Sunday, April 17, 2005
The strangest possible thing has happened over the past week. A child who would literally drag me to the bath room, the moment he saw his towel and tub being readied now steps out of the bath barely one mug down with water, soap be damned. The presence of the happy squeaking ducky does nothing to enhance one's urge to stay in the water and splashing be damned. The tub, I have concluded is become too small to accommodate growing limbs and the resultant cramped feeling is not something he enjoys. Splashing around is something that has been completely forgotten and the only urgency is to get up and get going. Still wondering why we have forsakken the ducky and the splash the water. Could it be one day of soap getting into his eye? Or could it just be the fact that we have now better things to do like kick the ball and such like?
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Our noddy yellow convertible has morphed into the fastest speedster Ferrari ever known to mankind. In the mind of my one and a half year old speed demon. He practices his moves on the yellow Zen down on the road, and comes back home and repractices his moves on his yellow noddy convertible. Nights are spent in admiration and minute examination of every part of the car, including the horn, the headlights, the wheels and the steering wheel. And amazingly the lack of the gear shift and the control panel is also debated mentally. Actually, the car is now second to only amazing nubile dancing nymphets on MTV in terms of fascination. Probably, the brat will be a driver before I finally muster up the courage to take the car out onto the streets unaided by additional brakes on the learner's car. All this only makes me wonder about the mental programming inherrent in the DNA of the species, what the Y chromosome has brought along with it. Toys that resemble dolls or anything vaguely feminine are thrown away with a cursory glance, and trucks, cars and other movement oriented toys get their share of time and attention. Currently the latest objet d'affection is the ball. Kick the ball, says mamma. We pick the ball up and throw it down. Behind our head. And then all watching should squeal in delight and clap at this great achievement. This motivates us to continue our efforts for the better part of an hour. By which everyone is exhausted squealing in delight. Okay. Gotta go, I have to Kick the Ball.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Been a week since my mother was admitted into hospital with her sugar levels careening past the levels of safety into the 550 zone. She's out now and back home, and yours truly along with parcel went to ease the transition back to a daily routine. Brat, with his innate distrust of anything remotely resembling a hospital refused to even go to a hospital gown clad and IV drip attached nana, on both occasions when he was dragged along to pay a visit. The moment he saw her back in her normal flowery salwar kameezes and no IV drip, he was only too happy to climb into her lap once again. At nana's house he was back to his usual tricks of riding endlessly in the lift through the day, opening the microwave door and slamming it shut every alternate second and napping through the day, and then staying awake till 2 in the morning. Back home yesterday and everything changed again. Slept a disturbed sleep through the night, and woke up a zillion times for gu gu. Woke up sulky and cranky at the ungodly hour of seven am. Welcome back to the night of the zombines.