I thow sand on da beach...

A pint sized 15 kilo brat hurling sand on a muscle packed 90 kilo male would be a sight for much amusement. Thats just what brat kept doing through his days on the beach, much to spouse's irritation being object of sand throwing. Brat threw sand indiscriminately. Over jumbo prawns peri-peri platter, when spouse had just tasted one. Into beer mug, just as beach shack lackey poured it out, cool and sparkling. Into tandoori pomfret sizzler just as spouse had waited for the sizzle to die down. And then brat would be dragged away by yours truly, chortling with laughter at having reduced dad to fuming and frothing red faced giant. "We go udder beech," was the litany on being picked up for the return trip back to the hotel room having baked to brown sitting on the beach through the day. These beach umbrellas are no use in keeping sunrays off the skin, I shamelessly went into the fully covered recesses of beach shacks and let the food and drinks flow while the rest of the entourage gallivanted in the sun.
The trip to Goa was the killer. Hours of mountain ghats, brat with projectile vomiting brought on by a combination of indigestible lunch and motion sickness, au consequence we rushed carrying, what we thought was a semi comatose brat, into the emergency section of a Panjim hospital rousing all the sleeping staff. Having roused himself from his vomiting induced stupor, brat promptly proceeded to rouse the rest of the staff and the poor patients with the ruckus he created wanting to stay in the waiting room to see the 'fish is swimming in da waddar" tank rather than go in and get checked. Of course, one knew then that he was fine, but panic stricken me insisted on a full check up and another bag ful of medicines to add to the lot I had already carted along.
Back to Mumbai last night and brat extorts promise from me, "I do colouring, we go beech, okay." Okay son. Bargaining begins.

Off to Goa

We are off to Goa today. It’s a first of sorts. For one it is brat’s first car journey for a considerable distance. He has done the Mumbai-Pune route many times before, and the Mumbai –Alibag thing, but Goa is a bit of a distance away and I am gearing myself to not throw my own tantrums with him.
The tantum is becoming the new definator of how good or bad the day at school has been. “I threw tantrum in school today,” he announces proudly, not knowing that I have been much shamed by teachers and the special educator telling me about how he needs to be able to control his impulses better. And how I quail when other parents tell me their kids have been tattling about this out of control bully bashing them up.
Anyway, back to Goa, this will be a trip in parts. We stop first at Pune to pick sis in law and her kid and then move the next morning to Goa. Hopefully this will make the trip easier for all of us, and though it cuts one day of stay in Goa, it will make brat more rested and less likely to throw a ‘tantum’, So we go from warm and humid Mumbai, to chilly and dry Pune, and from there to warm and sunny Goa. The brat has packed his pail and spade and shovel to ‘Do digging”. He can dig up a storm here all he wants as long as he is in one place and supervised, this kid has a penchant for picking up creepy crawlies and deciding whether they are ingestibles or not. The brat is off therapy for a week and no doubt therapist is going to give me another smarmy one about how I am ruining child’s development by my erratic presence at therapy, the ruin bearing greater on her wallet no doubt. But to give the devil her due, the kid has shown positive signs of improvement. He is responsive, interactive and fast moving away from all the scary behaviour that came with his PDD/NOS diagnosis. But yes, the ‘tantums’ continue. Have overeducated myself on these meltdowns, but yet don’t know what to do to prevent them. But when I go to bed at night, my brain fried to a crisp having defused countless flare ups and meltdowns both amongst the brat and the adults in the house, the brat lying next to me in the bed, saying “Mamma give hand, give hug,” is enough to make me go to sleep with a warm feeling in my stomach.

When toys take over....

Apologies to whoever wrote this wonderful article in The Guardian which has been reproduced in the HT Cafe today, it struck the nail right on the head. I remember having two dolls throughout my ten years of childhood. I remember their names, I remember making clothes for them, dressing them up and feeding them and playing house house with them. My son has more toys than he cares to think about and never plays with them, all he does is play with guns and cars and dismantle them. He broke his bike one night, the next day his grandmother had a new bike ready and waiting. Before he even missed it. He broke his car, the one he sits down in and toodles around the house in, and within a week, his grandmother again had a new improved car in waiting. The child has never longed for a toy. Before he has even realised he wants a toy he gets it, so he doesnt regard it with any care. Grandmothers on both sides are being super indulgent, competing in some strange race to be the more preferred of either, after all this brat has emerged after eight years of their waiting and is going to be the only one, if I and his father have anything to do with it, unless of course nature and errant sperm and egg decide to meet up.
Our bedroom has a car big enough for me to sit in, a cycle, two baskets overflowing with assorted toys, a cupboard full of word games, puzzles and books, a cupboard spilling over with clothes, cardboxes of discarded toys stacked on the airconditioner outside the window waiting for me to get the chance to give them to an orphanage, and a drawer full of shoes (meticulous mother me who insists his clothes and shoes should be colour coordinated). There is no floor space left to move in the damn room. The loft is full of outgrown bassinets, cribs and cradles (all held on to ferociously by mother in law who hopes a second might be on its way for them all to come back into service). The kid has more toys than he could ever play with in his entire year, even if he plays with one a day, and he doesnt touch a single one, no matter how much we entice him. All he wants to do is to take empty cartons, jars and utensils and play with them. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learnt here that the best toys are the ones children make with their own imagination, and I am tired hoarse of telling the grammas to quit showering him with toys.

Deepali shout at me...

...so says the brat in all earnestness. Deepali being his class teacher, and the shouting being in order to get the brat into doing his worksheet activity for the day. Deepali says Kichi, like this, (holding fingers in a pincer grip, perhaps to indicate how the crayon needed to be held, considering his grip is still so primitive its still the dagger grip. If all else fails, this child will definitely get a job with the mafia), colour your apple red. This incident had occured on the infamous day he had thrown a temper tantrum bad enough to rock the class, I am told. He did not want to colour the apple. I guess, he had other important things to do like pick up a fight with some class mates but of course, teachers had more pressing things to be done. This is a child who will only do what he wants to do, god help anyone who tries otherwise...much spitting, scratching, biting and kicking will ensue. Which is why I want to enquire about wrestling classes for the under fives. No one can get a grip on this child when he wants to wriggle out of your grip, no one. Not even 6 ft, body builder husband. Therefore, leaving poor helpless Deepali to cope with violent virulent brat is something that I feel strangely apologetic about...

Kichu at the mall....

The brat went to Inorbit the other day to sit the chug chug gadi in the play zone. Spotted wandering aimlessly around, a fully made up Bollywood item girl type (read spike stilletoes, straightened highlighted hair, Cleopatra eyes, and tight tight tight black tights and tshirt ensemble) clinging onto ugly fat dark dork who wasnt missing any opportunity to run his hand over her derriere. Then they went giggling into the curtained photobooth where undoubtedly a spot of snogging ensued, as her lipstick was much diminished from the crimson she had when she went in to a pale pink residue. Of course, his skin was so dark one couldnt make out if any had rubbed off. Moralistic me was totally taken aback at this display of lust in the presence of so many kids. The brat then said aunty uncle doing kichu. I think my son is well initiated into the birds and the bees. Enough movies watched and digested.

Bangalore blasted, back to school

Having spent a week in the garden city, doing nothing but raising cain, was time to get back to Mumbai and back to the regular drudgery of getting up early for school and back to therapy and such boring stuff. We are also back to the chug chug gadi every evening, with the staff at TimeZone and Playzone and other like at various playzones at the malls doing the high five with brat when he return to man the wheels at the various rides. Luckily he is still at the stage where mock driving sates his desire for speed. Will go broke once he figures out how to play the game.
This child was the epitome of good behaviour in strange city, with Shailesh phoophaji (a new face, and quite a menacing one at that) around to quell him into a non kicking, non spitting and non biting obedience. Of course, by the end of the week he was emboldened enough to try a swig at menacing Shailesh phoophaji too. What to say, these kids...no fear of anyone. As of now the only thing that can terrify him into compliance is a big black dog and a police uncle. At the airport the only thing that saved me from landing in ICU through chasing hyperactive brat across lengthy open spaces was the umpteen police uncles littered around the place. Still, this is a kid who stood at the viewing window and yelled MC and BC (These are the Hindi equivalents to M*&^%F*&^%% ) at the a-o-planes that dared land and take off without his permission.

Bangalore blasted, back to school

Having spent a week in the garden city, doing nothing but raising cain, was time to get back to Mumbai and back to the regular drudgery of getting up early for school and back to therapy and such boring stuff. We are also back to the chug chug gadi every evening, with the staff at TimeZone and Playzone and other like at various playzones at the malls doing the high five with brat when he return to man the wheels at the various rides. Luckily he is still at the stage where mock driving sates his desire for speed. Will go broke once he figures out how to play the game.
This child was the epitome of good behaviour in strange city, with Shailesh phoophaji (a new face, and quite a menacing one at that) around to quell him into a non kicking, non spitting and non biting obedience. Of course, by the end of the week he was emboldened enough to try a swig at menacing Shailesh phoophaji too. What to say, these kids...no fear of anyone. As of now the only thing that can terrify him into compliance is a big black dog and a police uncle. At the airport the only thing that saved me from landing in ICU through chasing hyperactive brat across lengthy open spaces was the umpteen police uncles littered around the place. Still, this is a kid who stood at the viewing window and yelled MC and BC (These are the Hindi equivalents to M*&^%F*&^%% ) at the a-o-planes that dared land and take off without his permission.