Wednesday, April 29, 2009
"Mamma, what are you eating now?" Said in high pitched offended questioning tone.
Mamma cast a puzzled eye at her mite. "Pani puri," she replied without elaborating.
Brat puckered up his nose, placed hands on hips in manner of fisherwoman preparing for a brawl. "You is nod eating dinner?"
"No," replied mamma, her concentration on the task at hand leading to mono syllablic replies.
"Mamma," barked the brat. "Donchu know its dinnertime? Why you is eating all dis rubbish. Don eat dis. You must eat dinner. Dinner is good. You will become big an strong and healthy girl. "
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Mamma is at her wit's end. Some wicked goblins took away her cherubic, gurgling, happy go lucky toddler and left behind this scrawny Count-the-spare ribs-on me sullen, whiney, rude, defiant creature. Mamma wants to return to the hospital, packaging intact.
The brat pack in the park comprises children the brat's age being raised singlehandedly by maids since their mammas seem to be ectoplasmic creatures who appear in the dark of the night and succeed in spooking me out if seen without their make up. Consequently, the kids are raised by maids who dare not say no, discipline or do what I do with zero hesitation when absolutely called for, namely administer a sound one on the butt.
The brat, in grave danger of being trussed up and hung upside down like a plucked chicken by Cruella de Ville mamma, has wholeheartedly embraced the mannerisms and tone of speaking to mamma, like his friends use with the maids. Read, commanding.
Of course when mamma meets those ectoplasmic mammas she has yet to meet she needs to have a fingerwagging session with them about how they need to unplug their ears of accummulated ear wax when the fruits of their wombs speak with the hired help.
Therefore, we have situations where the brat, having divested himself of footwear, for running up the slide purposes, decides he needs to be shod again. Therefore calls in imperious manner, "Mamma. Mamma, Mamma!" At ever increasing pitch of voice. Mamma is smsing frantically on the jogging track and paying zero attention to anything that doesn't involve a fist fight and blood being drawn. Or a fall, god forbid and blood spilling.
"Mamma," yells the brat. "I'm callin yu. Why you nod coming?"
Mamma trots across to enquire the sudden need for mamma's presence. "Shoes pehenao," he commands imperiously, "Maine kaha shuz pehenao," looking up at mamma knowing there is an invisible line he's pushing somewhere. Mamma looks at him and his shoes and told him politely, not wanting to create a scene in a public situation, to put them on himself.
"Put my shuz on I said," repeated the brat in a tone of voice that gave rise to an immediate itch in mammas palm. Mamma calmly picked up the brat's shoes and sauntered towards the exit. The brat, flummoxed by this blatant disobedience bounded behind her squealing, "Pud my shuz on. Pud my shuz on."
Mamma silently climbed down the stairs that led up to the podium garden, shoes in hand. The brat followed. The tone of his voice changing swiftly from commanding to pleading. "Mamma please. Pud my shuz on. Eveyone will laffatme nanga feet."
Mamma stopped. Turned around. And helped him into his footwear. "Next time, remember, you need to use the magic word. What is it?"
A sheepish brat grinned winningly. "Sorry Mamma. I forgod to say please. You is nod angry? I sayed d magic word now. Now wot magic will happen?"
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel
Friday, April 24, 2009
"Man" duly selected, the brat decides to nap. He lies down and places selected man on pillow next to him. Mamma lies down next to both like a beached whale and safeguard against them both inadvertently rolling off the bed. "Mamma," says the brat. "Give Batman more space on d bed. How he will sleep?"
Mamma shifts her carcass obligingly.
"Mamma, is nod enough. How he'll turn? Therez no place."
This on a kingsize bed that has eaten up an entire bedroom, needing us to crawl around the edges, holding onto cupboard handles for balance, if we need to get to the other side of room.
Mamma reluctantly shifts a bit more. And more, and more. Until she realises the entire far side of the bed is vacant. And she is sleeping on her side on the very edge of the mattress.
"Brat, move back there, the entire side is empty, " she states matter of factly, seeing as it is the obvious move to guarantee that she sleeps without losing balance and falling into baskets of toys.
"You move dere. I not moving anywear," mutters a surly brat.
And so she does. And spreads her fat over sufficient mattress space.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Starting at the bright and sparkling hour of 5.30 am. Mamma feels heavy weight on her chest, and the sound of brat's voice coming at her at the perceived volume of approximately 200 decibels.
"Wha.... wha....What...?" shouts Mamma, jumping up and patting the bedside table furiously for her spectacles without which the brat is only an outline in the semi darkness.
Brat helpfully pries her eyelids open wide. "Gerrup. It is dark morning now. I wanna go dansklass."
Mamma grunted something undecipherable and curled back under the covers. The brat, proving himself to be a true irritant in the finest tradition set by mamma in her youth, persisted undeterred.
First by peeling off the thin dohar Mamma used as shield and second by jumping up and down using Mamma's jelly belly as trampoline. "Gerrup, gerrup, gerrup. Why you is waisting time?"
The brat goes to the intercom in the dead of the afternoon and dials furtively. Mamma can hear some snatches of an animated discussion. "Okay bye," he says loudly and clearly and puts the phone down.
Five minutes later the door bell buzzes insistently and the brat bounds off to open the door, and welcomes a pack of his pint sized mates looking at mamma expectantly, with an expression that only says, "Bring on the treat."
Brat joins them in giving mom the look. "Mamma, my frenz is come. Make Chinese chicken manchurian wid hakka noodlez."
Mamma never knew such diplomatic skills existed in her normally leaden tongue when she manages to fob off an army of brat sized Chinese Chicken manchurian expecting guests with popcorn and wafers and juice.
Dbrat moping in a random corner of the darkened house. With full west exposure in every room those wonderful french windows and balconies arent really being praised for their view anymore these blindingly hot summer days. "I wanna go down to the park to play wid my frenz."
Mamma raises a sluggish head to indicate a no, so much has the heat caught her and wrestled her down into somnabulism.
"Its too hot. Its three oclock in the afternoon."
Brat picks a curtain up and gingerly peers out at the glare. "Doesnt matter. I pud on my sunglasses and cap. And take an umbella. Mamma, you take the sunblock."
It is night. The brat is back home after three hours of what Mamma euphemistically terms as unstructured play, but what is in essence mini rioting. The brat yawns and stretches. "I is very tired. I don like night. Night is boreding. When it will be the mornin?"
Monday, April 20, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Yup. TV. Wasnt that tough was it. All those ads of kids going ecstatic with icecream cones in their hands and licking said dribbles down the side with expressions that suggested they would sit through double Calculus class without a squeak of protest for said icecream had its impact.
There we were, the brat, his dadi and mamma, sitting in Bikajis, having just downed maharajah thalis each, which, mamma shall list out in great detail right now being food deprived and very very hungry, containing, one lachedar paratha, one butter naan, a helping of rice, butter paneer, a sabji, a dal makhani, a sweet dish, salad and dahi wadas. Naturally then, mamma was too exhausted to even burp without rupturing a blood vessel. She raised a hand, exhausted from so much eating to dab off the food particles off the brat's face, when he suddenly piped up, "Mamma I wana icschschream. Vanilla. White coloured one." Mamma fell off the chair she was seated on, causing major outcry in vicinity with the sudden shuddering of the premises giving rise to more than one customer running out screaming, "Earthquake, earthquake."
To put this in context, mamma has not been Cruella de Ville mamma denying a po chile this necessary childhood indulgence. If anything, mamma is a dyed in the wool icecream addict herself and has spent many a hot afternoon spooning the evil stuff from the pack into her mouth without giving it the courtesy of a bowl.
It was the brat, thanks to his PDD/NOS and SID issues, who refused to let anything of creamy sticky texture into his mouth. No icecreams. No custards. No puddings. No yoghurt. No kheer. Yes. Mamma promptly sprang up and got him a vanilla cone. Which he didnt know how to eat. Provoking much laughter from the family at the next table, who couldnt believe a boy this big was being taught to lick the icecream cone so that none of the dribbles landed on his clothes. And he struggled hard. "I leeked the ichscream," he declared proudly, when he had struggled through the entire lot. But refused to bite the cone. "I nod eating d cardboard."
Needless to say, Mamma was more than happy to be the repository of said cardboard.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
So I got this wonderful tag from the wonderful Boo a while ago. And I did what I do best with such tags which are just crying to be done that very second. Namely, I sat on it. I sat and sat, until not only I had succeeded with rare efficiently to hatch it and produce taglings, but also managed to widen said butt used for sitting on purposes by couple of inches.
Therefore, without much ado, read pronto, now, this very minute, I propose to complete this tag.
Here are the rules: just write a post of your own (5 things that you love about being a mom) and find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country (Google is a good resource if you don't know any; google any country name and 'mom' in their blog search function) (be sure to let them know that you've tagged them!) - and link back here and HBM and leave a comment.
Here are the five things I love most about being a mom. I wish I could say my stretchmarks and jelly belly, but am sure thats not going to cut much ice with the rest of you hawkeyed moms reading this, so my five go thus:
1] Feeling the weight of a little head on my arm as I fall asleep, with a little leg placed on me and a tiny arm clutching me tight to protect him from dreammonsterz.
2] Seeing a pair of little eyes hunt for mine in the throng of parents outside the school gate and light up when he finally spots me, and can go back to ignoring me and getting into fisticuffs with frens.
3] When I get a hug and a "Mamma I lub you." For no reason. Or perhaps a trip to the mall.
4] That someone, albeit a threefooter, five year old considers me the official authority on everything from rocket science to evolutionary theories and comes to me for explanations.
5] And that a kiss from me can cure any ache or pain or hurt instantly.
Thanks Boo, for the lovely tag. I pass this tag onto:
Itchingtowriteblogs from Chennai
CeeKay from the US
Poppins Mom from Bangalore
Maggie from Singapore
and Dipali from Kolkata
Yeah, yeah, will come back to do the linking...if you read this consider yourself tagged, folks.
Mamma so needs to get a life of her own now that mandatory escort duty is thinning down.
And maybe, while she's at it, mamma can bask a while in the glow of knowing how far she has come forward with the brat. And steel herself for the future when she will not be required or welcome. The hatchling is off the nest.
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel
Brat looks at mamma coldly like she were dog turd scraped off from a careless shoe.
"Mamma a spider is nodan inseck. Is an aracknid."
Round 1 to brat.
Mamma with brat at the fish market. "Come brat, look at these fish. These are lobsters. They are like big prawns. "
Brat fixes impassive eye on mamma, probably wondering how he picked the village idiot for his quota of maternal genes.
"Mamma lobsters an prawns is not fish. Is crustacean. They have sofshell oudside their body."
The haggler at the next vendor stopped short in mid yelling negotiation on prices and stared appreciatively at brat while mamma wished she could dive into the ice box and pull the lid over her to escape the shame.
Round 2 to brat.
Watching Free Willy at home. The giant orca whale plays with the young boy and mamma instead of letting a rapt brat lie entered the room and contributed to the dialogue.
"Look look. The big fish is playing with such a small boy."
Brat smote forehead in disgust. "Mamma," he barks in barely contained anger. "How many times I tollyu whale isnod a fish. Is a mammal. Is give berth to itsyung. Why you keep fourgedding all the time?" This with animated hand waving gestures.
"Sorry brat, mamma forgot. Will you teach me again?"
Brat sizes his mamma and decided it can only help if his mamma knows about creatures. "Okay bud dis is d las time. Go bring d cyclepidia. "
Round 3 to mamma.
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel
Monday, April 13, 2009
That was her baby with the black satin cape and flat topped hat with fancy tassells. The zygote. The football champ in utero. The feeding and pooping superzoid. He is now going to be a first grader! Someone get the smelling salts and used socks out. Where have five years gone? It seemed like yesterday when she looked at her belly after the doctors pulled him out and fainted in horror at the squishy mess that had now remained of what used to be once a nice, taut, flat stomach. The sacrifices one makes for the child.
Brat ran to mamma through the crowd to hand over his scroll for safekeeping. Mamma's first impulse was to have it gilt framed and placed strategically under a spotlight in the living room. Her second impulse was to do much the same. So much objectivity and parental pride and how the twain will never meet.
The brat came on with the rest of the five pint sizers who made up his group, said his poem. Did his activity. Beamed in delighted at the round of applause they got. Was duly collected. Said his goodbyes to classmates and teachers and we, mamma and son, started on the trek down the stairs.
"I gone to fusht grade now, mamma?"
"Yes, my son," said mamma with the kind of chest bursting pride saner mammas reserve for competitive exam topping moments. The brat paused on stairdescent mode and pondered.
"What I do in fusht grade? I know all my padhai alledy. I donwantugo fusht grade. I wantu go college. Apneaap. I is a big boy now."
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Which means that the brat is now getting used to languidly raising his hand in a lacksdaical wave when Mamma departs for said meetings after dropping brat to the safe confines of home and the welcoming cries of Shin Chan and Maruko Chan and Bakugan. And instead of the whooping war cries of joy that mamma thinks she rightfully deserves when she returns, she gets a look of sheer disgust and animated kicking in the vicinity of her shins as she reaches for the remote to shut off the steady diet of cartoons which have invariably been going on all day.
Anyone caught these cartoons on a good day? Let me rephrase that. Anyone watch Shin Chan? Crayon Shin Chan to be specific. Yup the show with the overtly smarmily insolent five year old with his hapless mother who is prone to morphing into a demon. This show, was for a brief happy period, off the air, but is now back and with a redoubled cheerleading squad. Of which, the brat takes an entire stand in the stadium.I think I know now why the brat keeps checking my hairline for signs of sproutage but finds only grey strands to his dismay. And the sudden bouts of inexplicable insolence for the sake of insolence, leading to whackings for the sake of whackings.
And then there are the ridiculous Bakugan brawlers. This show has wierd things like folks fighting with balls. Balls which are flung down on a playzone stadium kindoff space arena where they proceed to decimate each other at a speed comparable to how their ridiculously overpriced toys that the brat throws screaming howling rolling in supermarket aisle tantrums for proceed to decimate my wallet.
Cartoon serial toymakers, my eternal curse on you. May the craze for the junk you thrust down our throats never last Season 2. Of course, I'm not including my He-Man or Wolverine or even the Dark Knight action figure here.
My curse extends to the creators of Ben 10, who have come up with the Ben 10 Alien Force, which now features a grown up teenage Ben Tennyson in green sports jacket and tight waali jeans that the brat has been throwing screaming, rolling in the aisles kind of tantrums to lay his hands on, and an infernal asinine Omnitrix that now pops up even stranger new creatures like Humungosaurus, and Spider Monkey and Swamp Fire, and Jet Ray and more which now escape my mind, but which dont escape the brat's mind and which must be collected now or mamma must perish. Add to this the infernal, plastic two thousand rupee worth Ben 10 omnitrix son et lumiere watch like gizmo meant to be strapped on brat's scrawny wrist by parent revived with used socks upon fainting spell at cash till occasioned by infernal child adding said blasted Omnitrix unnoticed to shopping cart, and which is discovered only when accounted and swiped for. Designer of Ben 10 Alien Force may you find yourself in an eternal hell of ghouls surrounding you wearing them monstrosities you designed to effectively ruin a tired mother's afternoon siesta.
If the cartoons werent bad enough, you now have them ads. The brat is totally clued in. He picked up a Bourvita L'I'll Champs pack the other day. And then threw it right back on the shelf. "I don wan dis. I become chotta gurl if I iz drinking dis. I wanna be beeg boy. Like Eclairs ka Baap Gumlairs."
Mamma needs so much to get cable disconnected. With a quick aside thank you to the creators of Haatim of course, who gave her the genie who emerges from the sand pit at sharp 8pm much in the manner of Spiderman 3s Sand Man, to drag dwaddling kids, who refuse to go up home to down their dinner and finish their homework, to a fate worse than any mamma's overactive imagination could drum up.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
The brat has his vacation planned out. "Tomaru and tomaru is skul and then iz hollydayz?"
Mamma sighed deeply and nodded in the affirmative. "Yaaaayy!" he yelled and did a little victory dance on the bed, a dance which involved kicking mamma inadvertently in sensitive spots that hovered around the solar plexus and the nose. To any random onlooker it would have seemed like a tiny little sprite of a brat had pulverised mountain mamma into cowering terror. Mamma shrieked and checked if she was due for a cauliflower nose, but the fates were kind. A sharp bark, and the brat had calmed down sufficiently so as not to inflict any further damage to mamma's countenance.
"I have soo many hollydayz. What I'll do?"
The question was rhetorical and one that begged no answer. Also, since the month of April and May promises to be hectic what with family down from the four corners of the country, mamma has not enrolled the brat for any summer camp out of the brokeness of her wallet and the fond hope that unstructured play with his cousins will do him far more good than the drill of the summer camp. And of course, much to brat's dismay, his tuitions will continue through the vacations. Mamma is a drill sergeant, yes, and he has to do some catching up for first grade.
"I will play d hole day. An I will go to my frens hauz. An I will koll all my frens to my hauz for pizza pahty and noodlez pahty. An I will go to d toy sop. An I will have my budday pahty."
Budday pahty? Whoa! Brat, mamma spake, your birthday is in October, thats a long way off. The brat was unfazed. "I have wun more pahty in October. I have two two budday pahties."
It was then painstakingly explained that folks celebrated their birthdays only once a year, because a birthday signified that one had grown by an entire year. The concept seemed appealing.
"So if I have wun budday pahty, I be six ears, and if I have two budday pahties I be seven ears?"
Yes, said mamma. Not seeing the ditch she was assiduously digging for herself to fall right into.
"I wan two two budday pahties, I wan to become seven ears. I wan to become big boy."
This hurry to become a big boy is scary. Someone invent that freeze ray quick. Brats are meant to stay brats and not grow up into superbrats.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
We had a similar incident in our society premises, where a servant took the keys to the family Alto, one afternoon when the owners were asleep and decided to take the car for a spin. Luckily all that the adventurous chappie ruined was the said Alto and the huge (when I say huge, I mean huge) iron gates of the building complex. In fact, so terrible was the impact that the bonnet of the car was damaged. To the family's credit, the chappie was sacked immediately. The horror was minimised because this was in the afternoon where no one, read no kids, were down in the compound. What if there had been?
Shame on you, Mr Supreme Court lawyer. First for employing underage labour, and secondly for lacking common human decency and courtesy.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
"Mamma, I will go to fusht grade after the hollydays?"
"Yup brat," replies mamma, cringing at the thought of the brat and two months of unstructured play through the day.
"All my frens will go to fusht grade?"
"Yup." Mamma, being engrossed in Dave Barry was in a snorting laughter mood. Which didnt make for much conversation.
"I is become a beeg boy now?"
Mamma turned to brat and gave him a beeg hug. "Yes, my love, you are becoming a big boy now."
The brat looked at mom sadly. "Mamma. I will miss you when I become a beeg boy."
Yes, my love, Mamma misses her baby too!