Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Food baby

The brat, thanks to a pleasant combination of genetics and an unparalleled love for food has got a nice little rotund pot belly these days, much to the combined horror of his pater and moi. He does three days of post school karate, swims occasionally, runs around whooping and yelling for two to three hours every day, but the pot belly stays.
Initially, he was quite pleased, it made him resemble the pater even more. "I godda stomach like Pappa."
Yes, my son.
"We're machchin machchin."
Errm. It's not actually something I would want you to be matching matching about, son. And consumed with horrific stories on childhood obesity and juvenile diabetes and early onset of hypertension and such like, I would encourage him to run the minute mile a few times everyday in a bid to get him to lose weight.
But of course, mashallah, he is a child who appreciates his food. Until last night. He entered the room with an air of slight panic about him.
"Mamma, how wuz I born?"
I sat down patiently and explained how he grew in my stomach and the doctor cut my stomach and took him out.
His eyes filled up with tears, "Bud I don wan dokter to cut my stommak. I'm frightinned."
But, child, I tried to reason, why would the good doctor cut your stomach.
"Because N tole me tuday in d park that 'tere peyt mein bachcha hai'. I don want a bachcha frum my peyt."

Sunday, November 27, 2011

So the brat spoke to Darsheel Safary

Ever since he saw Taare Zameen Par, the brat has been a Darsheel Safary fan. And how. A total high speed rotating PSP fan. This was further cemented when he recently saw Zokkomon and spent all his evenings wearing red full sleeved teeshirts with red track pants, tying on my yellow apron as a cape, and cutting up black pieces of plastic board meant to line the laundry basket into eye masks of the Zokkomon version.
Ergo, it wasn't far off when he finally socked me the question, "I wantu meet DarsheelSafary."
I shrugged my shoulders, like I always do when such preposterous requests are placed before me and proceeded to ignore said request completely.
It was repeated the next day and more volubly.
I ignored it again. The third day, he metaphorically sat on my head and wore me down into at least saying I'd try to get him to meet Darsheel Safary. I wish I had a parent who would agree to try to get me to meet George Clooney, but that's another post and not in consonance with the kiddy blog so won't go there now.
In my misery, I tweeted asking for help to get the brat a meeting with Zokkomon boy. And a kind soul from twitter promised to get the brat to speak with Zokkomon. And no, I'm not going to name that person, but let it be known that said person rocks.
So it happened, that one gentle evening, when the sun hung over the horizon like a ball of orange, the phone rang with private number flashing on screen. I answered the call. From the office of Darsheel Safary said a kindly, maternal voice. I handed the instrument to the brat and asked him to speak. Darsheel was on the line. His jaw clanged to the floor. It took him a moment to push it back into position. And he said a soft hello. And said jaw dropped right to the floor again. No words came from his mouth except, "What are you doing?" which is his standard telephone line across all conversations. The conversation lasted all of 30 seconds. It must have been Darsheel carrying on a one sided conversation since the only other words that came from brat's mouth were, "Okay, bye." And he handed the phone back to me, his eyes shining with excitement. "Darsheel Safary spoke tu me!"
"He callt me up."
"I'm his fren" By the time the next morning arrived, this had morphed to becoming "Darsheel Safary's besfren on phone."
By the time he went down to the park in the evening, it had further morphed to long hour long conversations he was having everyday with said child star which I was quick to gently dissuade.
So now, the brat wants to be signed up at Shiamak Davar's to become a movie star. And I have to ask Aamir Khan if he's making another movie and needs another boy to act. The maternal line will be firmly drawn at the second request. Our kahaani is already poori filmy to begin with.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

The brat gets a yellow belt

Last week, the brat arrived home waving a form. On which he had
already signed where it said Applicant. KKM. "Dat's my signature."
It was a form that was an application to take a karate exam. "Fer the
yellow belt," he informed me. He still being on the white belt despite
having done a year of karate class, thrice a week.
"Sir tole me to pracktiss hardly. An den I'll ged the yellow belt."
Much hardly pracktissing happened at odd times like when Mamma wanted
to doze off to sleep, but was compelled to stay awake and alert in
order to ooh and aah about perfect moves, which she couldn't quite
This morning as we packed him off to school, he reminded us, "Is my
karate eggzam tuday. Tell me beshtofluck."
And so we did. Mamma added a kiss on the forehead for good measure.
And when Mamma went to pick him up he emerged bearing certificate, a
yellow belt tied around his waist, the discarded white belt in his
hand and a smile splitting his face in half. "I did it, I did it," he
punched air, "I gotthe yellow belt." Around him, his batchmates were
streaming out all wearing different hued belts and bearing
certificates aloft.
He was hugged and kissed much to his embarassment and wiping of cheek
with back of hand, and asked if everybody got a belt today. "Yus.
Everybuddy got a new belt today. But yellow is the best colour. And
only I got that."
Ermm. I was compelled to agree.
I think that belt and that karate costume will have to be peeled off
his person under threat, duress and intimidation now. Too much
admiration of said sunny colour happening in mirror as I type this.

Monday, November 14, 2011

The brat went to see Rockstar

I asked a few friends whether I could take the brat to see Rockstar, having yet to recover from the gobsmackedness I experienced when, I, in all innocence, believing SRK's publicity spiel about Ra One being a movie for kids, actually saw Ra.One. No thanks to Ra.One, the brat's vocabulary has now been vastly enhanced and he now actually KNOWS ABOUT GENITAL PIERCINGS.
Let me sit back and mop my fevered brow at the horror of that thought. Anyway, ergo when it came to Rockstar, The Adventures of Tin Tin having being declined graciously because obviously, the brat has no history with Tin Tin, the way I do. Rockstar, said well meaning friends who had seen it, had the middle finger and smooching and that was about the level of inappropriateness they could think off. Given that the tykes at the playground are flipping the bird at each other over playtime disputes, and given that the brat had already initiated with me, thanks to well meaning friends who discuss these things, a discussion on why lip kissing and cheek kissing and tongue in the mouth kissing is different and what is allowed, I thought one little smooch couldn't hurt. So off we went for Rockstar. It started off all fun and games and slowly went dark and grim. The brat kept waiting for the fun moments but they were few and far between, he had the most fun when the record label head was getting his bone crunching massage done.
The songs he liked. The Kun Faya Kun dargah number had me get gooseflesh on my arms, the boy commented kindly on 'How ole yer Shammi Kapoor is' and my eyes misted in tears at the thought of my first ever crush having passed away. The romance he didn't get. "Bud she is married. Den wai she's loving RanbirKappoor?" I didn't have the heart to explain adultery and such like to him. And frankly, I couldn't get a grip of the 'love' the characters shared meself to do any explaining to him.
We emerged from the theatre, a little dazed, blinking towards the light, suitably thrown off our feet by the music, and Sadda Haq, I tell you, should become the anthem of the current generation. And I talk to the brat about how he's a creative chappie and how he practises his music and plays the guitar and sings from his heart. And the brat replies, "He doesn't study in college?"
Errm. "Yes," I replied grudgingly, "He dropped out." And then came the bomb. "An wai he called Heer Palangtod?"
Yes. Mother Earth Swallow Me Now.

Wednesday, November 09, 2011

And this was what we did in Goa

After the eating, the water scooting, the parasailing and the drinking
of the unlimited Pepsis was done.