Thursday, December 21, 2006

On slow fire...

This Friday due to extenuating circumstances decided not to take the brat for therapy, namely that of his having a field trip from school and uncertainty of time of return given past record of such field trips. So called a good two hours, the moment the clinic opened to cancel. And what do you think, when I go in for my next session the @#&** charges me for that session. Saying they need a 24 hour advance notice on cancellations. These are small children they are dealing with here, are we going to call 24 hours in advance if the kids get unwell, god forbid. Am fuming. Then says she wants a weeks fees in advance, and proceeds to add that I have been irregular and therefore am not serious about the brat's therapy. Let her do the amount of juggling and travelling and sheer stress I take on for his therapy and if she doesnt die of exhaustion in a week I will change my name. As for being irregular, if I am on bedrest with a slipped disc, how does she expect me to get the kid in, and if they themselves sprain his ankle and he cant walk, how does it make sense for him to come in for physiotherapy. And this is a clinic where I am paying double what I was paying the previous clinic just because this woman comes attached to some good hospitals so I assume she is good but seeing how she's going at her teaching for over three months now am not sure she's as great as she makes herself out to be. In fact the other, non flashy, tucked in a corner in Kandivili woman was much much better. Am going to see if she is still available and shift brat. Am fuming mad.

Monday, December 18, 2006

Going to Banglow in a a-o-plane

The brat is due for his first official flight into the non-Mumbai world. Thus far all he has seen is Alibag and Pune. Which is pathetic. But considering momma dearest is chicken livered and stresses about the evils that can befall him if we are stuck in strange and desolate place with a fever, we have never travelled. So here we are all ready for our first trip out of the city and telling anyone who cares to listen that I going banglo in aeoplane. Zwwwiennnn. Okay. Its difficult to put down the sound he makes to accompany the statement in alphabets. The sis in law and niece are all chuffed and happy at the prospect of brat visiting them, their planning for his trip a month in advance. A holiday resort has been booked for a couple of days. The entire week's itinerary has been planned. Dont think a VVIP would be accorded such a reception by any Government. Will miss the husband.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Mr Bones

The brat has become so thin that the chest is looking like a xylophone. Sans clothes and with some mud on him he could easily pass for an orphan running around in the famines of Ethiopia. I am wringing in guilt. Despite the fact that 80 per cent of my time home seems to be spent running behind him with a spoon, he is skin and bones. No amount of rationalisation can change that fact. Are other mothers out there as guilty as I am of kids who insist on staying emaciated despite all you do to fatten them up? Why is it always a personal reflection of one's skills as a parent if one's kid refuses food or stays skinny? And why is plump desirable when a child and undesirable as an adult?

Monday, December 04, 2006

Sports day...

At the outset, let me state categorically that I was a kaccha limbu in the building sporting team till well past my adolescence. To much body weight to allow for limber running around. My husband was a national level swimmer who represented India at the Asiads. Two extremes. The brat, unfortunately, takes after me. He runs in the amusingly laboured way of one who is basically uncomfortable running, even though he sights objects of interest at the end of his run. Therefore am waiting with bated breath for his sports day. He is a crow. Translate, he wears a crow costume and has to chuck in pebbles into a pot, fill it with water and run to the opposite end of the race. If I know my son, and I think I do, he will have a field day throwing the pebbles at the rest of the participants, dunking himself in the water and then emerging happy, and therefore victorious.
Which, of course, is a major achievement for a child who gets up in the morning imploring me "No water on the head". The good Lord knows what phobia has gripped my hitherto water happy child, with the latest refusal to have water anywhere upwards of the neck region.
The latest development is that one cannot change in front of him. "Aw chee, Mamma nangu," he announces to the rest of the house at the top of his voice to much embarrasment.
We will go to the mall this evening, where we will do "itna saara driving". And mamma will go mad with the incessant noise of those humungous game thingies.