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.