moon, a house and a pressure cooker. Yes, we ‘made’ all of that!

How? We fashioned it out of our very own, quintessential atta (wheat flour). No fancy clay for my son. We prefer the creamy, sticky, gooey atta because during our playtime, even as a lot of it is used for play, some of it also ends up in D’s tummy.

D is still to outgrow the phase of putting things into his mouth. He often picks up random things off the floor and before you could say Jack Robinson, it is already on its way into his belly. Most often, I am exasperated by this habit of his. But of late, I think I have resigned to my fate and I sometimes even turn a blind eye if I see him lifting something harmless off the floor.

That is how most children grow up and that is how mine shall too.

But that is also why I refrained from using real clay and turned to the home-made atta instead as some makeshift stuff. I must admit, I am not the innovator of that brilliant idea. I stumbled upon it on the Internet while looking for something else.

Anyway, the point is, it kept D busy for a while. Now, every evening, after I return from work it’s our little ritual– sitting on our haunches with the atta, creating a tiny world of suns, moons, spoons, cars and doggies out of it.

I have come to realize one thing. My son is not a big fan of toys. His toy basket is most often lying untouched in the corner. On days he does feel any affinity towards them, they are all lying strewn on the floor and he is himself sitting in the basket asking to be moved around like a handcart.

But he does have a rather interesting list of favourite playthings. They include a pressure cooker complete with the whistle (tops the list), spoons, ladles, sieves, plates, katoris, cups, pots, pans, rolling pins, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, garlic pods and just about everything that classifies as a kitchen item. Why, he even insists on taking the gas lighter.

D has always been like this. Till he had discovered happiness in the kitchen paraphernalia, he was a big fan of hangers and clothes pegs. He sometimes also loves playing with grains – a cup of wheat or rice does the trick.

I sometimes feel guilty that I don’t buy him a single toy for months on end. I do lament about it to friends, but secretly, I am happy he doesn’t throw tantrums for toys in shops. The only toys that he does enjoy playing with sometimes are the aircraft and cars in his collection.

Last week, I thought I would give away a few toys since most of them were only eating up space. But they belonged to D and I told myself I will have to ask for his permission (in whatever way I could elicit an ‘aye’ from a two-year-old).

This is how our conversation goes:
Me: Can we give away some of your toys to those babies who don’t have any?
D: Naa
Me: Why? You have so many of them and they don’t have any. You will share your toys with them right?
D: (without any further questions/queries/explanation): Okaaaaaaayy (and walks out)

It’s that simple! I do not need to use any of the convincing speech or tricks I am forming in my mind.

His life is sorted, so is mine and so is the mess.

I sometimes wish we learnt to let go off things so easily. At least, those that we don’t really need but still love clinging on to!



D rolling out that perfect chapati