Monday, December 29, 2008

Why the brat doesnt believe in Santa anymore

The brat and his mamma went to Hypercity the other evening, just before Christmas, to check out the Santa. The place where the Santa was seated was wonderfully done up with a mock log cabin and decorated with lights and a scrawny lipsticked Santa, weighed down by a belt buckle that was prolly snitched from the WWF Championship match, and who strangely enough reminded mamma of the lipsticked Ruby Rod played by the brilliant Chris Tucker in The Fifth Element.
Nonetheless, the mamma wondered if she should have gone upto the authorities in charge at said Hypercity and enquire kindly as to the vision levels of said managerial type who undoubtedly okayed said Santa for the role playing given that the entire girth of the Santa was less than a single thigh of the mamma. The brat stared at him quizzically. Said lipsticked Santa was seated on the bench outside the exquisitely done log cabin and grabbing a quick snooze. This was show time. Six pm. Heavy traffic time.
The brat went up to him hesitantly. And peered up into his face. "Mamma," he yelled at a decibel level that ensures the dead in the vicinity leap out of their skeletons, rubbing their eyes in disbelief. "Santakloss put lipshtick."
The Santa didnt stir a blink. Must hand it to him. He slept like mamma does on a good, bone crunchingly tired day.
The brat hesitatingly extended a small hand out, "Gevening Santakloss."
The dratted lipsticked specimen refused to open his eyes. No store staff wandered near enough for Mamma to throw a tantrum.
So Mamma, took the brat aside and said to him, "Santa Claus is tired after all the gifts he had to wrap, and is taking a nap."
The brat looks at mamma, and snorts. "Dis not SantaKloss. This Sunil Uncle (read, our trusted driver) wearing Santa costume. You is lying Mamma. SantaKloss dont come to India."
Yup, anyone from Hypercity reading this, you gotta get the guy taking your Santa auditions fired. And yup, if you paid the Santa for sleeping on the bench for the entire week he was there, mamma's applying for the job next year. Heck, she's got the girth for the role too!

Thursday, December 25, 2008

And Santa Claus came to the Manral home...

On Christmas Eve, the brat asks me, "Mamma, Santakloss coming in dnight?" Holding aloft a red and white stocking he had been given in school with instructions to hang it near his bed. Given that the brat and mamma are slumming it on the floor on a thin mattresses that make mamma's bones creak every morning, Mamma is half tempted to tell the brat to hang said stocking on Pappa's big toe. But then she realises that a)she doesnt have any present to stuff into said stocking. And b) it is ten pm and too late to rush out and pick up a random toy.
Much shivering and clicking of teeth later, she arrives at a happy, and what she thinks is a very clever answer. "Santa Claus will only come home if he knows you have been a good boy." This given that in two successive days, two horrendous instances of bad behaviour in the presence of guests and thereby no smacking had preceded this query about Santa.
Brat looks at mom quizzically. "How Santa know I be naughty? You do my complain?"
Mamma launches into some tripe about how Santa knows and he has cameras fitted (much like Big Brother) to watch the brat through the year. "Santa Kloss see me doing bathy and potty." Well, maybe not in the bathroom.
Brat ponders. "Then I must be naughty ony in dbathroom?"
Nonetheless, Mamma melted by morning and dug out a birthday gift she had kept underground to be unwrapped in lean times of no gifts. The prettily packaged box turned out to be a little telescope. Since no star gazing happened in the morning light, the brat set up the tripod at the window and aimed it at the next building, managing to catch a glimpse of his BFF in his room.
He hopped up and down in glee.... "Mamma, Mamma, I can see V frum here....V V V..." yelled at top pitch.
Then a silence. A pondering silence.
"Mamma, how big telesoap Santakloss have to see me?"

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Preening time folks....

So the fantabulous Aneela of awards me this.
It takes me a couple of days to shrink my head enough so I can get into my tees again.
And she has this kind thing to say about me:
and Kiran M --our paths have been so similar, she is hands down my soul sister.

Thank you sista! Am honoured. And flattered and to be honest totally in awe of you. Being the unlettered creature I am.

So here goes what this award is about.

This is given to a blog that invests and believes in PROXIMITY - nearness in space, time and relationships! These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award.

So who are my eight? Tough call. Am going to go beyond eight. And keep adding to it. Shamelessly breaking the rules, because I have made such wonderful friends on the blogosphere that it seems a shame to restrict myself to eight.

Poppins and Sweetpea's mom: Come back dear, we miss you.
Cee Kay

I'm going to come back and do links and send out intimidations in a while. But if you read this, and see your name and know who you are, know that I consider my world enriched by knowing you. And you have crossed over for me, from the blog world into the real world as a friend I really care about.
And MM, you havent got one here, cause you already got one of your own. And no doubt will be snowed under more.....

Monday, December 22, 2008

To all ye....

Who have tagged me, awarded me and such like, thankee thankee....but do give me some leeway. Am running around like a headless chicken these days, and cant really make my head out from my butt. Okay bad simile. But you get what I am trying to put across.
The brat went for a budday pahty yesterday. It was an innovative party. The hostess had organised it in the gardens of her building, and created a whole slew of board games which she wanted the kids to play. But, us lazy mammas being lazy mammas (me, I was exhausted, had been up from the wee hours and had gone twice into office and back home doing the school pick up and tuition routine) we collapsed on the benches scattered around and indulged in some school gossip while the children tore each other and the carefully organised boardgames on the lawns to pieces. I am proud to say the brat was very well behaved, while the lot of the classmates were giving me the heebie jeebies at their manic destructiveness. The brat was actually trying very hard to play the games, climb the jungle gym, swing from the ropes and go up and down the slides the way they were meant to be, rather than pretend he was in commando training. Some mammas tottered around in obscenely high stilletoes that poked holes in the ground and I dont even want to know how they negotiated the sandplay area. Me of course, could thank my natural laziness that I hadnt changed out of either my clothes or my workday shoes and could manage to keep self afloat over grass and sinking sand type of mud without suddenly losing an inch while in earnest conversation.
We left the party, fed and sated and played out, with a strange happiness that comes from a party that didnt have music played at earblasting levels. And where children actually did what theyre supposed to, aka, play.
And the brat, when I hunted him down and told him we were to leave, tugs my hand insistently. "Mamma, where's V's (the birthday boy's) mamma?"
What a polite child, I thought to myself. He wants to thank aunty for the wonderful time he had. He wants to say how he enjoyed the games, the food, the cake. I had high hopes.
I hunt down the hostess and smile peacably at her, telling her the brat wants to tell her something.
"Aunty, I is going. Wheredreturngeef?"
Yup. I wish I'd worn those stilettoes and sunk right into the ground then and there.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

A tag after my own heart....

On a blah blah day, when my morning has been ruined by irritant pile ons, comes this wondrous tag which I just had to get right down to, without even gargling my mouth with the bracken water that masquerades as tea in this establishment. Thanks justanothermommy. This is what this tag is all about.... List 8 of the most favorite clothes that your baby has. It may include accessories also. Photo would be great, but it may be hard. So a nice description will suffice. Since my baby has now morphed into a critter, I decided to severely restrain myself from going into nostalgic overdrive and poring through the reams of baby pics to find the outfits I found him most adorable in, but instead chose to stick to the outfits that are his favourites. Not mine. Mind you. I dont have a say over his wardrobe anymore. You know, mammas are outdated, and dont really have a clue as to what is in amongst the peer circle.
So here is, in no particular order, the brat in his favourite looks. And yes, you are all obligated to ooh and aah and say with hands held to face in overwhelmed amazement, "Oh Krish, you lookin so hansome."
Or be prepared to be shaken like a rag doll till you admit it.

His all time favourite Sherwani. One purchase which has been total paisa vasool because he's worn it so often, its fraying at the edges now, and he still seems keen to wear it no matter the appropriateness of the occasion. Like a playdate.

Here is the brat in his Schumacher avatar. Leather Ruff Cap, black Lilliput glares, F1 jacket, fancy schmancy pant. With skull and Ed Hardyesque design. And Power Ranger SPD shuz.

As an African native in his annual day performance last year. The costume is brought for periodic airing and general lolling around on boreding days when he needs to pep himself up.

With best friend in the whole wide world, Yuvi, in Goa and wearing his Superman tshirt that he practically lives in. At the times he is not wearing his Spiderman, Batman, Power Ranger or Indelible Hulk tshirt.

His bathrobe. God forbid it should ever be in the wash at the time he goes for a bath, he will not emerge from the bathroom until he can slip it on. Which reminds me, it has got a little too tight around the shoulders and needs an official retirement now. With a farewell party.

The Spiderman Costume. And also, with no picture to present as supporting evidence, the Batman costume, the Superman Costume, the Power ranger SPD red and Blue costume and an old black pant which we have hacked off from the knee and which masquerades as the hulk costume. Before we came across the Superman costume, his favourite indigenously developed look was a blue nightsuit, worn with a red scarf tied round the neck and a red undie on top. And thankfully no belt.

And his most recent birthday outfit. Orange corduroy Ruff Kids Jacket. White Ruff Kids Pant. Brown gold foil print tee worn as an inner. Enuff said. Remember, I said it was all about his decision on what is cool now.

And, yes, where is that collective "Yer lookin very hansome"?
And yes, I pass this tag onto Abha, Sue, Y, Surabhi, Rohini and anyone else who would like to take it up....

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

And yesterday was sports day....

The brat went to sleep on Tuesday night, eyes glueing themselves together with sleep egged on by a load of pep talk from the pater on how he just had to come first in his race. No Matter What. This is what comes from having a sportsman as a father. Especially one who needs, a slight prod in the ribs to start reliving his days of glory and rattle off every race he swam from the names of the entire line up in the race, to the name of the unfortunates who had the ignonimy of losing to him. Oblivious of course, to the snores of his audience.
Okay, I exaggerate. I have personally crawled in and lugged out two gunny sacks full of cups and medals from the back of the loft and one small child equivalent tall pile of moulding and whiteant mottled certificates from the same spot, which permits the man to indulge in such reminescences.
Mamma of course was always the cheerleader. She would be running a race, long after the medals would be distributed, the photographs clicked and handshakes done with. The standing joke in the family is that the brat has inherited his father's love for books and his mother's sporting skills. Nonetheless.
Last year, he did a nice little jig at the starting line, and clean forgot to run. Ending up the last in his class. The previous year, he didnt have a clue what was to be done, and a kind class teacher held his hand and sprinted with him.
This year, the father had been working on him. Aka, brat run from point A to point B, fast, dont look left or right, why are you going there, run straight, dont stop and look behind...why are you shaking your head so much, etc, etc. And the pep talking...Think of the finish line. Say I will win. I am a champion...Say it, say it....the brat will intone dutifully, and then pipe up, Mamma you say...Mamma will then protest that she doesnt need to win, the brat does and the psychological training goes for a toss.
Anyway, the brat dawned bright and early on sports day morning. Five am. Mamma opened her eyes with the vague feeling of being stared at only to find the brat looking at her with an intent gaze, absolutely untinged by sleep clouds.
Mamma, says brat, earnestly. Gerrup. Is mornin. I have to come fursht. I am the champion.
Mamma springs up with a start, Wha...What...Wha...? Searching around in fight or flee response residual in some primitive corner of her primal brain. In the process, wakening up the Pappa too, who raised self on one elbow and growled at mater and fils to get the hell back into sleeping position and zip it.
Mamma managed to pin down squirmy endorphin charged brat till the clock struck six and got him into the gugu, biscuit, bathie routine. We left home at 7.30. Reporting time on the ground, which one could basically just lower oneself from the balcony of our bedroom by thick rope in was 7.45 am. The brat was amongst the earliest in. Deposited with the teachers, mamma ran off to scout and book vantage position seats for the entire clan which was to roll in post their brekkers.
The flag hoisting happened, the little speeches happened and the children rolled onto the ground, pom poms in hand for the inaugural dance. The one the brat had been putting Mamma through the paces for every night. Mamma spotted the brat looking into the stands trying to hunt out faces, he sees Mamma and his face lights up he waves with both pom poms, bounds up and down and bit and points out Mamma like she was a celeb spotted without her make up and her PJs, and rolling drunk in the aisles of the local supermarket, to the rest of his class. Mamma makes frantic calls to the Pater to get his butt and the other assorted butts into the ground pronto if he doesnt want to miss seeing his son in the group dance. Pappa strolls in nonchalantly as the kids get into position for the dance.....the brat yells from his spot, Pappa, Pappa, see me...see whatchigotinmahan.....waving said pompoms in absolute uncoordinated glee. Much to the horror of the teacher who came bounding in from the sidelines to get him back into position, hands by the side, and then the music started.
What can I say? My son danced, while the rest of the kids did the drill to rote. Mechanically. He felt the music as he did his movements, not skipping a beat, without breaking eye contact with me, as I did the movements in the stand, my heart spilling over at the beauty of my child dancing with such confidence and fluidity of movement. My friends around me watching their own children dance, looked at the brat and said, "Look at him go. He's got his soul in his dance."
And he did.
And he finished with a flourish, a huge smile on his face, from a task done well and enjoyed to the hilt. Nobody noticed it perhaps, except for me. His little punch in the air, of "Yes", emphatically.
The children filed out class by class for the races. He stood in his place, tiny. With other boys at least a head taller than him. Slight. Dwarfed by the rotund girl next to him, who is also his best friend in the whole wide world and his dance partner. And curious. Looking around everywhere, at the flag fluttering up, at the parents enclosure, at the crows at the far end of the ground, chatting with the girl standing next to him about earthshaking events involving Hulk and Batman no doubt, while the rest of the class had got into the ready pose. At go, though, he ran. The fastest he could. And he picked up what he had to, poured it out in the small glass and walked carefully with it across to his teachers. Sadly, almost the entire class save four had beaten him to it. But Mamma's heart spilt over. He completed the task. He paid attention, and dammit, he did his best. That was good enough for me. He may not have won a medal, but he got a Spiderman tiffin box and water bottle from Mamma and a needlessly expensive and high tech remote control car that is now scraping the polish of all the furniture in the house, from indulgent Pappa who is having more fun playing with the car than the brat is. He's come a long way from the year he stood around on the start line with no clue what to do, and had to be escorted by the teacher to the finishing line. Was that just a couple of years ago? Feels like a lifetime.

Monday, December 15, 2008

I'm sorry my child...

...for bringing you into this ruthless world.
Where I cant be sure of the person sitting next to me in a hotel. Where I dont know whether he might just decide to get up and spray bullets all over the room. Where you dont have anyone but yourself to trust, and no one but your luck to take you through your little day. Safe and sound. I pick you up from school and my heart breaks thinking of all the mothers who lost their children, just in the snap of a finger, for no reason, but just their sheer fate to die unsung, unheeded, purposelessly.

For being the kind of mother who worries about the what ifs, and why fores, instead of juts going with the flow.
I know I seem paranoid, when I follow you around on the playground when the last thing you want to see is your mother hovering in the distance, one eye peeled to check your whereabouts and the other eye on the path she is trying to get some walking done on. But I dont trust the world to let you be. I can only protect you so long. Soon you will be out of my cocoon. You will have to go to the world, good friends or bad. Good influences or bad, you will have to choose on your own, I can only wait with my arms open for you to come to me for solace and reassurance, and pray that you smile every single day.
I dont trust anybody, no matter how much fun they might be to you to play with. If they are male and adult, I am watching them with a knife in my hand, concealed under my shirt. How long can I protect you? Someday you will struggle to be free and I must let you go, to make your own mistakes, and pray that you learn to fall and rise again and again and again because that is what this world does. It beats you down till it can beat you no further, and only then does it allow you to rise.

I'm sorry my child, that I brought you into this world purely to fulfil the ache in my womb and the craving in my arms.
This isnt the kind of world I would have wished on an enemy. This isnt the kind of world I would let you out into. A world where you need to be ruthless in order to survive, where your innocence gets trammelled on, and you are measured by what you own and what you look like.

I can hold you, and comfort you and pray that you stay happy. And apologise.
I'm sorry my child.
I wish I could capture your laughter for eternity and the questioning wonder in your eyes till I die. I'm so sorry you have to grow up.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

When the kids met...

...and their mommies too. Rohini was hostess for this motley gathering of us blogging moms who came together to meet Maggie urf Moppets Mom, now of course, mom to the aptly named absolutely edible Munch. Believe me when I say I could have slipped to child kidnapping, so delectable and well behaved a child this wee Munch is. And his wee mom. Not wee in height of course. But the waist. The nonexistent waist. The non existent hips. No child bearing hips here, thank you very much. This is a lady who kidded us that she has popped out two babies, and had me fruitlessly try to suck in my belly and think myself thin whenever I happened to be next to her.
The brat met his long lost pal Ayaan and in their rumbunctious play managed to give Ayaan a cut lip. I was mortified. Rohini was a sport, as all good mammas should be. The guilt is still killing me. And the brat had post fight trauma all the way back home wondering if Ayaan would still be his friend.
Moppet was Moppet. Chocolatey, curly haired, wide eyed and rapt in her own play unconcerned about the two hellions raising the heavens and whooping round Rohini's immaculate home like cowboys and Indians. Of the red variety. Parul's little dapper dimpled Adi made an appearance and proved to be quite a match for the older, bossier duo of Ayaan and the brat, actually managing to get them to sit still and arrange blocks. As we mammas looked on in awe and shock.
A great time had by all.
And, sorry, we forgot to click any pictures.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

So the brat has his sports day...

...coming up and he feels a sudden need to be active and sporty and do 'xshershize'. So he decides at random hours of the day, that he needs to get his bones all limbered up and hapless mamma is roped in to creak her joints in coordination.
Therefore, it came to pass that mother and son were standing at rapt attention in the living room at 10 pm, when mamma's eyes were already folding in into deep lethe, and the brat was still raring with the endorphins that comprise youth and childhood and no early morning yoga classes before the crack of dawn. Each with rolled up newspapers in their hands, which were masquerading for the pom poms the brat was to use on the final day, and which he no doubt tossed around with great flair during practice at school.
Mamma, stan staight. Dont bend. Dont talk. Look staight.
One too thee four
Turn round.
The commands barked out with firm precision that comes from listening carefully and meekly following said commands.
Mamma, said sharply, Who is not paying attention, who iz daydreaming during practise.
Mamma shook off sleep cobwebs and jumped to turn round, carefully without denting the flooring with crater formation through the impact.
One too thee four
Raise yer handz up and bend to the lef, bend to the right
Mamma, the decibel level up.
Pay tenshun. Or I is going to put you in d naughty corner the whole day.
Mamma grabbed the opportunity to cry off cheerleader practice and threw her sleepy carcass on the bed.
The brat promptly appealed to higher authorities. Pappa, Mamma not doing exercise. Tell her, gerrup. Tell her do one too thee.
Pappa grinned wickedly and said, Mamma get up. Do exercise.
Mamma turned her shoulder and fake snored.
The brat bristled. Mamma, don sno. I know you is wakey wakey. And you is telling lies.
How many times I tell you don tell lies. Is not nice thing to do?
Mamma pulled herself up again and did the one two three four jump routine without further protest. Better lazy than a liar for a label.

Sunday, December 07, 2008

As reported from the dentist's cabin

The brat was going in for a root canal. Mamma had to down two Combiflams before taking him in. Mamma noticed her hands shaking as she ushered the fruit of her womb in. Said fruit of the womb was bounding along, happy and as chirpy as could be. Ah, the innocence of youth. Mamma would have to be dragged in like a goat to the slaughter, and that too, sulking because she needed to have her lipstick rubbed off in the process.
Nonetheless, the brat bounded in, all high energy from natural childhood amphetamines which ensure he can go for 18 hours without sleep while mamma is just about shaking herself awake after every snore to check his whereabouts in a dark room.
So, said the dentist, who has managed to strike quite an enviable friendship with the brat by letting him play with most of the equipment on the very intimidating chair, are we ready to clean our teeth today? Yes, said brat, and settled himself comfortably, shifting self to comfort levels that could then lead him to drop off to sleep. And he does. Drop off to sleep on the dentist's chair. He's done it. Quite comfortably snored off during a filling, while mamma was chewing her nails crouching like a crazed person in a chair in the distant corner of the room, terrified that her turn would be next. And praying that the dentist's gaze doesnt fall on her making her the next victim.
But there was the brat, mouth wide open, listening intently as the dentist gently explained all he was going to do. Testing out the equipment, agreeing when the dentist asked him permission to use it on his teeth, giggling as he got complimented for his wonderfully obedient behavior and ability to hold his mouth open for long hours. And then the dentist brought out a needle like thingie and put it in the tooth. The last mamma heard was brat complaining bitterly to the dentist "don put dsharpthing in ma mouth."
When she turned to look back, the brat was still giggling, the dentist, tickling him with the air spray. And her jaw dropped wide open. This was a root canal, she asked. Her eyes registering her shock. Yes, said the dentist. Thankfully, he's easily distractable. Twas done. Before she knew it.
The exposed nerve sealed and packed and we called in after a couple of days for a cap. And as mamma and brat left, the dentist tells mamma, "When he grows up, tell him the last time you went in for a root canal, you were laughing in the dentist's chair."
Mamma thought back to all her times in the dentist's chair when she was paralysed with fear, and would wake up sweating and terrified in the middle of the night with dentist from hell dreams. (As a result, of course, her teeth are the stuff that stay hidden even during smiles).
Yes, the brat laughed all the way through a root canal. While mamma shivered in a corner, not even daring to squeak while the fruit of her womb was having his jaw dug out.
Yup. Who's the coward here?

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Homework and the brat

The brat and homework have a strange relationship. He has to be physically tied down to his desk at times and threatened with deprivation, starvation and other ritualistic torture that includes tickling, eating chicken while sitting in front of him and not offering him any and other third degree methods to get him to even consent to hold the pencil. At others, he bounds up at the vaguest of times and opens his books, sitting down to get his work done. And such times will always be when Mamma is busy with a very essential task and cannot be hurried out of the bathroom asap. Or when Mamma has just slathered over a firming gel mask over her face and looks like a death rictus mask and cannot mutter a word without the risk of her face cracking up. And therefore needs to communicate everything in mime format....imagine, mamma miming ordinals to the brat...mamma needs to get him to stop collapsing with laughter in order to actually get any work done. And yes, uninformed sources watching the entire episode would think Mamma's doing a dumb charade for Star Wars, being perfect candidate for Jabba the Hut.

Therefore it so happened that the brat returned from a session of rumbunctious play in the garden where mamma tried to keep mosquitoes at bay by doing some sort of swinging and running exercise that upped the heart rate and got some calories off their perches she hopes, twas around seven in the evening. Mamma goes into the kitchen, like a good lady of the house. Not to get down to the mistress of the house tasks of getting dinner on the table, but, rather, to check out what she can graze upon having worked up a bit of an appetite for each of her four stomachs.

Having found zilch that she could siphon away without resulting in any satisfaction to the hunger ravaging her body, she settled on a gulp from an opened condensed milk can. (yup, dont shudder and wince, its the Indian equivalent of eating the fat, I assure you).

And returned to find the brat, having climbed up the three flights of his cupboard (his bags are kept on the topmost shelf) and removed his homework bag on his own, had seated himself on his foldable desk and was writing away brows furrowed, tongue jutting out between teeth in admirable concentration.
"Mamma, dont dishturb me. I doing padhai."
Mamma glanced at the book.
In perfect print, the brat has written out a page of sentences, keeping within red and blue lines and doing the little curlicules at the edge of each alphabet necessary if he's going to start doing cursive next year. Mamma falls with a thud to the floor, thinking back to all the lung power wasted shouting at a decibel volume that has the neighbours call in the police for nuisance being created.
"Brat," asks mamma hesitantly, "You wrote this?" Disbelief still reigned.
"Ya," answers the brat, not deigning to look up.
"Why dont you write so nicely when Mamma is watching you do your homework?"
He looks up. Brow furrowed. "Then what you shout at?"

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

And so Shin Chan goes off air...

to much wailing from kids, and much delight from their parents no doubt. The brat, in the meanwhile, has moved onto to bigger heroes. Aka, Batman, Superman, Spiderman and the Hulk. Shin Chan is now the stuff of distant memories.
These days, television watching has become self restricted. He barely watches around an hour or so of television, and doesnt really want to watch television. He'd rather play bashing up superheroes on the coffee table.
Of course, a lot has to do with the fact that two televisions are out of action, and slimy conniving creatures, waited till they were exactly a week out of warranty to do the death rattle on us, so its going to be sometime before the replacing takes place, and these, praise be the Lord, were the two in the main living room and in our bedroom. The other two rooms are occupied with the MIL and the BIL so the brat dare not even ask for the remote and ask them to shift over for his viewing pleasure.
What he is doing now that television is no longer an option to entertain himself, apart from drilling virtual holes in mamma's brains and bringing on flashing lights and searing eyeball pains is actually learn to entertain himself. So I have all my clothes being dragged out of the cupboard to morph into costumes for his royal highness to bedeck himself and his stuffed toys in. The last I saw, his doggie was being squeezed into my very precious and now unfittable but still held onto in vain hope that someday one will be able to squeeze self into D&G red top to be Robin to the brat's Bratman.
Needless to say, I became Poison Ivy at once.
Now he spends more time lining up his army of Batman action figures. As for Shin Chan. Adios amigo. We wont be missing you.

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

More questions for Marvel spokespersons...

...when Eddudnoton becomz dHulk his shirt terz, his shuz terz, but why his pant tears down and not where his belt is?
How Hulk has hairstyle?
Why dHulks teeths is green?
Why dHulk cannot talk?
Answers anyone?

And finally, when he running frum the policemenz why he wear tells me to wear redjacket in dmall so you can sees me frum far....he stupid no? Polices can sees him frum far.

Will my mamma pappa die too?

It is scary. One doesnt want to think about it. But, it is essential. One needs to know what sort of precautionary measures the school you send your children to has in place to keep your children safe. Have fire safety drills been conducted, ever? Do they have firefighting equipment at hand in event of a blaze breaking out? Do they talk to the students ever about what they should do in the event of a hostage situation? Do they have an emergency back up plan in the event of any crisis?
I know that my son cannot be counted on to keep still and stay calm. He's watched too many Superhero movies to kid himself that he can take on anything. And doesnt realise that unlike the movies, there's not always a happy ending.
He saw the Israeli toddler Moshe crying, and asked me, "Mamma, why is the baby crying?"
I had to explain it was because the baby's mamma and Pappa died in a terrorist attack. Then I had to explain to him, as gently as possible, what a terrorist attack was. Like the Joker in Dark Knight, he asked me. Yes, I replied.
"Will my mamma pappa die too?" he asked, his eyes, wide, scared. And my heart broke into a million pieces. No love. Your mamma pappa are very strong. They have two glasses of gu gu and do exercise everyday. Nothing will happen to your Mamma Pappa. And I hugged him tight. And squeezed back some tears. And made Pappa show off his biceps, which he did so gladly. Was he reassured? I hope so.
But here is something that we should all know. And try to teach our children. And pray they never need to use it.

Create a family communication plan so you can get in touch with family members. Give copies of contact information and meeting locations to everyone in your family
Options are available: telephones, cell phones, and e-mail are all great ways to get in touch with family members.
Make sure you know the emergency plan at your child's school.
Make a decision about where you will meet in case you can't get home during an emergency.
Understand that it may take time to get through to everyone. Try to be patient.
Needs of your pets should be kept in mind. Keep a pet carrier for easy transport.
Inform yourself. Watch news broadcasts, read online news updates, or listen to a battery-operated radio for official guidance during an emergency, but also prepare in advance.
Copies of your emergency plan should be in your emergency supply kit in case you need to leave in a hurry.
Ask kids to discuss their concerns and feelings. Do they understand the family plan?
Take the kids to visit the "meeting spots" so that they are familiar and feel comfortable finding them on their own if necessary.
Emergencies take many forms. Categorize different types of emergencies and discuss the level of concern related to each and how that is reflected in your family plan.