Sunday, March 26, 2006

Happy Birthday Dear Yuvraj

We attended a birthday party yesterday, that of Yuvraj, son of dear friends Sumita and Neeraj Naik. A cute as a button brat, the birthday boy in camouflage pants and white tee was looking cool and summery and enjoyed his party to the hilt. Our brat clung to moi for at least the first hour, after which he proceeded to explore the house every nook and corner, use a whistle to beat up other children, insist on grabbing the hoop with which the older kids were playing a game and generally raise hell. And yes, though he was a little taken aback by the crowd and the number of strange new faces (all except the birthday boy were people he had never seen before, he coped remarkably well by running off to find new doors to open and shut, exploring interesting nooks and crannies, climbing the stairs and generally whooping it up. But by the time it was time for the cake cutting ceremony and time to sing happy bdaytou, we were totally exhausted with all the effort, and started on our whine "wegohome" therefore, we didnt eat any cake nor any of the interesting snack type items on offer but just picked the wafers off another little girl's plate, who promptly burst into tears at the affront, whacked another kid's cold drink glass and spilled it on the floor. All this, while I held a perfectly good glass of Mirinda and plate full of goodies trying to entice him with it. A frazzled and hassled me, picked up the parcel did our bye byes and left politely before the rest of the kid brigade ganged up to beat the daylights out of us. Perhaps I should have let them, would have been fun to see how he handled the situation. Seeing the rest of the tykes around, I guess the poor chappie would have been hopelessly done for. These were Juhu kids, heartily fed Punjabis, well built and hefty unlike the Kandivili kids he is used to, tiny little wimps half his size. Out here, he was half the size of the other kids in the fray.
Ah well, there goes paranoid mamma again. Constantly comparing the size of brat vis a vis the others in the same age group.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Red red eyes

My poor baby. He's down with a double whammy of conjunctivitis and a bad cold and cough. To add to his woes, his foot is still troubling him consequently he's hobbling around like a wounded soldier. But soldiering on bravely despite the discomfort, to wreck the house and create a mess only a tornado could clean up. After all, if he doesnt what good will the house look spic and span with not a thing out of place. The leaps and bounds of his poetry knowledge amazes me. There are nursery rhymes which I would never imagine he knew since they arent in his text book or his playschool portion for the year, but yes, turns out the chappie knows it. Albeit he will only put in the end word for every sentence, but the fact that he knows the words by themselves are an indication that he is paying attention. Joy and happiness.
Took him to his pediatrician yesterday to check out the eyes, cold and foot. The chappie created such a ruckus in the waiting area that the good doctor actually came out to check him out. "Krish," he says. "I knew you had arrived." Hyperactivity on wheels. Poor red eyed baby. Putting in the eyedrops is as much torture for him as it is for me, given that I have a natural queasiness for anything concerning the eyes. Therefore, the father holds a flailing struggling, screaming brat in place, and pries his eyes open while I have to quickly let a drop get in. And then feel nauseous seeing the inflamed part of the eye. Why is this brat getting conjunctivitis so often I wonder? And why is he perennially picking up a cold and a cough so often? try my best to be a good mommy, but husband and the rest all seem to think it is me who is making him a low immunity namby pamby sissy. Which anyone who has seen my tiger will disagree with immediately. This kid is a fighter.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Pussycat, pussycat...

...where have you been? The cattymeow in my building compound is in permanent hiding thanks to junior who insists on chasing it out wherever it may be to poke a finger in its eye. One restrains him firmly from such violence to animals, but it does seem at times that the cat will show more violence towards him than he could ever imagine inflicting on it. Anyway, Pussy cat pussy cat is the latest of the nursery rhymes on our agenda with all the incredible dramatic action that accompanies the words, especially the part where the frighten the little mouse comes in. I shudder in fear for the little mouse, especially if junior has to the frightening. The mouse must be in therapy by now, caused by an incessant frightener.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Holi day at school

The brat went into the school compound holding hands joyfully with another pint sized brat his size. The teacher informed me with much merriment that they would be celebrating holi today in school much to my horror. The thought of my brat being let loose with gulal in his hands made me wince. This is one brave woman I thought, thinking of the cleaning up she was letting herself in for having voluntarily allowed a gaggle of preschoolers play holi. Yes it is a messy festival, but what worries me more is the fact that like most festivals it is played with potentially harmful colours and what if, horror horror, a toxic green got into the brats eyes, or any of the brats eyes? She assures me they are natural colours which will not cause any harm. But the horrific newspaper reports still scare me.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Beware: Potty training in process

The great potty training war is in progress. If you enter the Manral household at a particular time everyday you will hear howls of protest from the brat tempered with stern barks of commands from me and cajoling pleas alternatively to compel ADHD brat to get himself to sit still long enough to let the bowels move. Television and his dinky cars help for a while, but god help moi if the door bell rings, in which case we just have to go to investigate who is at the door. It could be beloved Papa, in which case we might just get a round of the suburb in the car if Papa is in a good mood and how could we let it pass.
Yes, I am now talking in the royal plural all thanks to the brat, but it makes communication a little simpler I find. And who is to say that brat isnt royalty. From the tip of snip cut hair to the nails of his perennially grubby feet (thanks to his penchant of running out of open doors to the compound without appropriate slippers) he has a regal attitude in his bearing that amazes me everytime I see more of it. Which is not to say he isnt childish. He is. But there is this odd composedness in his behaviour that comes from within. Anyway, there is no composedness while I am trying to get him to sit on his potty. Rather it is a battle royale which goes on until I give up and allow him to run around the house, or till he actually gives up and allows the potty to come out into the potty. Which has been happening sometimes, but not as often as I would like. Read this wonderful quote from a pediatrician which said that you can start potty training at one or at two and a half but you would end up being successful in both cases at three. Which is why lazy me started being serious about potty training at 2.4 years and am hoping to make a success of it before brat hits school in June. Am I being ambitious? Perhaps. But no ambition no gain. And what are diapers for anyway, if not to conceal untrained ambition for potty training moms with no success in their endeavours.
Which is why this post is begging for tips from any moms with hyperactive brats like mine on how to potty train such a restless soul. Please do write in, will be eternally grateful.
Yes have tried the goody bag and the coloured crayons and art sheets and the pointing out to pictures in the magazine. Have even sat next to him (clothes on of course,) with great difficulty on similar sized potty and ended up permanently damaging my spine and lumbar joints. How does one get the child to sit long enough to make the bowels move?

Thursday, March 09, 2006


New phrases from brat are spewing out by the day. Bringing of course, much joy to my heart. The most touching is Wegohome, uttered with an appeal to the heart when he is probably bored out of his skin wherever we are. Just chanced upon his evaluation report from Hinduja Hospital which categorised him as mild to moderately autistic and wanted to tear it to pieces and flush it down the toilet. Instead will file it carefully for future reference. No. My child is not autistic. In fact he is a loving, happy, gifted playful and temperamental child. I was at fault for not recognising him for the immensely gifted child he is. A recent newspaper report about television viewing not really being the cause of ADHD gave me immense heart. According to that research, parents of children use the television to babysit to get their chores done, because that is the only thing that can get these kids to sit in one place. And I totally agree. And damn all those who insist on painting me with horns on my head for doing so. My kid sings songs, identifies people in the ads, as well as things and now totally responsive. In fact over responsive. Yes, he is a little slow. But thats okay, he's not in a race to win the Nobel prize for anything. If he can manage to develop enough skills to make himself understood by a complete stranger and be potty trained by the time he is three my world would be complete.
Did I overreact to sis in laws suggestion that I get him evaluated professionally? I dont think so. I did what any sane mother would do, go to every possible professional and get a professional opinion on her child, and then finally rely on her mother's instinct about their diagnosis. My child is slow, but he is not autistic. He has something called SID. And I can handle that. And I am doing the best I can. Any mother would.