Why I hate daycare

(Or rather, why I hate leaving the kids at daycare; because I can't stand to see them cry.)

After 6 months of attending part-time daycare *very happily*, Bubs had something of a 'relapse' yesterday. And wasn't it the most fortuitous day on which to have it? Oh yes, just 2 days before I am due to rejoin full-time work. Yep, this girl gave out big-time. By that, I mean she had a MAJOR MELTDOWN.

As I took her inside, she began to protest, "Idonwantogotshkool-Idonwantogotshkool....Idonwan....", repeated like a broken record, with increasing intensity as I went up the steps to the toddlers room on the first floor.

By the time we were at the door, she was trying to run away from me at full speed, trying to wriggle her arm free of me, roaring her lungs out - myself and her two 'teachers' looking on in amazement. "Mummy!Mummy!Mummyyyyy!Idontwantogotoshhkool!!(hiccup)Iwantogotohomewidyouuu! (sobsobsob) Mummy!Mummyyyyyy!" All of us had red faces and didn't know what to do.

Her favourite childminder pried her from my arms, and I left them and went out. (Apya's going to the creche too; her school is closed for the summer).

Bubsie's screamed increased to a startling degree - her voice became hoarse after a while, but she kept crying. I shut the door, went outside into the cool air, but couldn't actually walk away. You see, if Bubbu is ever crying when I drop her at the creche, I have a habit of standing near the door until the cries die down, which usually happens in about 60 seconds or so. I know it's daft, but it does help me to know that she settles in within this time. I can then leave with clear conscience.

This time, however, she cried and cried and cried - non-stop for a full 5 and a half minutes. Try listening to a crying child for 5 minutes and you will know how long that actually is. It was pure torture.

At 5 minutes, I forced myself to walk away (with a flood of negative thinking going off in my head - the "I'm-such-a-bad-mother" kind). I had crossed over to the other side of the street and turned back to look at the upstairs window when she stopped. Whew. But I was a nut-case by then. The other day-care provider - the ground floor one - had been observing me from the window, and she came out. "Are you okay?" she asked. I shook my head. I couldn't say a word. This huge mother called mummyjaan was standing on the sidewalk, trying to control her own tears. (Can you beat the stupidity?)

At that time, I went onto a maha-guilt-trip. You see, I can't stand crying children. My own ones I have never let cry for more than a minute or so. And now the little one roared piteously for 5 full minutes and I thought that I was being a horrible and selfish mother for thinking of my career again and putting this tiny creature into daycare for 9 long hours each day. See the clear connection? Crying child ----> horrible mother. But that's how it felt momentarily when I couldn't say anything intelligible to the girl from the baby-room.

She led me inside the side door of the creche and brought some tissues and waited for me to calm down. Then she called the manager (who had by this time, succeeded in calming down Bubsie who was upstairs).

Between the two of them, they looked at me with some pity and tried to reassure me that despite the occasional reluctance that Bubbu shows in the morning, she is fine for the rest of the day and couldn't seem happier.

"It think she is just acting up", said the ground-floor-girl, "but she does have a huge temper".

Yes, that she does, I said. I wasn't aware of it myself, I thought. As calm and placid and easygoing as my second child is, when she absolutely doesn't want to do something (like go to the creche yest. morning), she can throw quite a tantrum. This was the first such one.

Coming at the time that it did, it really did unsettle me.

Fortunately, however, the muddled mind cleared after a few minutes and I was able to leave the premises of the building in a reasonably sane state of mind. The manager called me about an hour later to update me on how she was - she was playing with some puzzles. She cried at one other time later in the day when she glanced at the main door while they were taking the children out to play in the back yard, but otherwise, was fine.

Looking back at the last time that I worked full-time - when Apya was at a similar age - it was a challenging time. Apya had taken about 3 weeks to settle into her daycare, but once she did, it was smooth sailing. At one stage, she wouldn't want to come to us when we went to pick her up in the evenings. This was especially so in the summers, when, post-lunch, the children were free to play in the garden and the swings.

Anyway, I hope Little Bubs doesn't give us any trouble. I hope she is happy at her daycare, that she doesn't fall sick, and that I am able to get through the first few months at work without any major worries.


--------------------

P.S. I don't hate day-care. Nor do I hate leaving my children there. Good day-care is a blessing for working parents. But those are the only 4 words that came into my mind as I stood at the door and heard Bubbu's piercing shrieks coming out of the upstairs window.

Edited today after dropping them off at the creche again: Yeah, I over-reacted yesterday morning and she definitely was playing up to test our limits. What's 5 minutes of crying in the bigger scheme of things? To put it into perspective, what's 5 minutes of crying compared to the 3 weeks of misery that her sister went through during her first settling-in phases 4 years ago? Not much. Especially when you consider that she - Little Bubbu - literally pranced into the Ground-Floor-Girl's arms today. Whew.

"Even as they cherished me in childhood."

This morning, as I awoke, my mind wandered back to the last few days that I spent with my parents in India. I thought of how my dear father, now approaching his seventies, helped me accomplish the many tasks that I had to in a tight span of a week, how my mother tried to fulfill every little whim and fancy of my daughters. It made me wonder about the immense love they have for me that gives them the energy to do so much for me and my offspring.

They're aging, I thought, and I should be doing things for them, not the other way round. I found myself pondering the following verses from Sura Israa, the 17th chapter of the Quran, that related to treating parents with respect, honour and the utmost kindness and love. Especially when they reach old age.

23. Thy Lord hath decreed that ye worship none but Him, and that ye be kind to parents. Whether one or both of them attain old age in thy life, say not to them a word of contempt, nor repel them, but address them in terms of honour.

24. And, out of kindness, lower to them the wing of humility, and say: "My Lord! bestow on them thy Mercy even as they cherished me in childhood."

And although I began by evaluating my behaviour towards them, eventually I focussed on the last part of the verse, "kamaa rabbayaani sagheera" - even as they cherished me in (my) childhood.

The verse implies that a parent has, and shows, immense love and kindness toward his or her own children.

And then I looked at my own relationship with my children. Does my relationship with them have enough of the rahmah** that is spoken about here? Quite often, I think that I am too harsh with my children. I have high expectations of them - perhaps too high for their tiny beings - and I am picky, irritable and annoyed easily when they make mistakes. Sometimes I am startled to realize that I can turn into quite an unforgiving monster.

If I look at myself completely honestly, I can say this: at their young age, it is expected of them to make mistakes. As their parent, I ought to display much more patience, compassion and love that I do.

While this ayat (verse) played and replayed itself in my head, I became quite ashamed when I considered that, over the past few weeks, I have increasingly become an inflexible and authoritarian parent. Where has the intense rahmah gone?

Apya blooms like a rose when I employ gentle methods of discipline with her. The problem is that gentle discipline requires so much more effort; over the past several days, I know that I have been quite stressed out (a weak excuse, perhaps). And when that happens, I know that mothering becomes more of a chore rather than the joy it should be. Naturally, during these phases, we all end up more cross.

I think I have a natural tendency to go the authoritarian route. I have to consciously evaluate myself and re-evaluate myself from time to time and come up with strategies to modify my behaviour and responses towards the children so that we all don't end up frustrated and unhappy.

The verses from Surah Israa have always helped. Without fail. In my childhood and teenage years, they helped me during my troublesome relationship with my mother - many a time, these two verses kept me from talking back to mom and getting into even more trouble.

I hope that these blessed ayaat continue to guide me to become a better daughter to my parents, and a better mother to my daughters.


____________________________

*ayaat = verses, **rahmah= mercy, compassion and love

It doesn't hurt my mouth to say it!

In the course of the post-dinner conversation with my guests, the chatty and homely Auntie, who had already praised my cooking to high heaven, remarked, "You know, you're very beautiful.".

Me? I was completely flattered. Blushed to my ears, I did, then like any self-respecting Hyderabadi full of takalluf*, protested that I wasn't,

"Oh no, you're just saying that. But if you really think so, d'you mind telling that to my husband on your way out....he's always carping about my obesity!"

Auntie: "No, no, you really are..!! And what's being fat got to do with being beautiful??"

"Aaah, well, whether I am or not, you have definitely made me happy!", said I.

At this point, Guest 2 (Genial Auntie's close friend) piped in: "Yes, that's true, she likes to make people happy; she says that to everyone. Recently, she said it to Miss xyz too".

Me: "Oh.."

"It doesn't cost me anything to say a few nice words", explained Guest 1 innocently, oblivious to the implications of what she said "does it?"

Me: "Er, no, I suppose it doesn't!"

The Auntie (mighty pleased with herself): "Exactly!!"


(I love my guests. Who wouldn't love being in the company of such people :D?)

*takalluf: I honestly can't translate the word: either it's humility or pretending to be humble ;). I'd appreciate any help in translating the word, if you're a 'Hydro' or an 'Urdu', go on right ahead and give me a better explanation of the word.

Remembering the baby-talk : "Khush Ho Jao"

As my children grow older and learn to speak "properly", I know I will miss the baby-talk which strangers find so incomprehensible. These are the crooked phrases which, most of the time, only Babajaan and I, or sometimes Nani and Nana, could understand....

For example:

1. "Bulaagu jamun" for "gulab jamun" (sweet dumplings in sugar syrup),

&

"Haajar ka jalwa" for "gaajar ka halwa" (Indian carrot pudding),

Apya is 5 years old and still doesn't get the above two right. I don't try to correct her - it's like holding on to her childhood that little bit longer. As she blooms into a dignified little lady, I see the shades of the preschooler in her still when she opens her mouth and out comes "haajar ka jalwa".

2. The musical, cooing, 4-second-long, "kekkk-uuuuuuuuuuuu" for "thank you": Among the first words that Bubsie learnt @ 16 months. In fact, this was the first actual 'word' (as opposed to baby babble) that I remember her saying.

3. "Khush ho jao" = "Be happy". This was pure 100% Apya when she was 2 years old. She said this to the adults around her when she saw any of us quiet or pensive. Or deeply engrossed in paperwork or study. This was her way of cheering up the grumpy grown-ups around her. Also, "Khafa kaiku hai?" ("Why are you cross?") and a very persistent "Baat karo naaa!" ("Please talk!!").

Babajaan and I grew to call this threesome "Apya's signature triad". Like an infectious flu, only much pleasanter, it spread among our other relatives. For several months, you could hear the grown-ups saying to one another "Baat karo na", "Khafa kaiku hai?" and "Khush ho jao" instead of their usual normal, "adultspeak".

BJ or I would sometimes turn the question (Khafa kaiku hai?) around at Apya when she was tired, sleepy or quiet, but she didn't like it much. She thought we were teasing her.

By the time Apya was 4, she had forgotten this unique signature phrase of hers, but can we ever forget it? Never. We might forget our own names, but we won't forget "Khush ho jao". It's the family motto. Thirty years later, you might find us telling her children to "Khush ho jao" exactly the same way that Apya used to say it to us.

4. I am tremendously relieved to report that the Bubbu has completely forgotten her fanciful "Pottimaaru" the embarassing Urdu expletive that she had picked up a few months ago and brandished with much flourish. (Unfortunately, she is now onto "Silly old bear" and "Stupid IDD-yut". "Silly old bear" comes from Winnie-the-Pooh and is fine. The "stupid idiot" comes from me - and is not okay. Especially when, in her fury, she directs it at me like this, "Eeeedjyut eeeedjyut Mummy!!!" Oh boy, the joys of the "second child syndrome"....)

5. Then there's the Bubbu's innocent "Oh-bodddahhh" paired with a mock frown when she doesn't get her way. Technically, this is not Bubbu's signature phrase - it is Winnie-the-Pooh's ("Oh bother!" Familiar?) But I have grown to associate it with her, especially the frown.


***

Do your kids have signature phrases? The ones that linger on in your memories long after they have grown up and forgotten them? (Did/do you use a signature phrase?)

Have you ever pondered ......

upon the fact that 'Ginger' is an accepted and acceptable female first name..........



but 'Garlic' isn't?

Around the world in 80 clicks - What do I love about being a mom?

This is a tag that I am taking up more than a month late. Started over at HBM, it has gone all over the world. I suppose it may be dying down by now - I am quite certain that I am the last one writing about it. Maggie tagged me sometime in March April.

What do I like about motherhood? Not a great deal, I confess :)! It was fun for the first 5 years, then the realization dawned in - rather too late for me to do anything about it - that I had got myself into something enormous without having a clue about the enormity of it all! One fine morning I woke up and screamed when I realized that - duh! - this was a lifetime project!!! There was no way to get out of it!!!

But yeah, some good things have come out of it:

1. I like the fact that it - motherhood - finally taught me to live responsibly, to lead an organized life, to prioritize. For the first couple of years, being a mother completely threw me off balance - then somehow it all fell into place. It has made me more organized than I could ever have hoped to be. It has made me obsessive-compulsive about punctuality; it has made me a decluttering, list-making, organizational, GTD freak. Because there is no other way I could have survived parenthood and all the related jobs that come along with it: mountains of paper, artwork and toys, clothes and laundry; sicknesses and the extra work, sleepness nights without breaks or lie-ins afterward. And those aren't even the main issues. The main one is to bring them up right by setting a good example. It's one helluva difficult job. Like we say about driving in Hyderabad: "If you can drive here, you can drive anywhere". Similarly, if I can get motherhood right, I can do anything.

2. I love the conversations. If this tag had asked me to pick ONE thing I loved about being a mother, I would have picked the conversations I have with my daughters. Whether it is Apya's searching questions about her emerging identity ("Mummy, are we Urdus or Englishes?") or the Bubbu's parrot-like mushy phrases at bedtime ("Good-night, Bubbu, I love you" "G'night, Mummy, I love you teeew"). I love every single one of them. The ones that I have recorded here, and the ones that I have not. Even the spirited expletives that she picked up accidentally and that she has now forgotten.

3. I like the way the three of us are so connected with one another. A line across my face, a thoughtful look, a frown that I'm not even aware of, and my older daughter stops playing to come and ask me, "Mummy, what's wrong? Khafa kaiku hai?" The little one pipes up with, "Why-ah-you-sho-shad-Mummy?"

4. I absolutely adore, and bask in, the simple admiration that I get from these two: "Wooooww, Mum! Something in the kitchen smells delicious! Is it fish?" "Yaaay! You made gosht, my favourite". I also get an average of 3 hand-made cards per week, telling me what a great mom I am. With their unusual spelling, though, I can't decipher them on my own. Neither can Apya, about 10 minutes after she has written them. So I ask her what the phrases mean and secretly write them down in my diary so when I go back and "read" the cards about a month later, I know that "Igtmimthrfloersfrhrbirtday" actually means, "I got my mother flowers for her birthday". The cards are awesome - they would take another post altogether. Or the spontaneous, straight-from-the-heart "Wow, Mom, you're looking so pretty" when I dress up, and the Bubbu's eager "Mummy-youre-a-PINSHESH!!" (Something the Babajaan still has to learn.)

5. And oh, yes, that brings me to the joy of being part of a family of "PINSHESHes". Hear it Bubbu-style: "Mummy, I'm-a-pinshesh, Apya'zh-a-pinshesh, you're-a-pinshesh and Baba'zh-a-pinshesh". I'm nearly sure the Babajaan was as delighted with being declared a "Pinshesh" as anyone else!

You know I could go on and add more to the list, now that I feel the attack of verbal diarrhoea setting in, but I'll force myself to stop.

I recently discovered Umm Salihah's blog (UK) and as far as I remember, she hasn't done the tag, so I'd like to hear what she has to say. I believe all the Indian moms have done it already ...... so I will leave them alone :)!

Awakening from blog slumber to pose a question to my "subscribers"....

As a somewhat quirky and eccentric person, I get random crazy thoughts which I *must* spring onto you, my dear and wonderful "readership" (okay that sounds sooo verrry funny to me), so...

....I glanced at the feedreader stats this morning and was surprised to see a good number of you still subscribed - in fact, the exact same number that was there before I went into my prolonged "blog slumber".

Here is my question:

.....how come you are still subscribed to my feed even though I haven't blogged in 4 months? Are you hopeful that I will "return"? Or do you just want to stay in touch - being a fan of Apya or Bubbu or me (hahahaha)? Are you not one of those people who periodically look over 'inactive' blogs and click the 'unsubscribe' button? (In a nutshell, are you loyal or lazy?)

Do go on and enlighten me: I simply must know.

Idiocy? Imbecility? Or just normal for some people?

(Note: This is a rant and certainly not the most coherent post ever written.)

A few days ago, a couple of incidents happened which left me somewhat confused.

Nothing major, nothing earth-shattering, but I still want to put this here.

Little Bubs, as all 3 regular readers of this blog might know, is undersized for her age. She's two years old but she's about as tall as a child of half that age. Indeed, there are many one-year-old children who tower over her.

She would be the tiniest little doll in a room full of children. In spite of this, or rather, irrespective of this fact, in my eyes she is the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most captivating creature on earth. She fills every waking moment our family with sunshine.

But yes, she is tiny and this worries us - her parents. This worry is always at the back of our minds. Most of my waking hours are spent in thinking about the next energy-dense thing to stuff into her mouth; most of my prayer times are filled with yearning and concern that she may grow up to be of 'normal' size. Her tests have revealed nothing abnormal, which has been reassuring for us. She is just - like that. The smallest of the bunch.

Like, some people are taller than others. Others are shorter than others. Some fatter, some thinner. Some brighter, some dumber. Inevitably, there will be that one person in any group who is the tallest, the shortest, the fattest, the skinniest.

Which is why I came away upset from a social gathering shortly after I had the following conversation with a fat Lady with a Brain the size of a Walnut, (hencforward, Walnut-Brain). I believe it borders on the unacceptable:

Please keep in mind that she was playing with a sweet little boy who was a couple of months younger than her, but who was several inches taller. All present in the room were aware of this fact.

When Walnut-Brain decided to open her mouth to state the obvious.

WB: How old is she?

Me: 2

WB: She looks like a 9-month old!

Me: Yes, she does.

WB: She's so small!

Me: (no response)

I left things at that. I didn't know what else to say. Thankfully, after a little while, it was time for her to leave.

Although at the time I was only mildly annoyed, later on I could not get the conversation out of my head. What's worse, when she said that, the entire room fell silent and all eyes focussed on Bubbu and me. Perhaps my swift, short answer conveyed to her that we would NOT be entering into a discussion about my daughter's height. Perhaps it helped the rest of us to get back to our conversations and not dwell on this topic further.

When it's plain as day that the 21-month old boy in the room is a good 3 inches taller than the little mite, why did you, Madame WB, have to blurt out this very obvious fact to the whole room? Good manners would require that you observe, keep your expression unchanged, and pretend you don't notice.

If you must notice anything at all, please notice something positive about her. Like the other nice lady (NL) who was also present who exclaimed that the Bubbu was now entering the room walking - when she had last seen her, Bubs was 8 months old and still in her carseat. Certainly, NL must have noticed the little Bubs' lack of height, as it was her own son - born 3 months after Bubbu - who was that much taller than her. But she didn't say anything and I like her all the more for it.

But you, WB, are in a different league.

I mean, come on , WB, what do you get by rubbing it in? If she's small, she's small. Big deal. How would you like it if I asked you the following questions:

Do you know you are huge?

(Insert your response)

I mean, you are very big, and you are taking up most of the space on that double-seater-sofa.

(Insert your response again)

You are considerably overweight you know? In fact, you are the most obese in this room.

Yes, it does not sound nice.

I wish I could tell you this face to face, but then again, I wouldn't want to make a big deal out of it - in real life, that is - and who knows what your IQ is and whether you will understand or not - so I will just hope that my brief replies gave you sufficient indication that you are never to talk like that to me again about my daughter.

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

And then there was Peanut-Brain, who exclaimed within earshot of me, "Ohmigod, she's so short!!" and then briefly chuckled to herself.

That wasn't very nice to hear, either. I didn't like it.

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

To all of you out there: I pose a question. It might not be easy. Have you ever faced a situation where you encountered somebody who you thought was not 'normal' - beyond your perception of what average or normal is - and have you ever wondered how you should react? Did you show your surprise on your face, did you make an obvious remark? Or do you accept people for who they are and not 'label' them in your minds as 'short', 'tall', 'thin', whatever?

Or the other way round.

Have you ever been in a situation where somebody put you in focus because of a physical characteristic of yours which ought to have just been accepted as part of you, but was made a topic of conversation?

Do delurk and comment. This means something to me because I think that I will encounter such situations more often in the future. For my own sake, for my little Bubs's sake, I ought to be prepared to meet such people in real life.

How do I protect my child from thoughtless people who might introduce the idea into her head that she is "different" from them?

Laddus are edible - especially very small ones

Wow! Has it really been 2 weeks since I last wrote a post?

Considering that I write posts in my head most of the day... that's very little. In fact, sometimes I get weary of the commentary that keeps playing in my head.

I told my shrink husband this the other day and he gave me a very, very concerned look. The poor man. It must be bad enough to have to listen to depressed, manic, schizophrenic people all day - and then to come home to a wife who says there's a "running commentary going on in my head". I reassured him that I was joking.

So, I was saying that I 'write posts' in my head. Really, I do. If I wrote down all of what I thought, I would publish about 5 posts per day - that would be enough to drive away the 5 of you who drop in from time to time hehe. The draft list is getting longer and longer, Bubbu's delightful toddlerhood is speeding away from me, and yet I fail to record her sparks of genius.

Like:

"Mummy-I-can't-veach-it-that-bikkie", in a very tiny voice, with a miniature hand stretched to its maximum limit below the kitchen counter. Then, when I don't do her bidding as quickly as she expects, she hollers at me: "MUMMYYYY! I-SED-BIKKI-DEDOH!!

I end up giving her the 'bikki' rather meekly, shocked by her outburst. I didn't think such a tremendous volume could bellow out of her petite lungs and quiet, polite self.

"Thank-you-Mummy", she chirps, voice modulated back to its trilly normalcy, as she patters off with the 'bikkie'.

****

Yep, that's m'little Bubs. Always making me laugh, in some way or the other. She does such 'pakkey kaam' - Hydrerabadi lingo for 'very well-thought-out moves' that we - her parents - sometimes call her 'Buddhi maaru' - translated as 'Old woman'.

She lisps, this Old Woman of ours, and the first time she pelted back at us the 'Buddhi maaru', with her lisp, it sounded to us like 'Putti maaru', which - gasp! - is a choice Hyderabadi expletive.

We didn't know what hit us. You could have knocked us both down with a feather.

'Putti maaru' or 'potti maaru' is a common gaali in Hyderabad. A choice one and a 'local' one at at that. You might use the words for a rowdy little urchin on the street. Ahem, in short - not nice. When we heard it coming out of her mouth, Babajaan and I were shell-shocked. After all, where did it come from? Did she pick it up on a recent trip? Babajaan looked at me and I looked at him, our eyes accusing one another. For a few seconds, of course, until we realized that there was no reason she should be saying that when she had probably never heard it. We figured it was probably her way of saying, Buddhi maaru, which we call her all the time. In fact, every time she acts more than the 2 years that she is.

Sigh. We took too much time to figure that out. And in that time, the damage was done. The sly toddler of ours had noticed the absolute shock and horror on our faces and she latched onto the phrase. How could she not notice that two little words that she uttered were sending the grown-ups into apoplectic fits? How could she miss the power??

BJ and I were so completely taken unawares by the buddhimaaru/pottimaaru/whateveritwas, that instead of ignoring it completely and pretending we didn't hear it, we in fact, have ended up re-inforcing the behaviour.

So now, out of the blue, while playing, or while eating or sometimes, while doing nothing at all, comes a swift, "pottimaru!" directed at nobody in particular. Straightaway, she glances at us to check what our expression is - nitwits that we are, we always look surprised, shocked or scandalised. Sometimes we laugh, which is absolutely the worst thing a parent can do in such circumstances. I am shaking my head at my own stupidity here - how can somebody who is not even 3 feet tall control me like this???

More recently, she called Apya this expletive, and Apya being Apya, silly older sister, came wailing to me, "Mummmyyyyy, Bubbu called me pottimaaru". Bubbu being Bubbu, followed behind her with a smug grin on her face, challenging me to discipline her. I didn't, thinking that it would give her more attention. I comforted Apya.

A few days later, Bubbu got even bolder.

One morning, I was serving her cereal. With one quick furtive glance at me, she spat out, "Mummypottimaru", so quickly that the syllables merged together into one word. I gasped - again. (She chuckled to herself, btw.)

I didn't know what to do - tell her off as she sat there, or ignore her in the hope that she wouldn't repeat it?

Stupid mother that I am, I made the crucial mistake again - I failed to control the expression on my face. Bangs head.

I've really bungled up on this one, haven't I?

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

On second thought, I think she will stop saying it when
(i) the novelty wears off, or
(ii) when our faces stop registering any expression whatsoever when she says it, or
(iii) when she picks up the next 'happening' phrase.

I learn from my mother....

Let me take my mind off the serious happenings in the world and return to my children.....(and I *cannot* believe it has been nearly a month since the Mumbai attack - it feels like yesterday).

As I was saying a few days ago, my older daughter isn't such a big pain to be around anymore, touch wood. Today, much to my delight, she devoured orange after orange in quick succession, coming to me now and then for help with peeling.

Taking advantage of the situation, I praised her for eating her fruit. Her matter-of-fact response:

"Yes, Mum. I'm going to eat one hundred oranges so how I don't grow up to have a fat tummy like yours...."

(*The said Mum chokes on her words.........)

Spotty Mom and other tales

Scene: In the car, on the way to a cousin's house.

A: Where are we going, Mummy?

Me: We're going to R khala's house.

A: Who is she?

Me: She's my cousin. My aunt's daughter.

(Thoughtful pause)

A: What does she look like?

Me: Ummm.... she looks like..... (thinking of how to describe her).. well, she looks a bit like me.

A: Like you? Does she have spots?

Me: !!!!!!! (as I imagine myself erupting in 'spots' and looking like a giraffe, or a leopard, or other spotted animal)

(What in the world could she mean????)
************************************

At bedtime, after the stories and lullabies are over, mother and daughter hold hands and cuddle for a while before Apya goes to sleep.

A: Mummy, can I ask you a question?

Me: Sure...

A: Remember when I was in your tummy?

Me: Erm, yes (okay so what direction is this going to take??)

A: Ummm, when you ate your food..... when you ate something, did the food fall on me and make me dirty? (with a concerned little frown)

(How do they get such ideas??)

Me: Awwwww, no baby, you had a different 'room' and the food went to a different 'room'. The food didn't 'fall' onto your head, sweet pet.

A: Ohhhhh! That's good, Mom!

Her expression was one of utter amazement, which gave way to a happy and satisfied smile as she dozed off to sleep. My little girl is very fastidious :)!

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

(While watching a programme on TV - a Hindi serial which we watch from time to time - the mother of the protagonist began to cry. Apya came into the room at that point and watched intently).

A: Why is that lady crying?

Me: I think she's upset about something

A: Why is she upset?

Me: Prolly somebody said something to hurt her feelings. Don't you want to go back to the playroom? Bubbu might get lonely.

A: (Ignoring my last sentence) Isn't she the mommy?

Me: Yes.

A: But MOM! Mommies don't have feelings!!!!

Me: (Stunned speechless).....

Now where did that come from???????

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

Despite these comical conversations, I must say that Apya is growing up into quite a wise and sensible little woman. Of course, she has always had a kind and beautiful heart.

*Start anti-jinx*
I might eat my words tomorrow, but she is becoming a joy to be around. The girl gets up on time, looks forward to school excitedly, is into her uniform and shoes quicker than her father can get himself out of the shower and onto the prayer mat, and finishes her breakfast satisfactorily most days. She's superb about homework - indeed the first thing she does after reaching home is to take out the homework folder and complete her assignments. Mashallah, I think she's doing great for a girl who is not yet 5.

She loves to read. Indeed, she got a "Student of the Month" award for the very thing: "for working hard at her reading", said the award. We go through one or two small books at bedtime and most afternoons. This morning, she was up before us. She came and lay down in the crook of my arm and read "The Magic Porridge Pot" to herself until I woke up. I pretended to be asleep while I heard her read the story out loud to herself.

*End anti-jinx*

She is as spirited as she ever was in other aspects. Which means, for example, we can never get her to wear something that she doesn't want to wear. I don't think it's worth a fight even if she's looking like a scarecrow and mostly let her choose her outfits. However, her father doesn't have so much sense yet *ahem. He actually made the mistake of lecturing her on her poor choice of clothes today, thus: "Baby, those are summer clothes. It's freezing today, you'll get sick - come and change your clothes - wear these warm ones." Oops! After defiantly refusing to change, she hotly demanded - exactly as a teen would, "Why can't I wear the clothes that I want to wear???" I was downstairs at this time, keeping my ears peeled as the pair upstairs argued back and forth, the dad explaining to her (most unwisely) that she couldn't decide for herself at that age and the daughter hotly refuting everything he said, getting more and more worked up, finally ending with, "BUT I DON'T FEEL COLD!!!! I'M FINE!!!!" and running downstairs to seek an ally in me.

There is just NO WAY you can get into an argument with her and expect to win. However, I am pleased to say that she does not test me as often anymore and has turned quite docile as far as I am concerned. Whether it was the fact that I 'got' the hang of counting and time-outs, or whether she is just happier being in school, I don't know. What I do know is that I rarely send her for time-outs anymore. True, she sometimes waits until the second count before she complies, but roughly 90% of the time, she's a good girl.

The calm before a storm, methinks?

Madness

I just cannot believe what's going on in Mumbai. Every time I look at the TV or check for updates on the web, a hundred questions fill my mind. Foremost among them is:

Why???

Why, in heaven's name, are these blasts and attacks happening again, and again, and again? I've lost count of the number of attacks that have taken place in India alone in the last couple of years. Has any place been spared to date? Delhi, Ahmedabad, Bangalore, Assam, Hyderabad, Jaipur, Mumbai, the list goes on. Roughly a blast every month, and now this full-scale terror attack complete with grenades and shoot-outs in multiple locations across Mumbai.

I am baffled, angered and anguished on so many levels that I don't know where to start.

After the last Delhi blast, there was much talk in the news about how a key mastermind behind both the Delhi and Ahmedabad blasts was captured, and how the ring was broken up. I really thought there was some progress made against terrorism, and such things might not happen again. And then this.

How did the terrorists execute their plan with such impunity, hoodwinking everyone and leaving a trail of blood behind them? 120+ Almost 200 killed and more than 300 injured, some grievously.

During every stage of the last 2 days' drama, I have felt helpless. Watching the Taj burn, seeing lifeless bodies strewn across the main hall of the train terminal and the blood streaked across the floor; seeing the number of casualties climb higher and higher every day - all of it has filled me with rage, sorrow and helplessness.

Then comes this infuriating "letter" that they sent in an email, parts of which are on HT's website. This letter, depending on how you look at it, is either truly scary or terribly phony, or both. It is terribly well-calculated to stir up communal sentiments; it unabashedly tries to provoke Hindus by calling them names and claiming to carry out these attacks for the sake of, and in the name of, the Muslims of India. And that is exactly why it is so phony, because the "Muslims of India" never appointed these animals to kill and maim, let alone fight for their rights. It is scary if people take these contents of the letter seriously and let it divide them, which I think is exactly what they (the terrorists and the people behind them) want.

(Whoever said that we needed any help in living our lives in accordance with the Quran and hadith? We're conducting our lives very well thank you very much without your interference. If anything, our lives became more difficult and challenging after you arrived on the scene with your trails of destruction.)

More questions: who is behind this, really? There was some "expert" on TV who was saying that an attack of this sort couldn't be the handiwork of just a dozen men - there must be at least a hundred men behind them. Will police and investigators be able to find out who's behind these terrorists, who's funding them, training them, planting them here? How long will it take? Months, years, a decade? And in that time, will we be hit again? Which city will it be next? What are our authorities going to do to ensure that this doesn't repeat itself? Will we have better security along the coasts in the coming days to guard against this? Will we see an end to corruption in our country? There's just no end to the questions that keep popping into my mind.

A quick update and miscellaneous notes

Thank you for asking about us during our recent disappearance, Indyana and Nimmy. And Syeda. Thank you, also, all you nice people who emailed. It looks like all your prodding has finally awaken me out of my slumber - I figured if I didn't post today I might as well call the blog defunct.

We were away on holiday in India - in our beloved Hyderabad.

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

The last 5 weeks have been holidays were packed with excitement for this family.

In those few weeks, we dealt with one very severe gastro (Apya's), flew to India and spent 3 weeks there, during which time we attended 3 weddings, 2 engagements, several wedding parties such as 'manjeys', 'saanchaqs' and 'mehendis', and 'jumagis', had a lovely picnic on a rural riverbed somewhere in AP, held Apya's long-awaited-for Bismillah ceremony, celebrated Eid with the entire extended family after 6 YEARS, shopped till we ... no, we didn't drop :D, dealt with another gastro (this time, Bubbu's - I think she gulped in some of that water from the river while she played in it - oops!), and a viral sore throat (Apya). And oh yes, lest I forget, I had the nastiest paronychia you ever saw, and I half thought they (those scalpel-happy surgeons) would chop off my finger. But it healed with some strong antibiotics after my husband punctured one side of it and squeezed out the pus. (Sorry about the gory details). Oh, but wait, there's more: while returning from the riverside picnic, our car collided with a lorry and its drunk driver proceeded to tell my husband that we were the ones in the wrong. A very busy holiday indeed. All hustle and bustle and never a moment's peace.

When we returned to serene and beautiful Ireland, it was autumn. The isle was in the grip of a cold spell, at nearly zero degrees. Our house was freezing. I put my foot onto the cold kitchen floor, and felt that I had stepped onto a slab of ice. Praise be to God for the heating and the oil in the tank, though - a few hours of continuous heating and the house was nicely warmed up.

The four of us were so tired after the trip and the journey back home, that we climbed into our warm, cozy beds and slept for a whole week. No really, we did. Slept early and woke up late every single day of that week. All 4 of us. I think we have only just recovered....

*************************
Thank you, Mad Momma, Trishna and Aryan's mom for the friendly and kind awards. I'm not exactly sure who awarded what - perhaps it will take me another month to figure that out (considering it took me a month to put up this post....I commenced writing these few paragraphs on 30th October....and look at the date today.)

Congrats to BEV who had a lovely baby boy while I was on holiday, and to Faraz who "began life anew on October 11th", only I didn't know what in the world he was referring to all this time on his blog until I read his post announcing his marriage. Many many congratulations to you and your wife.

Tell my why.....

so many people on the internet write "loose" when they mean "lose"?

Wrong spellings and grammar abound on the internet, but this particular one jumps out at me every time because it is so common. Even on a website/blog where you would not expect the writer to slip, you might see this one: "loose a job" when you mean "lose a job", "loose his/her temper", and the one that I saw a few minutes earlier that set off this post, "loose their families", etc.

Remember people, when you lose something (i.e., with the meaning of "can't find it", or it goes missing) it's lose. You don't "loose" it.

Loose, on the other hand, is something that's, well, not tight. Loosely worded, a loose noose, etc.

To make this easy, remember that when you're writing it in the past tense, you don't use the word loost, you use the word lost. Makes sense?

I'm not an English teacher, but these links might be helpful.

What other expressions or words do you come across that are common in internet usage that you know are not right? Does it upset you? Which one irks you the most?


Edited to add:

In the last couple of days, I came across two more ...


defuse vs. diffuse ("Mary decided to step in to diffuse the tense situation." Perhaps she wanted to defuse it.)

and

complement vs compliment. Another very common one - like loose/lose. Abundantly peppered throughout food blogs. ("The tastes of blah-blah-blah and blah-blah-blah ingredients compliment each other." Oh no, they don't. They complement each other.)

I was dismayed to see a good blogger friend get the defuse/diffuse bit wrong. It was probably just one of those moments where you type without thinking. Or perhaps, defuse/diffuse isn't wrong anymore; apparently it's becoming more and more common to use the two words interchangeably, according to this entry.

The point of writing this post is not to point out other bloggers' errors and poke fun at them. On the contrary, I'm getting increasingly worried that in another 10 years months, these 'slips' may become so common as to be regarded as the right usage. I hope that this little rant might make somebody a bit more careful the next time they type in "I think I'm going to loose my brains" :D!


________________________

An exhaustive list of common errors.

Bittersweet....

Day before yesterday was the first day of Apya's 'big school'.

She had been excited about going to school all throughout the summer. She was oh-so-very-good this past week. She had loved every minute of shopping for the uniforms, the shoes, schoolbag, and all the other little bits and pieces.

With us, she 'counted down' the last days of August, waiting eagerly for "1st September".

The night before, Dad covered her books and labelled them with her name. Ditto bag, lunchbox and school jumper. She meticulously laid out all items of her uniform in her room before going to bed.

She was in a very deep sleep yesterday morning, but was up in a flash the minute I whispered 'school' into her ear. Excitedly, she brushed her teeth, got into her uniform - all by herself, of course - as quickly as possible for her age, downed half of her breakfast, and was into the car much faster than I thought she could.

There was a festive air in the school grounds, as parents of all the 'new' children arrived with their little tots and escorted them to their respective classes. The school photographer stood at the ramp in front of the main entrance, and clicked pictures of every child entering the building.

I took Apya down to Room 10, where several of her classmates were seated at their desks. Her class teacher, Ms. R, attached a big label of Apya's name onto the front of her uniform. Indeed, what better way to remember the names of 20-odd little children!

Apya sat down at her desk, and promptly began playing with the blocks which were laid out on the table. I clicked a photo of her, said good-bye, smiled and left. For a second or so, her smile vanished and was replaced by a serious face; then she waved bye to me, and continued playing. It was surprisingly easy. No tears, no tantrums, thank God.

I didn't look back as I crossed the hall towards the exit. I thought this would be difficult for me; I had imagined shedding a little tear as I left her there in school - but it wasn't. I can't deny or suppress the empty feeling I had as I came out of the school building. Sure, something like a sob did well up as I turned away from the classroom, but it quelled as quickly as it formed.

Bubbu was quiet as I walked out the school building an onto the grounds towards the gate. "Shebba? Shebba? Shebba?" she asked me. "Shebba's in school", I told her. She asked again a couple of times in the car and when I got home, but on the whole, no problems. She played quietly by herself for 2 hours. (When we got Apya back at midday, she played, laughed, chuckled and squealed with her sister all the way from school to home).

I'm glad it was only for 2 hours that I had to leave her. It's easy on the parents too.

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

I was 5 minutes early at the school to collect her. All the parents were standing in the corridor just inside the entrance. The little tots came out of the classrooms, single file, herded by their teacher. Apya was at the front of the queue, the first child. She saw me across the hall and flashed a huge grin. I couldn't hide my own excitement at seeing her again.

I was so impatient to know how her day went, but it took me the whole day to piece together how those 2 hours went. Apya released the information in bits and pieces.

"How was your first day of school? Did you have fun?"

"Yes".

"What did you do?"

"I played with blocks."

"And...?"

"Then we went out to play. I ate my cereal bar and I came home".

"That's it?"

"Yes."

Later on, other details emerged as she remembered them. Apparently the teacher read them a story about sheep, they did some colouring, and she made 2 friends. Not a bad start.

The school will be for 3 hours next week, and the full 5 hours the week after that. I am a bit uneasy about a 5-hour school for kindergarteners, but that's the way it is here.

Images etched onto my mind: part 1 - The Abandoned Girl Child

There are some things you can never forget.

Faces, people, images, scenes. The face that has been haunting me today is the face of a little girl who was abandoned in a garbage dump somewhere in Secunderabad in India in the year 2000. It isn't anything new: hers is a face that refuses to leave my mind. It comes back to haunt me every few days, weeks, months. Today, this face woke me up at dawn.

I see the face and her motionless body, sitting on the trolley in the corridor of the ward, her hands dropped limply at her side. Her head is tilted to one side, as though it's hanging from her neck, because she does not have the strength to hold it up. That is how I saw her first, when the policeman carried her into the ward and sat her there, and that is the image that has stayed on in my memory.

A tiny, underweight, emaciated little face, whose head and eyes appeared disproportionately large because the rest of the body had shrivelled up.

Passersby had noticed her lying on a heap of rubbish in the street; somebody called the police; they brought her into the ward of the Government Hospital where I was working at the time.

She may have been about 3 or 4 years old, and she weighed as much: not more than 5 kilos of dull skin, slender bones, swollen feet and wispy, dirty hair. Little else: she was 'apathetic' - that means uninterested in her surroundings and apparently devoid of emotion.

It fell to my lot to admit her and get her work-up started. There was little 'history' to write in other than "Apparently abandoned child brought into ward - parents unknown". She wore a badly fitting frock that hung all over her. The dress was clean, but she was filthy, so it was obvious that she had been clothed by the people who had found her and brought her in. God, had she been thrown naked in the street?

With her skin and bones and apathetic nature, I thought putting in her intravenous line for her blood and i.v. fluids would be easy, but I had another 'think' coming. Unfortunately, the type of malnutrition she had made her hands and feet swell up like little balloons, obscuring her veins.

We put up the little mite in the ICU, because her blood results were all haywire and she needed very careful and meticulous treatment. Her body couldn't maintain proper blood sugar levels or or levels of anything else either (I better not get into technical terms). Nor could it protect her from the cold of the bitter monsoon in her current state. She had hardly any subcutaneous fat.

As I finished work and got ready to leave in the evening, I glanced into the ICU; she was lying on the bed with her huge eyes open, vaguely looking around. The eyes were expressionless, and the face was devoid of emotion. Were it not for the gentle heave and fall of the frail chest, you couldn't tell from a distance whether she was dead or alive.

She had a bumpy ride to recovery - a couple of times we came close to losing her. She had seizures at one stage. But she was a hardy little thing, and slowly, over the next several weeks, she improved.

As she improved, she became cranky and miserable. This actually delighted us, because it showed that her spirit had not been quelled and it was resurfacing. Indeed, it was on the day that she first showed us her temper that the entire team breathed a sigh of relief - and then broke into a collective laugh. I knew then that she would make it.

Because she was, in a manner of speaking, a 'long-term' resident of the unit (most kids would be out in within a week), she became something of a family member. The nurses befriended her and so did the docs. They brought toys and clothes for her and tried hard not to get attached, but it wasn't easy :). And they gave her a name. Not sure exactly what it was that the day nurse picked; but I think it was Lavanya.

When she was stable enough, she went to the general ward. There, all she had to do was eat and plump up. She developed a voracious appetite as her body tried to catch up with all the growth it had missed. It was a joy to see her gobble up her food and it brings a smile to my face even as I think of it now.

After spending several weeks in the unit, she went away to an orphanage. I never saw her again. I have no idea what became of her. Was she adopted into a loving family? Did she find a home? I don't know. I hope she did.

What I do know is that her story left a powerful impact on me. What was her fault? Was it that she was a girl? Was she one mouth too many to feed for a poor family? What hardened their hearts so much to starve a young child, and then leave her on the street on a pile of rubbish? Her neglect began long before she was actually 'abandoned' on the dump: how long had she been deprived of food? She had wasted away to the brink of death when she was found. How much longer had she been deprived of affection?

These and other questions repeated in my head as I went on about my work. Hers was one of the extreme 'cases', but I saw many such 'cases', of a lesser degree, over and over again.

My heart went out to her. My heart goes out to every girl child who is abused, neglected, mistreated or given second-rate status to her boy siblings.

It isn't fair. It just isn't fair.


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

Save a Girl Child.

Mad Momma's disturbing post ,which mentions a more recent incident in a developed country.

The Victoria Climbie Foundation

Also, how well do you think you can do in this Unicef quiz about the girl child? Find out.

Perfectly Timed!

As children get older and wiser and smarter, it follows quite naturally that they become not easier to live with, but even more difficult. Little jobs and chores become mountains, and with their increasing sense of independence ("I-can-do-it-all-by-myself") and arrogance, it's hard not to lose your cool once in a while.

Apya, the the temperamental and moody kid of mine, is the expert at driving up my stress levels. She loves to flout my requests in her decisive, matter-of-fact way:

"No, I don't want to brush my teeth now"
"I want to play for five more minutes before I change into my night suit"
"I'll pick up my toys later"
"I don't want this dinner - make me something else"
"I don't want to wear my coat and cap to go out - I'm not feeling cold, Mummy"
" EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!!!!" (That's the sound of a "screaming contest" with the little one; makes my eardrums burst).

She definitely tries to argue with me - for the sake of arguing. I think it's giving her some sort of a thrill. The "negotiations" which I found mildly amusing at the age of 3 are turning into frank arguments obnoxious wrangles as she nears 5. Not a good thing. It's fine to ask your parents polite questions, but it's not okay to talk back to your mother just to get your way.

Sometimes, I don't quite know what to do with her.

When I saw myself losing my cool a couple of times, and it appeared quite clearly that she might be getting the upper hand, I dug out the parenting books and websites.

Both mentioned the famous timer hack, which I think is brilliant.

Until a few months ago, my biggest headaches were the bedtime routine (a recurring challenge, by the way) and getting Apya to pick up her toys after playing. Time and again, I found myself asking: "How do I get this girl to pick up her toys, change into her pyjamas, brush her teeth and get herself into bed without prompting her every step of the way and driving up my blood pressure?"

This handy little device has restored some sanity in our house. Now I don't have to nag, yell, or explain myself 15 x 20 times in a day every time I want her to do something.


As it stands now, I don't face the challenge at all.

The challenge, instead, stares Apya in the face and it's this : "I bet you can't beat that timer!"

Yep. That's all I have to do, plus maybe rephrase those words now and then.

The situations where it has come in handy for me are:

1. Bedtime: used to be a nightmare with Apya. Now, I set the timer for 20 minutes and challenge her to finish everything in that time. She loves racing against it and 'winning'. She also loves to finish her routine before I have the Bubbu ready for bed (I put them to bed at the same time).

2. Regulating TV time. Another handy trick because she was getting into the habit of exceeding her TV time and then whining to get her way. Once the timer is set for 20 minutes, she usually doesn't try to argue with me. On the few occasions in the beginning when she herself turned off the telly, I praised her a lot. Now the TV isn't a big issue. (Whew!)

3. Avoiding persistent questioning: "Is it 2 o'clock yet?" "Why aren't we going to the playground yet?" repeated 20 times in 3 minutes. Or "Is the cake ready yet?" asked 5 minutes after popping it in the oven and repeated 50 times in the next 10 min. Fortunately, I don't answer anymore; just point to the timer ticking away.

4. Getting ready to go out: Again, it avoids her dilly-dallying and helps her stay focussed.

5. Letting me work in peace: When she wants me to read to her or play with her and I really have to get my housework done, I strike this deal with her: I set the timer for myself for 20 minutes and try to finish what I'm doing. If she doesn't bug me during that time, she gets what she's asked for. Any unreasonable whining or badgering and she doesn't get it.

6. Last but not least, the timer has helped me regulate my internet time :). It's easy to get carried away with blogging, isn't it?

I have to agree with the countless Moms and Dads at parenthacks who have been using this trick - it's a lifesaver.

If you're a Mom who's after her kids all day trying to get them to do things - getting up in the morning, getting ready on time, getting them to tidy up, finish their chores - don't waste your breath. Just set the timer.

The Princess and the Pea

I heard an odd version of a fairy tale this morning - and decided it was: a)time to return to my blog and b) record this version for posterity. So, I'm sharing with you "The Princess and the Pea", as narrated to me by Apya. I can bet you (yes all 5 of you loyal faithful readers) that this is a version you have never heard before :D.

If anything, hearing this story made me realize that common words which we hear may sound quite different to a child.

****

Apya's a real sucker for stories - she wants them morning, afternoon, evening and night. She has a CD full of them, which we played in the car yesterday while returning from the playground. I wasn't paying much attention to it, so this morning, when she asked me to repeat 'the story where the prince married the princess', I had no idea which one she was talking about. I mean, they all end that way, don't they?

"Why don't you tell it to me?" I asked her.

"Okaaaaay", began she without hesitation, "...onceuponatimetherewasaprince...." (pause for breath before taking off on full speed again), "and he wanted to marry a princess but he couldn't find any. One day, it was raining outside, and somebody knocked on the door; the Queen went and opened the door, and a princess was standing there.

"So the princess came inside and she changed into her night clothes. The Queen went into the room and she put pee on the bed....."

I nearly dropped the plate I was removing from the dishwasher - it jarred me so much. On some mommy level, I just knew Apya didn't mean pea.

"She put what on the bed?"

"She peed on the bed, Mummy - really, that's what it said in the wadio. It said she put a pee on the bed...." trying to convince me.

"She...ah...she did, did she? Um, you sure?..." I stammered, as I tried very hard to keep a straight face, "okay then, go on".

"So the princess went to sleep and in the morning she got up from-the-bed-with-the-pee and told them that the bed really hurt her. The queen and the prince said, 'good' and the prince married her and they livedhappilyeverafter and thatwastheendofthestory!"

There you have it. Now you know what really happened. It was a mean old queenie, that woman, to pee on the bed and tell the whole world that she put a pea under the mattress. Tch tch tch, the lies we're fed!

Next time you read out 'The Princess and the Pea' to your little children/nieces/nephews, you'll know that this is the authentic version.

The Bubbu at 20 21 months old

I fall in love with the Bubbu almost every day - all over again and again, and again. Her gentleness and beauty seem to bring out all that is good and kind and tender in me - and I find myself asking: what did I do to deserve such an angelic creature in my life?

In my hurry over the house move and other things, I could not complete her 18-month update. She turned 19 months and I still had written nothing. And now she's nearly 21 months old.

She's as delightful as ever, mashaAllah , learning a new naughtiness every day.

When Apya was a baby, we seemed to be 'on top of' her development. We'd wait for her to reach a milestone around a particular time and when she did, I would meticulously note it down in my diary. With the Bubbu, both of us just sit back and enjoy her baby-ness and then - when she does something that's not so babyish (in our opinion), we're taken by surprise - "Wow! she can do that? hey! she can say this word/ reach that shelf, etc."

It wasn't very long ago that I was worrying over her limited vocabulary and her less-than-perfect (or so, I thought) pronunciation. Last year I worried that on average, she was 2 - 4 months later than Apya in reaching her 'milestones'. I was silly. I have stopped counting her words now. She repeats nearly every word she hears now. Her development is fine; I don't think I have anything to worry about as far as her little brain is concerned - she's definitely a clever little thing.

Her physical development is another story, however. While other children her age seem to grow bigger and bigger, she seems to grow smaller and smaller. Can that happen? Of course not :)! But it does look like it, mainly because the gap between her and other children is widening.

I took her down to our Medical Officer in Bantry to measure her height, and I nearly fainted when she measured only 68 centimetres, waaaaayy below even the last centile line (about the size of a 6 - 9 month old). I literally panicked as a whirlwind of emotions went out of control inside me and a million crazy fears and doubts crowded out any rational thoughts in my mind. For about 3 weeks, I was paranoid with the fear that she would turn out some sort of a stunted midget (God forbid), but then, somehow, my clear thinking returned and I figured she might just have what is known as constitutional delay. Or that she might pick up. Or that in the rare instance of her really having a medical condition causing slow growth, we'd catch it and treat it.

I'm not so worried about it at the moment, because, for some reason (perhaps because some of you have been keeping her in your prayers?) she gained 4 cm in a month and a half. That still leaves her below the lowest centile line, but at least I know that she is growing!

I'll just continue my fervent prayers for her well-being, and will continue to stuff her with food till she bursts - I won't worry for the time being; let's wait and see what her tests show, if anything.

Until then, why miss out on enjoying her antics?

Which are as follows:

1. The Stuff-a-Grap-a-thon. This is one girl who adores fruit. Her favourites are grapes, which she calls "Annooo" ( angoor in Hindi and Urdu). What usually happens when I give her a small plate full of these is that she stuffs her mouth faster than she can swallow them. Very quickly, 2 or 3 go in one after the other; one in the right cheek, one in the left, two in the centre of the mouth (I presume), one gets stuffed between the lower lip and gums, and the result is a spectacle which has us in splits.

Babajaan and I are nearby in case she chokes. Which she usually doesn't; instead, she just spits most of them out.

This must be the first baby in the world who has a fancy for olives - outside the Mediterranean belt, anyway. I mean, come on olives?? I didn't acquire a taste for them till my late teens. But this li'l kiddo happily munches on them during dinner. She can down 5 - 6 at a go and she calls them "Annoo" too. Ah, she also loves gherkins. Yeah, gherkins, those pickly sour things in vinegar and brine. I think these unusual preferences are all part of her comic act.

Speaking of unusual tastes, she has a marked distaste for banana, which I found odd - well, for a baby, you know. When Apya was 6 months old, she'd down bananas twice as fast as her baby cereal, so I gave her plenty - and got her badly constipated in the process. But the Bubbu is another story. I can get the first spoon or piece of banana into her mouth, but never the second; the 6 times out of 6 in her life that I have fed her banana, it always elicits an identical reaction - lips closed tight, jaws clenched shut, mouth turned away, and her little hands pushing me as though I've greatly wronged her. Who knows? Maybe she's allergic to it.

Her allergy tests came back strongly positive for cow's milk, cheese and egg. Oh well, as if we didn't know.

This is the pretty rash she displayed the first time she ingested egg (last year @ 9 m of age); little wheals around her mouth and on her chin.



(photo deleted)

Wear your Keffiyeh with Pride

(This began as part of the last post, but I decided to make it separate).

Other things that aroused my interest:

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The keffiyeh - I didn't even know it was called a keffiyah, 'scuse my ignorance. Also, the red-and-white version was more common in Saudi, where I lived once upon a time.

Anyway, the scarf that the model in Dunkin Donuts is wearing bears only the slightest resemblance to it. Funny how it could be interpreted as supporting terrorists. For that matter, why would anyone in their sane minds be endorsing terrorists?

I don't own a keffiyah (or kuffiyah, or kaffiyah) so won't be wearing it on June 6th, which is "Wear your Keffiyah with pride day", but I also do not see any connection between a Dunkin Donut ad with a model sporting a black and white Paisley scarf wrapped around her neck and the idea of that scarf being a symbol of Palestinian jihadis. Since when did such a common article of Middle Eastern clothing become a negative symbol? No, thank you. Not buying the argument. However, to show that I do feel that the fuss against the scarf is silly and unwarranted, I am uploading the blog button designed by the funny blogger shaikr.

So, go on everyone with a keffiyah, don it with pride.


Here it is:


Edited to add: Here's one blogger's interesting perspective: Keffiyahs, Caps and Inadequate Coverage


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Also, stand up and do your bit against honour killings, in whatever way you can, big or small.

Read Sunni Sister's article: This cruel sickness

How do you want t to make a difference this June? About GiveIndia

GiveIndia: How do you want a make a difference in June?

No, I'm not going on a blogging frenzy because I've announced a break, but I did see this post in my inbox and wanted to link to it. I also did promise myself that I would link to GiveIndia, however short the post might be.

If you're feeling philanthropic and generous, GiveIndia has a few ideas on how you can help this month. From helping Rajasthani farmers to grow grass for their cows to helping out young children who are missing out on their schooling (you can help pay for their education).

Or, if you are an influential blogger with a higher readership, please do link to it and raise awareness about this organisation.

Do take a look.

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