It has been a while since I bragged and humiliated my little one. Since it is in the fineprint of the mothering manual, which must not be forgotten, I am doing this. I hope you understand that I am merely doing what is expected of me.
I started reading to my kid when she was 12 days old. I believe I read PGWodehouse to her as she peed and pooped when she wasn’t suckling or sleeping. Then, when her eyes began to focus, I read Tintin and Amar Chitra Kathas to her, so she could see the pictures and colors. Then we graduated and by the time she was two, I was reading Enid Blyton to her, and one of the first things she told me when she had started talking was, let’s have an English breakfast like the Famous Fives. By four, she could read, and didn’t need my droning voice anymore and anytime anyone suggested outing, she said “bookstore”.
But that’s not the brag (well, it is, but you know…). She started writing creative stuff when she was five. Seeing her love for writing, I started a blog for her when she was six, and she wrote extensively in it. She still has the blog, and recently, she privatised all her old posts (she wanted to delete them because “amma, they are so immature and kiddish” but I told her to merely privatize it because I want to show these posts to my grandchildren) and revamped her blog into a typical teenage repository of hormone-induced, often funny banter.
Am sharing the blog here (see above link)….just so you can check it out.
End of brag.
Every now and then, on a Sunday, I get into a nondescript state-of-being wherein I proclaim enough-is-enough and decide to plan my week ahead in order to bring a semblance of order into it. By plan, I mean meal plan. On such days, I sit with my laptop on my lap and a scrapbook and pen next to me, to jot down potential dishes I could make for the week, and the ingredients they would need so that my fridge can be stocked and my plans well laid out so that I don’t have to wake up on a weekday morning, stare into the fridge with bleary eyes and snap at unsuspecting family members that my entire life is spent wondering what to cook.
As expected with any kind of internet browsing, one click leads to another and soon I have sixteen tabs open on my browser, my mouth salivating at the delectable photos of food, the scrap book bereft of entries and guilt rising at how people gush over their passion for cooking, while here I am, hating the process more and more with my every tab browsed. “…stirring, chopping, cutting, smelling and tasting is what gives me pleasure” says one blogger and reading it makes my stomach ache with what could be jealousy, but more likely hunger.
I notice that food bloggers (at least the Indian ones) don’t bother about punctuation in their essays and that bothers the hell out of me – the passion for cooking could as well spill over to proper punctuation, I think uncharitably. And then I realise that the blogger could pay me back likewise with “someone who is so passionate about punctuation, could as well show a modicum of interest in cooking”. And in being less of a judgemental, pseudo-anglophilic, arrogant prick. Touché, my dear. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
So, I close all tabs, publish this blog post, go to my kitchen to stare at my messy and completely unstacked refrigerator and snap at unsuspecting family members that my life revolves around meal planning.
Another Sunday at the LG household. Be glad you are not part of it.
Sometimes there is a nagging thought in the back of your mind, which won’t let you be. Nine months since I trashed my blog, the nagging has become un-ignorable.
I am not sure if this is a good idea, considering the internal wars I waged before I deleted the old blog. I don’t regret losing all the stuff I wrote for more than a decade – to completely let go of the past is probably the only thing I am really good at. But am I ready to wear my heart on my sleeve again?
I am not sure what I would write. Today, I find myself very different from the young woman who started writing a blog 11 years ago. There is less exuberance, less excitement for the future, but a rather more tranquil mental state of just being. While the zen state helps in gaining perspective and moving a tad bit closer to my childhood ideal of becoming a “dignified and mature” woman, it clashes jarringly with the peri-menopausal hormonal shebang and the associated need to express.
Perhaps I will use this blog as a journal of my spiritual journey inwards or to share the small existential joys of life. Perhaps I will fall back on old times, and my sense of humour (which seems to have gone AWOL at the moment) will return and I will write about the quirks of my life. I hope to not rant, but sometimes when the hormones are out of whack I may, as Leonard of TBBT did, talk to ” strangers on the Internet”, for after all, a stranger’s just a friend you do not know. And when the creative juices flow, I would even write a poem or two.
Right now, all I know is that there are words that must be strung, and I will just let this blog take its own course on the stung words.