Category Archives: Parenting

An immenses conversation

On the way back from the beach yesterday.  Two moms on the front seat, two teenage kids at the back.

Kids singing some random song, completely out of tune and loud.

Mom1:  Can you please tone it down a little?  Mom 2 and I are trying to have a conversation.

Kids’ ears flap.  Moms’ conversation, they are sure, would be something they can crib about later.  E.g. “moms don’t know how to have fun, you know?”. “Moms are so jealous of anyone who has fun, that they have to get on our case if we laugh ” . (Actual quotes we have overheard in the past few days).

Mom 2:  I haven’t gotten my periods in three months now. I wonder if I have menopaused.

Mom1:  Lucky you.   You can set the calendar by me.

Mom 2:  I wonder if I am really that lucky.  Maybe when it comes, it will finally kill me.

Mom 1: More likely.  At least, when you are dead, you won’t get periods anymore.

Mom 2:  I am not sure.  My ghost will probably get PMS.

Kid 1: May be we are better off singing.

Mom 2:  Don’t behave like you guys don’t know what we are talking about.  Especially considering how crabby you guys get before your period.

Mom 1:  You know how they throw parties and have celebrations for menarche*?  We must have a celebration for menopause you know..makes more sense.

Mom 2: What do you mean we must have a celebration for menopause?  We must have a kick-ass party.  You know, invite all menopausal/perimenopausal women, have a big feast, dancing, singing, new clothes, drinking..the works.

Mom 1:  And banners.  “Take that, uterus”.

Mom 2: “Die, ovaries”

Mom 1:  “Hormones to hell”

Mom 2:  “Vale, vaginal vagaries”

Mom 1:  “Cheerio Cramps”

Kid 2:  You know how moms think we are crazy?…

Mom 2:  And we can have a cake shaped like uterus.

Mom 1: With red icing

Mom 2:  And not cut it, but each of us gets a knife and stabs it

The kids are stunned to silence until we reach home.

Later in the night, mom 1 gets a message from mom2: “Got my P :(”

Mom 1:  What?  No party then?

Mom 2:  More time to plan.

What can I say?  We are glass-half-full people.

* In India, a girl’s menarche is traditionally celebrated on a grand scale – feasting and all.  It still is among many families.

Edited to add:  A dear cousin wrote back saying “why so much hatred for the uterus?  Without it, you two would not have had your kids”.  I feel partly combative, but also bad.  Thirty odd years of pain and PMS shebang (the other mom in this conversation faints every period with pain, and I go through dark mental periods every month) seems like a steep price to pay for reproduction, considering that the other half of the procreationist gets away scott free.  That said, I’d face any pain all over again, and again, and all my life, for my kid. If I have inadvertently hurt anyone by this post, I am sorry. I considered deleting this post, but realised that that would be escapist.  I own these thoughts. They may be wrong, but they are mine.

 

 

My kid in full form today

In the car as I complain that I could do without some people in my life, the kid says :You need them in your life amma.  You just don’t need them in your head.

Wise thing, the little one.


Caught in traffic jam and waiting endlessly for the green signal to fall, I muse “hmm..I wish I could have a glass of wine. It’s been so long…”

The kid quips “hmm..I wish I could go home.  It’s been so long….”.


Me, mostly musing aloud “You know, I actually love driving in full traffic”

Kid: “Yeah, because you can use all the swear words you know”.


Kid in the car at the traffic jam:  I am getting a headache..this car is too clean.

Rogue parenting

I was Ms. Goody-two-shoes as a child and adolescent.  Rebellion was sacrilege, rules were absolute. My teachers gushed about me to my parents during PTA meets and my relatives held me as the standard with which all kids in the family, of all generations, would be measured for eternity. Needless to mention, I was a prick of gargantuan proportions.

My daughter tells me today that her Tamil teacher wants to meet me to complain about her*.  I surprised myself by being ecstatic.  My daughter is disobedient.  Rebellious. Anarchist.  Renegade.

Most importantly, my daughter is real.  Alive.  Active.  Herself.

I am pretty sure that the teacher was just kidding*, but if she really did call me to talk to me about how completely indisciplined my kid is or whatever, I hope I don’t grin like the Cheshire Cat through the meeting.

* The complaint was that she is “awkward”.  So I am assuming that the teacher was joking.  About complaining to me, that is, not about the kid being awkward.  My kid is the queen of awkwardness.  A trait inherited from the Grand Queen of awkward land, me.

 

 

Perspective

The kid has an exam tomorrow. In a subject that she needs help with – Hindi.  Having been caught up in studying for other exams like Math and Tamil, she had been ignoring Hindi. This evening at 6.30, she approached me for help.  As I sat with her, I freaked at the lack of time, her lag and everything in between.  Just as I was about to lose it and get hysteric, we got a phone call.

A young couple we know, lost their 8-day old baby.  The baby had not cried when he was born, and was on ventilator support before he passed on.

Someone landed a blow on my head.

I have a child who cried with fiery gusto the moment she was plucked off me, and has since been living life to its fullest.  So what if she missed a few deadlines in school or lagged behind a little in one subject for one exam?

The kid is sitting right next to me and I know she is stressed because she is drawing in the iPad. I couldn’t be more grateful for a child who is healthy enough to feel the stress of something as stupid as exams.  As soon as I publish this post, I am going to pluck the iPad off her hands, and give her a bone crushing hug.

Girl power

I have a rather sentimental friend (guy) who once told me “it is a blessing to have a daughter”. Being of very unromantic temperament , I dismissed it, much like other concepts such as the “purity of mother’s love”, “soul mate” etc.   I still don’t give my friend’s sentiment much weight (albeit without judgement), but there are some rare times that I can almost relate.

Today there are five girls in my daughter’s room, raising a ruckus. The intention was “to complete the holiday project”.  There is music blasting, and five screechy voices singing along, interspersed with giggles of gargantuan proportions . “Holiday project my foot”, I mused.  An hour into the show, I entered their room to serve them pineapple juice and what do I find?  The five of them have split the work among themselves – one kid is researching the topic on the internet, one is cutting out models, one drawing animals (the one I saw was a hippo with Bambi eyes !) on a chart, and one colouring the borders of the chart paper, all of them singing along with, I don’t know, Alicia Cara or Taylor Swift or one of those women singers that teens are obsessed with these days.

I know the room will be tornado struck by evening, and my head will hurt with all the techno beats I have been subjected to for hours, but this moment is captured in memory for posterity.