Day One: Goa May 2009

After an entire night of peeling mamma's eyes open in the dead of night, yelling "is mawning, gerrup, leshgo!" It was finally morning and time to leave. Therefore, it came to pass that mamma and pappa were bathed and dressed but the brat was still snoring at supersonic levels. A quick dunk into the bathroom and a mugful of water remedied the situation quick enough. A quick bath and long agonised discussion re ensemble du jour later we were set to leave. 4.30am. We were driving down to Goa and early morning would cut out traffic delays. The brat sat with Mamma, bright eyed and perky keeping up a running commentary punctuated at regular intervals by the war whoop of "whenwewil reechdbeech?" Yelled loud into mammas ears one million times until we hit the ghats and motion sickness attacked. Some four sessions of throwing up later, he was content to sleep in mamma's lap without a whimper.
We reached sunny Goa by 2pm. Mamma sashayed into Fort Aguada lobby smelling of sick from head to toe, with the final throw up session happening as he stepped past the imposing doorman. You bet all the staff remember him and enquire kindly about his health each time he passes said entrance area edging away carefully while doing so.
A lie down after being washed cleaned up and force fed Electral did wonders and we were all set for the beach.
Did mamma mention we had packed the entire toy basket in one suitcase? Toys for the beach selected, packed in plastic bag, shorts pulled up over nu swimmin tunks and floral Hawaiin shirt worn and self examined carefully from every angle. "I lookin very hansome?" Mamma assured him his conclusion was accurate. "You is also lookin very priddy, mom." Mamma put this approval down to the fact that she was wearing more make up than clothes compared with her regular Mumbai dress code.
Mom is his latest term of endearment for yours truly. Frankly the one I loved best was the simple Maa. But I digress. "Thank you brat, shall we leave?"
"Pops, you is coming?" He enquired of his father kindly. "Don wastetime. Is already evening. If you don gerready fast I will leave you alone in dhotel. Den yu wilfeel very sad."
We reached the beach. Sat down at a shack. The pappa started on the beers. The mamma sipped her ice tea. The child sipped his chocolate milk. The sun sank in a fiery blaze. The brat sighed deeply. "I is nod going back tu Bombay. I is staying here only in Goa. Bombay is very boreding."
(To be continued)
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Goa, here comes the brat

The spouse, one is convinced, gets Goa withdrawal symptoms if he's been away for even a couple of months. Therefore after staying staid and peaceful in good old Mumbai for the past few months, he began getting fidgety a couple of days ago. The peering at the holiday escapes and summer packages dotting the newspapers and the examining of small print with magnifying glass was the next logical step. And then began the random questioning, hasnt it been so boring, lets go to Goa. The brat squealed in delight. And ran helter skelter to get out his pail and spade and such like beach toys which are used twice a year. (Shame on us, and we live on the coast!)Mamma sighed and started packing. The brat is overjoyed. He has packed in his Ben Tenz, his omnitrixwachch, his power rangerz akshun figures, his digger truck, dumper truck, remote control car, which had it been a little larger, could accommodate the three of us enroute to said holiday destination and would have been environmentally friendly to boot, charged as it is with electricity. And every available biscuit he could round up from various corners in the house, never mind the fact that he has to be force fed biscuits if ever with three adult humans holding him down, and one relegated to the task of shovelling in said biscuits into the craw. He has also emptied out his entire closet including shiny embroidered pants (don't even ask me, I didnt do the choosing), and leatherite jacket with machchin cap. I have been asked to pack pahty shuz and running shuz and the most essential of all, the sandals for beachwear be damned. We have also thrown into said bag for good measure, doodlepro board in case the artistic urge overtakes us, and infinite Uno cards which will undoubtedly return as a much diminished pack.
Therefore, we will be on a leave of absence for four days. Bear with us. Transmission will resume Tuesday. Updates on events du jour from Fort Aguada will be posted via the servile phone whenever time, exhaustion and irritation with spouse and child permits. Mamma requests all to chuck in a quick prayer to the Gods above that we dont tour neighbouring states before landing up at our destination this time round.

I have been plagiarised...

I normally dont cross the blogs, but this one I just couldnt let go.

http://thirtysixandcounting.wordpress.com/2009/05/27/and-i-have-been-plagiarised/#comments

And what is worse is the woman is not putting up any of the comments informing her that the world knows she's flicked stuff.

The Pappa takes the brat to the park

Saturday evening, the park in the complex is a teaming mass of children down with their pappas who are teaching them boy things to do like playing football and swinging and climbing the jungle gym without fear of falling onto the soft sand, unlike the normal escort service of maids and moms who keep squeaking from the periphery at the more adventurous sorts who have managed to clamber to unseen heights and are happily screaming into the wind, as lesser souls have heart attacks and keel over on the jogging track at the site.
The brat's pint sized friends had their fathers down helping them swing across the jungle gym and cycle and such like. The pappa never takes the brat down. The brat went up and whined about it. Mamma adding requisite key to the protests. "Other pappas are teaching your son to swing and climb," she said. The shame on you hung heavy in the air between the two.
The next evening, the Pappa changed into tshirt and jeans out of the shorts he had been lolling around all day and took the brat down. The brat couldnt believe his luck. He clutched his pappa's hand bursting all over the seams, metaphorically of course, pigs will fly before the brat bursts any seams, with pride. Calling out to all his pals enroute, "Lookit my pappa's come down to playwidme tuday."
"A, A, see, my pappa's comedaun tu playwidme."
Father and son went to the sand pit, and the playing started. Only pappa had got the message confused a bit. The play in brat's dictionary had gotten confused with military training in pappa's dictionary. Mamma traipsed along the jogging track watching the duo. "Pappa, Pappa, whatchyuis doin?" "I donwantu swing again. I is nod climbing. I don wantu run ten times." The evening breeze carried the squawks of brat's protests far and clear. People came into balconies and some most naturally wondering if this needed to be reported to relevant authorities, aka mamma, and mamma fielded calls from friends asking just what the Pappa was upto that the child was yelling in protest. Many rounds of swinging, climbing, jungle gym and running later, the brat and the pappa collapsed, exhausted into a conveniently empty swing, sweat pouring off their faces. The brat sulking. The Pappa content that he had made his son that much more of a man today.
The brat sat in the world weary way he has when things dont go to script. A slight frown marring his perfect brow. Then he spoke.
"Pappa, tomorrow, led it be. Mamma will ged me to d park. You go offis."

Happy birthday Pappa...

The brat has been counting the minutes down to his father's birthday. Until last evening he was looking around puzzled at the bare walls of the house. "Where d balloons? Where d cake? Where d party?"
Mamma explained patiently that the party would happen tomorrow as the birthday was tomorrow.
"Big peepul pud balloons on d walls?"
Mamma hastily divested him of such notions, dreading the sticking of said balloons on the walls after the harried blowing up and said balloons and the even more dreaded tying them up process. "No love, big people dont do balloons on the walls party, they just cut cake and eat dinner."
He looked puzzled but persisted.
"Big peepul get budday presents?"
"Yes," replied Mamma. "Anyone can get birthday presents."
The brat thought long and hard again.
And fell silent.
In the evening, he ran to open the door when his father arrived and led him straight to the wardrobe where he had seen Mamma hide Pappa's birthday present. Opened the door of said wardrobe and pulled out carefully wrapped parcel from hiding place sandwiched between pyjamas and nightgowns on Shelf B. And happily chuffed with self like a mini rooster, handed it over to Pappa.
"Happy Budday Pappa!!!!" he squeaked. "Thank you beta," replied a delighted Pappa and proceeded to demolish wrapping paper in the most un-recyclable fashion.
The brat stood by, hopping from foot to foot with excitement. "You laikt it Pappa?"
"Yes, beta, I like it a lot," replied the Pappa who likes anything that comes in a bottle and smells strongly. And needs to be sprayed. In case you're thinking other things.
"Now wherez my redurn geef?"

Life comes full circle

Circa 1977
Girl with pretty flowered dress hot off the tailor's sewing machine (What??? this was the pre historic era, where you went to shops, picked up fabrics, went with fabric to tailors, grovelled at his feet, flipped through totally frayed design books and threw selves at tailor's feet in order to have said fabric converted into frock in time for the festivities it was bought for. Yes, this was also the era one got four new 'frocks' a year, for Christmas, for Eid, for the birthday and one random gift from kind relative returning from abroad for brief visit and therefore the distributor of largesse). Wears said frock and trips across to the playground to show off said frock to friends. One mite, with unnecessary demonstration of jealousy, splats a handful of muck on said dress. Girl bursts into bawling tears and then picks up handful of muck and splats splatter right back.
And stalks off leaving staring lot of mites behind, none of whom will ever dare spatter her again if they value their precious lives.

Cut to 2009
Brat puts on his new bummudas and tshird and goes down to the park to model said new raiment before the gawping masses. Disgruntled critter amongst gawpers takes it upon himself to divest brat of the primeval sin of vanity and heaves a pailfull of sand over him. The brat looks down at his ruined Ben 10 tshird in horror and gasps in rage. And then collars the offender and begins pummelling him to within an inch, to a cheering crowd gathered round. Mamma, who is doing her rounds wonders what the floor show is and dives in headfirst to dig out the child who is none too worse for wear. His opponent? An eight year old who almost reaches Mamma's shoulders.

"He made my tshird dirdy. So I punch him and hit him and tell him he's a bad boy. Okay Mamma? You is nod angry wid me? You is talkin to me?"

Mamma is a grudging mix of admiration and admonishing. She spews the spiel of resolving issues without fisticuffs to a not so repentant brat, and chortles within herself. The brat will survive. Even if he has to punch his way through the world.

The brat at Nana house

The general feeling of well being and calm and the conviction that alls well with the world and its denizen that normally takes hold of a person after a couple of good meals has seized mamma and the brat after just two days of eating nana's cooking. This afternoon fed on a repast that would have had Roman emperors give up gluttony, the mamma and the brat dragged their stuffed carcasses towards the bedroom and threw themselves on said primary item of furniture with no energy to twitch a finger to dismiss an errant fly.
The brat looked at mamma, resplendent like a beached whale post ODing on extra krill. "Mamma, I don't wantugo home."
Mamma twitched the corner of her eyebrow up in question. Verbalising would require too much energy to be expended and might disturb the general feeling of benevolence ad infinitum I touched on earlier.
"You is nod shaooding ad me in nana house. You is nod saying do yer homevurk. You is oney eading an sleeping. Lesh stay here oney."
Yes. Mamma so doesn't need to get on the weighing scales right now. The tenously adhered to diet has been cheerfully cast off with ne'er a backward glance and plates heaped to within a foot are being balanced on protruding paunch in order to keep both hands free for speedeating practice.
Alas, the brat will never go into such rhapsodies over his mothers cooking ever.
Right now, the clarion call begins at 11 am. "Nana," he pipes up loud and sharp post demolishing milk, cheese, bread and egg in the name of a healthy breakfast barely an hour before. "I is so hungry. Why yer nod giving me lunch. "
Maybe mamma and son will need cranes to extricate them from the premises when it is time to leave.

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Delurk here

Or to borrow yet another one from Parul, Delurk Divus on karmickids. The spouse has been making random comments about how blogging is a modification of vanity publishing. And how in troth I might get a total of maybe three readers a day, two of which might be me googling myself on a low self esteem day. And the stat map gives me fancy locations like Papua New Guinea, Rejkyavik, Alaska and god help me breathe, Easter islands (do they have broadband there?). I've been consumed with curiousity ever since those bubbles popped up. And the rest of the cluster of bubbles. Zurich I know. Connecticut I know. Singapore I know. London I know. Melbourne I know. UAE I know. Or I think I know. The rest of you, I'm dying to meet!
So tell me who you are, where you come from and what makes you crash land at karmickids? Make a fat old lady happy. And of course, I can start checking out the holiday brochures. Rejkyavik and Easter Islands. I'm really curious now. Want do a virtual handshake?

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To Nana's House...

The brat and his mamma left for Nana's house this morning for an indeterminate stay. We packed a small suitcase. As always, mamma had around two pairs of jeans and three tops in the entire suitcase. The rest of the bag was stuffed to the gills by various combinations of brat sized clothes from the dashing, gold belted budday pahty pant (just in case we get an invitation out of the blue to attend such like events) to the much worn and much beloved frayed pajamas, without which it is difficult to even contemplate that night has fallen and, gasp, it might actually be time to sleep, even though Mamma's eyes would be glued shut and stentorian snores would be emanating from unladylike open mouth. Add to this a supply of toys. Of all shapes and sizes. Just in case any emergency mandates that Power Rangers Jungle Fury Red Ranger has to be, on paith of life or tooth extraction, be present that very second to decimate some robotic alien invader standing and growling menacingly amongst a papier mache cityscape built at ankle level.
And of course belts, and shuz and machchin machchin sunglasses he can squint under.
Mamma shudders at the thought of adolescence striking such a dress up control freak. I miss the good old days when I just wrapped him in swaddling cloths that he had no power to express his disgust of, except by pooping or peeing immediately in said boring blah swaddle clothes the moment he was set down. Ah, for those days of innocence, and no 'mamma gerlost of mah house.'
Anyway, the brat was in a jumping trippy overexcited frame of mind to be going to nana's house in the light of day and woke up bouncing off the walls. "Whatchyupakked my bag?" he demanded, unzipping said bag and throwing out all the contents to the floor. "Why yu dint pack my blue tshird and my buttonwalla jeanz? And my Ben 10 Diamond Head tshird? And my Hulk tshird? And my Spyderman costoom? An my Badman costoom?"
"Why dont you pack what you want to take along yourself, brat?" mamma suggested in calm, zen fashion which a saner brat would have immediately second guessed to be fair warning to clear the premises while he was still in one piece. "Okay," he chirped in happy innocence, and sat down to the task at hand. "I wan Badman costoom and tshird. An Spiderman costoom. And Ben 10 tshirds. All of them. (Yes, dear reader, as the name of the character suggests we have all ten of them abominations, thankfully none yet of the new expletive deleted series called Ben 10 Alien Force.) He climbed into his cupboard, sat on the said shelf containing his various superheroed tshirts and threw the ones he wanted onto the bed, of course jumbling up the careful stacks of folded tshirts. Mamma watched in stunned silence as the entire lot of tshirts came tumbling right down to the floor. The brat sat happily, legs dangling off the edge of the shelf. "Mamma," he commanded. "Pack the blue tshird and the red foodball tshird and the black badman dark night tshirt."
Mamma obeyed meekly, too stunned by the total mess of said cupboard and spit polished floor to protest.
The brat clambered down and upturned his entire toy basket onto said bed already run over by clothes of various specificiations. Mamma sighed a sigh such as angels might have sighed when Lucifer strutted around chucking his harp and getting his pitchfork points sharpened. The brat threw handfulls of random action figures into the bag until it was very clear that this was a bag that would either close or give up the ghost or zip in the process.
Having done his mite of packing, the brat ran off to get bathed and ready. Mamma, with no early morning energy to get into arguments about the mess that needed to be cleant up and the refused items from said upturned toy basket needing to be put back into said bereft basket, began doing the needful herself. In normal circumstances she would have bellowed like a bull spotting waving red flags held by smarmy matadors.
The brat stared at her puzzled and then came right back, and began picking up with her. "Mamma, you is very good girl. You is cleaning up all the mess you made when you did packing. I help you. I is praood of you."
Guess who was deposited at Nana's house an hour later his ears reddened and smarting from the barking he got.

What kind of a mother will I be?

I have watched Mother India many times. And most of the watchings were when I wasnt a mother, so I never really understood it or assimilated the enormity of the decision Nargis took when she pulled a loaded shotgun on her deviant son. I am a mother now. And I understand. I know my child is more precious to me than life itself. I hurt when he grazes his knee, when he smiles and laughs in his sleep I wake and gaze at his sleeping face, happy that he is having happy dreams. I lose sleep when he cries during the day. When he has a meltdown, I spend hours on postmorteming the incident for how I could have handled it better.
I wonder now, what would it take me to take a loaded gun to my son? What levels of delinquency would he need to fall to before I bring myself to accept that he does not need support, that he needs to be cast off. Would it be stealing? I would look into the reasons and get him counselled and give him a second chance. Would it be drug addiction? I would try to get him detoxified and back on track. Would it be alcoholism? I would still have hope. And still try to get him off the habit. Would it be cheating? Would it be joblessness? Would it be sexual offences? Would it be a total disregard for decency and honesty and living a life that is in consonance with those he lives with as part of a family. What if it were all of the above?
It is a difficult situation to be in. I wish no mother ever has to be in such a situation. I do know though that I am not blinded by maternal love. I hope I become the kind of mom Nargis embodied in that movie. And I pray my son never gives me reason to become that sort of a mom.

Of Bright mornings

The brat and his mamma and his pappa had a rather non descript weekend. Which is a good thing. Pappa had just done a day trip to Nasik on Friday and had no butt left from sitting for hours in moving vehicle and therefore spent the better part of Saturday morning lying in. Much to brat's bright and perky disgust. "Pappa, whachyu doin? Whyuis sleepin? Gerrup. Is bright morning now."

Pappa grunted out a snore in reply. Brat clambered onto Pappa's rising and subsiding belly. And prised Pappa's eyelids open. The bellow that this resulted in had expectant mothers in the vicinity give birth immediately.

Brat clambered down post haste and fled to the drawing room, closing the bedroom door not so gently behind him.

"Pappa iz shoudingadme." He informed mamma in terrified tones. "I only tole him to gerrup. Its bright mornin. You only said nobody should sleep in bright morning.

Mamma nodded sympathetically.

"Next time Pappa makes me gerrup in bright morning, I will also shoudadhim. Loudly."



The brat had his dance class on Saturday afternoon, for which he spent almost the entire Saturday morning laying out his clothes. And changing the permutation combinations. And pulling out accessories like gloves, belts, caps, bandanas, sunglasses and such like.



Around half an hour before we were due to leave for said class, he lay down on the bed and began snoring gently. Mamma sprinkled water, yelled, tickled, intimidated and he couldnt be bothered to open an eye. Finally, mamma carried him physically and hauled him off to said dance class in the ensemble he had drifted off to sleep in. Namely pyjamas and a tshirt with a floral shirt on top. Dont ask. He dresses like a bag lady at home. He awoke in the thick of the class to realise he was dressed like a floral garden and hid behind a pillar, refusing to come out. When Mamma went to investigate, she was greeted with an indignant kick. "Why you is brung me in dis? Eveybudy will laffatme."

He was dragged out after much coaxing by said dance sir, and did his routine. At the end of the class, he fled without a backward glance back up home. Mamma ran behind to find him cowering in a corner of the lift. Terrified of being spotted by udder peepul. We reached home, he changed into his swankiest multipocketed chain belted, shiny gold leaf horrific tshirt worn and fingerless gloves and sunglasses added to complete the look. He marched down with a swagger. Accosted the first mite he met on the way to the park. "Lookatmenow. I lookin very hansome no? I wearing proper clothes now." The terrified victim nodded meekly. The brat was satisfied, and heaved an audible sigh of relief and validation, and looked back at a horrified mamma trailing in his wake, wondering how to stop this inquisitor. "I is going to ask eveybudy if I is lukin very hansome..."

*************************

On Sunday morning, the brat awoke at the unearthly hour of six am, when saner children sleep and let their long suffering parents sleep as well. He began pushing insistently at the mountain labelled Pappa snoring next to him, apparently having forgotten the ear drum rupturing bellow of the previous day. "Pappa gerrup. Lesh go to the playzone. And den we go to Sopperzsop to buy toyz."

Pappa opened one sleepreddened eye in a questioning glance.

Brat is nothing, if not a brave brat. He repeated his demand which naturally was a red flag to Pappa bull. The bellow could be heard for miles around and the echo had tidal waves breaking the banks of the creek up front.

The brat fled out, and mamma fled out behind him.

The brat looked at mamma piteously. "Why this pappa shoutz eveyday in d mornin? How it can be a gudmornin then?"

Why mamma should not grow old.

The brat and his mamma were having their usual heart to heart conversation, at bedtime. The scene, as always, was of the darkened, lights off room, the background score provided by the mild to moderate snores emanating from the just fallen asleep pappa, and the dialogue scripted by the brat.
"Mamma," he piped up, his tone indicative of the searing questioning that was to follow.
"Yes, brat," replied mamma, wits being collected back from the land of nod where they were fleeing swiftly given half a snore.
"When I grow up and become very beeg youwil grow ole and die?" A slight note of panic crept into his voice. Which mamma, in her half sleep failed to detect. And replied flatly, "Yes," believing honesty is the best policy. "An pappa? An daadi? An nana?" The panic amplified. His voice sounded close to tears. "Eveybudy wil die when I grow up?"
Mamma thought hard and long and swiftly changed her policy given that tears had started pouring down a small face.
And gentle sobbling had begun. The snoring pappa mountain stirred and propped himself up in silent query.
"I don wantu becom beeg. Mamma, you don grow ole an die. Stay young only. Whuwil feed me and gimme bath and take me to skul?"


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The grass grows blacker

And so mamma and the brat lay down for a little nap. Infernal afternoon heat had mamma get the strappy cotton dresses on.
The brat lay on mamma's hand in normal fashion. And looked on transfixed. "What is it, brat?" Asked mamma, looking at the expression of awe and wonder. The brat blinked and gulped and declared in the quietest tones ever, "Mamma you is got black grass in yer armholes!"

That visit to the parlour is so overdue. Or maybe mamma could do a Julia Roberts.

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The doula finally met the Sweetpea

This is a post for those who were in the mega event of the shower group, a transcontinental affair, with close on hundred mommy bloggers getting together to create the Riddle-me-ree treasure hunt leading to a Baby Shower Blog for all the mommies to be in our midst.

Each mommy to be had a virtual doula assigned to her, and I was doula to Poppins mom and became doula by default to Maggie. I had already seen the delectable Munch earlier, when Maggie was down in Mumbai last year. Sweetpea I was dying to see!

My chance came the other day with Poppins Mom down in Mumbai to attend a wedding literally a suburb away. We planned to meet at Inorbit, and yours truly rushed through the day to reach on time. The brat was left at home. Reached the meeting spot to find Poppins Mom as glowingly gorgeous as ever and the Sweetpea! A clapping, happy, smiling bundle of delight, who even broke her own rules to sit in her doula aunts lap for quite a bit.

Just adorable, creating tremendous uterine contractions with her cuteness. For all ye who were part of the mega baby shower, am so so glad I had the chance to be part of it. I definitely felt an extra something connection to the Sweetpea almost wondering why she didn't come to me immediately, arms outstretched.

Tharini, Altoid, Gauri, Sue, MayG and all you wonderful blogging mommies, take a bow.

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