For Thatha

Locked away inside
is an untold story
of cheating fires
and peaceful surrender

tales lost
under folds of care
kicked aside by hurried feet
and garbled words

digging deeper
funny anecdotes
grown in black rain
breathe new life
to a wrinkled story.


How do you tell the story of a man who's never been to college yet has read Nalayira DivyaPrabhandham twice and could talk to you for hours discussing Kamba Ramayanam?
How many stories can one tell of a wonderful Grandfather who lived to tell many a funny tales to ease troubled minds yet forgot to tell the most important one of his own valour and kindness and left behind aching hearts?

You don't.

You just try to love life as he did and hope your stories are as funny as his.

How it all began...

It's hard to count the number of times I have written something down here only to delete it letter by letter. Bloody backspace key. I wonder if I would do so much striking out if I were to write by pen on paper.
But darling daughter, it is always tough to write about you...to you...for you.
Somehow i feel tongue-tied and I want to run upstairs and sit by your bedside and listen to your loud breathing...just to make sure that I am not dreaming.
 That my Maya is not an illusion but mine to hold, to rock, to giggle with and at times to argue with too.


I have been wanting to write down your cute antics, the way you still say 'Siglan' and not 'signal'...the way you believe volcanoes spit smiley faces and how when you go to Africa to see one both you and the volcano will exchange spit and you'll come back with smiley faces. Seriously if I didn't hear it with my own ears, I would assume somebody was making all this up.

I love that you can always sense that I am frustrated and angry...at times I am too pig-headed to notice your charming way of making me come out of that rut. I am sorry. This year I hope to change that...mind you, i say hope, there are no guarantees. Well when 'a girl who refuses to grow up' has a daughter who is just like her, it does seems like two 4-yr olds are squabbling over a pink unicorn :)


As a young woman I carried this image of myself as this perfect mom...i have no clue what the characteristics of that 'ideal mom' is but everyday I beat myself up for not being worthy enough to wear that badge...but this past weekend changed all that.


Mayalou, I maybe a grouch at times; I might scream at you over a glass of spilt milk and send you off to your room when you grumble about my parenting skills; I might very easily get frustrated when you say 'One last question' for the millionth time and refuse to answer it;  I might make you cry by not buying those $40 sparkly shoes at the mall; I might not read you that 5th story at bed time but I know I've done good when I see you build fairy gardens and believe in magic.


Because Maya dearest, you are Magic!

Trying to shout...silently

It's not that I don't visit this page. I login every single day, write a paragraph and then diligently delete it letter by letter. Everything sounds so contrived and forced, of late. Am I writing for my pleasure or for an audience?

I guess that's the problem with blogs. It all starts with you and then slowly the lines blur and it morphs into a being kept alive solely for an audience. Or maybe not. I don't know.


Did I tell you I am caught in intricate web spun by an illusion I so lovingly created?
Well, now you know.
Most days all I want to talk about is how funny and beautiful the world looks when seen through the eyes of an exuberant toddler. She is more witty than I imagined she would be, making us laugh even when all we ever want to do is tear our hair out and run far away from the mess.

I would love to talk about the way my heart flutters everytime The Blob kicks, be it for Dora's voice or Mayalou's laugh. Or simply because Amma decided to sit instead of walk around 24/7.

By the time I try to choose between the stories I have running in my head, the moment passes me by and they cease to be pertinent...to the rest of the world atleast. So I remain silent.
One day, I might decide to wake up from this dream and tell it all.

For the moment, I plan to sit on the couch, watch Maye do her Robot dance while shouting "Amma padathe. Chidamakumayee padathe" and feel The Blob join the big sister in a new fangled version of the tap dance.

Becoming my parents' daughter

Everyone knows motherhood is tough. That it takes as much out of you as it gives...both in time and joy. One invests so much time and energy into being that perfect mother - the kind who bakes cupcakes on Saturdays just because it is Saturday, who stays awake late into the night folding onesies and stitching fancy buttons on a costume - there are moments that one forgets to be a daughter.

Why?

Why is it engrossing to discuss cow dung with the tot than answer questions on how the day was with the parent? Why is it so hard to let go of little things when it concerns your child? Why is it harder to understand someone you've known for more than two decades while you're completely in-sync with a 21 month old who can barely string two words together? Does motherhood erase all signs of being a daughter once?

As the peer pressure of young, vibrant do-it-all moms rises, the doting daughter slowly fades into the background...with occasional glimpses once in awhile to buy a certain bag, listen to an old tale, touch a burning forehead, share a joke over phone...or simply smile every morning instead of the usual complaint about the wrong sippy cup in the toddler's hands.

Being a mother is all about loving someone unconditionally.
Being a daughter is about letting that someone love you...unconditionally.

Lost in Mail

Dear You,

Today I missed you. I missed that email that you promised aeons ago but is yet to see sunlight. I miss our senseless banter about everything and nothing. I tell myself I am not the Sun in everyone's universe yet I long to be atleast like the non-existent Pluto who gets a mention once in awhile.

I am writing in a public forum as I know you will realize this is for you...you who keeps even smiles and not just tears private. I love to live my life on a stage- some parts atleast make for excellent ratings, I'm sure. It might not sound like the best idea but hey! I am not the smart one here :)

The reason I write to you is it makes me sound intellectual even when all I am blabbering is some emotional balderdash. You take all the silliness out of my ambitions; the scars from slaughterhouses may not disappear but you show me how to overlook them and move on. Smiling. It is not easy, it never is but you taught me how.

For all that you never say or do, you still make a difference. To me.

And that is why I write. Even if you don't.

Love

Me

what it is being twirled around the littlest pinky...

It's not easy going to bed at 12.30 A.M, waking up at 3 A.M to feed someone who just doesn't get it that she really does NOT need milk, trying to somehow get few more hours of shut-eye but still hearing the mumbled chatter from the other room and finally giving up the fight and just waking up...I don't know how I do it but most days I wonder why I do it...

• Every morning as soon as you wake up, you stand in your crib and call "Amma" loudly. And when I act deaf and don't get up, you switch to your soft voice and coo "Ammi, Ammi" wth your arm outstretched to reach me... could this be it?
  
• Nowadays when I come to pick you up, you smile ever so sweetly and say, "Amma Kaapi" and I see myself in you...maybe this?
• After months of feigning nonchalance to everything I try to teach you, you looked at your favourite Pluto, pulled his ears and said "Bluto". Oh! how I trilled for hours on the phone to everyone I knew...how about that?
•  The way you close my mouth when I sing you a lullaby and then continue humming 'Hot cross buns' or just coo 'lalalala' in your own tune...this should be it!
• How you run to the door every morning and stick your face to the glass pane as you watch your Appakins leave for work and then tell your grandparents on the phone, "Appa aapeas"...

I can go all day and still not have the best reason. And when I lie exhausted next to you after one of those middle-of-the-night meltdowns and you try to push me off the bed in your efforts to cuddle closer, all I can think of is the long sleepless night and your really stinky milky breath. But then you do something that completely takes me by surprise - you wrap one arm around my neck and smile. A smile I could die for...all while still asleep.

That I guess is why I want to do all of this. Again. Forever.

Save my heart! Save your sanity!

February is Heart Health month. Mr.Monk just told me. So I shall have a cathartic rant session with my blog and hope my heart gets back to feeling all rosy and robust soon.

• Being a good mother, not a great one, just a simple good mother is an extremely tortuous task. More so because you happen to be your worst critic.
  
• I hate the fact my friends/neighbours don't drop in for a cup of tea. It's always me who has to go and meet them unless I call them all for dinner/lunch. Not that I don't want to do it but I'm still trying to manage a toddler who thinks she is on wheels and running a smooth family. I guess I am looking for re-assurance that I can be a mother and entertain friends albeit in a small way.
• I hate it even more that when no one has heard from me in weeks/months it is still upto me to call and update everyone on my life or lack thereof. [Everyone who calls me might feel that way but unless they all start a blog and post so, this shall be the universal truth.]
• Why is it so hard for people to understand that I do not want parenting advice? I carried her for 10 months and 5 days and went through a 55 hour labour to bring her out safe. I think I can manage now. Suggestions are a lot subtler.
• The next person I meet for the first time at a social gathering whose opening line is, "So was yours Cesarean or 'normal' delivery?" will be answered with the equally important query, "So was the sex last night reverse cow-girl or just 'normal' missionary style?" Seriously! Unless we are random strangers sharing a compartment in Southern Railways trying to get through the journey with the secret knowledge we will never meet come morning, I shall not talk about birth stories or my innermost fears at our first meeting. And Cesarean is also frigging NORMAL! I didn't deliver her through my mouth.
• Just because I am a stay-at-home mom doesn't mean I am not stressed. I feel it is too much to expect me to be understanding ALL the time of a working woman/man's stress. Try to differentiate one 'Amma'( I want biscuit) from the next 'Amma' (I need new diaper) to the very next 'Amma'( I just called chumma) and still wake up smiling for the 12 midnight 'Amma'.
• I love you all - my family, my friends, my support group - but at times you all get on my nerves...just like I rub you all on the wrong side any given Sunday! 

Off my chest

As a new mom...oh wait! Am I technically a 'new mom' when The Implet is already 10 months old? Whatever.

One of the worst aspect of being a new mom is fielding all those questions thrown at you...by family, friends and random strangers who pop from the woodwork at every party/get-together.

And one of the irritating questions is about breastfeeding.

Conversation 1 with Random Stranger(Mom of toddler)

RS: How old is she?

Me: 9 months

RS: So you are breastfeeding her right?

Me (perplexed) : Yes.

RS: Aah! No wonder. Give me your chubby cheeks.

Conversation 2 with Friend after 2 years (Mom of toddler, mom2be of second child)

F: So how old is your daughter now?

Me: 10 months

F: Are you nursing her still?

Me :Yes. 

F: Oh really?. I stopped by 10 months. My doc said i should stop by 8 months.

Me: Good for you.

First, I can't understand how where my daughter puts her mouth is anybody's business but mine and hers. Second, as much as I am open to volunteering information to my good friends and family, I draw the line at 'breastfeeding' being the conversation starter with complete strangers.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with a more generalised, "What does your baby eat now?" It gives me the opportunity to either open or close the door on my nursing expeditions.

(I still can't get over the fact that RSMom's first question after being introduced to me was on breastfeeding.)

To me breastfeeding is personal. It's not easy and I don't want to be judged as either a bad or good mom based on somebody else's parenting ideal. A mom who doesn't breastfeed is NOT a bad parent. And one who does until the kid is 2 ain't cuckoo either. It's their kid, their time and their decision. I am not in their house and they are not wearing my shoes.

Sigh.

Maybe I am making a mountain out of a molehill. But this whole Motherhood shebang is too darn tough I tell you. One moment you are all euphoric having been bestowed the cutest 4-teethed smile for a piece of wafer. Next moment you realise you've turned extremely sensitive, bordering on hallucinating that every person talking to you is judging you as a mom. 

I am irritated and downright angry that no one is around to talk about something completely inane as books or movies. I don't want to talk about The Implet simply because she is my everything. She is ALL I see, breathe and live every single day. And I don't want it any other way. Maybe it makes sense to you or maybe I'm just a crazy idiot.

Sometimes as I close my eyes during the wee hours of a new day, I silently pray I never think of Motherhood as only a synonym for sacrifice. Of all things held dear.

While you were sleeping...

I can't remember the last time I had a really sound sleep.

Wait! I do remember. It was the night of Jan 3rd, 2008. After finally realising that the baby was in no hurry to make an appearance, they gave me some sleeping pills and I was knocked out flat. After that I haven't slept. Period.

No I am NOT exaggerating. All those who very sweetly suggest I 'sleep when the baby sleeps', are welcome to take my imp home and try to do the same. It just ain't possible. Primo, really tiny babies seldom sleep for 6 hours at stretch. Secundo, when they do sleep soundly, it is truly 'soundly'. They snort, whimper, smile, laugh, cry....in short they make such a big deal out of soft noises that you end up sitting awake and staring at the li'l bundle. (To all those who claim they get no calls/emails/blogposts on time - I am one helluva sleep deprived Mommysaurus.)

Thirdo (I do not know Spanish, so excuse) you just aren't sleepy when they are asleep. Like now. The Imp is finally in bed and she would be taking her power nap for another hour or so but for the life of me, I am unable to sleep. I tossed and turned, wrote 2 posts and 2 stories in my head, made a to-do list for The Mr to tackle and finally gave up. 

It's like the bedtime song I sing to her, 'Kaalamithu Kaalamithu' from the movie 'Chithi'...as a girl you get to sleep only at birth. I guess my time to sleep is over and done with. Somewhere down the line, without my knowledge I must've grown up. Darn it!

There are lullabies to be sung, cookies to bake, stories to share and dances to swing to...sigh. I don't think I'll be sleeping any time soon. What if she 'grows up' while I am sleeping?

Wanted immediately

A Boeing Jet


to transport The Littlest Princess' Family Circus :)

Who makes the mundane, magical?

You

Yit Yees Ya Vonderfool Day!

I yam werry werry appy.

I guess, Yit yees wone of those days, like Ammukuttz says.

Do you have such days, when you wake up all light and fluffly and you just know you can’t help but smile at everything and everyone? I do and on such days, it is best not to look for reasons but just be…drenched in moments of silly happiness. A shower of dew drops.

- When the ‘Partha Mudhal Naale’ song from Vettaiyaadu Vilayadu plays on the CD player and your foot automatically taps the acceleration hoping to take you to a different level.

- When your Manager meets your wild crazy grin with an equally wild smile.

- You step onto the platform and the Red Line zooms in to pick you up.

- The mails in your inbox are NOT spam for a change.

- Having ‘I am taking a break’ conversations with your 17 year old cousin across seas, exchanging your life’s best kept secrets for a glimpse of her life’s ideals, which ofcourse never happens.

- Categorizing fundamentally flawed inane dialogues as precepts of great import.

-Swaying to ‘Chennai-600028’ moozic as the tests run to success

- Looking into the mirror and finding the sparkle in your eyes.

Like Ammukuttz claims, ve are crazy veemen.
Let us be.

Song playing: Saroja Saman Nikalo from Chennai- 600028