Baby in the Womb

Went for a 4-D Ultrasound over the weekend, and here are some of the results! Raina kept asking why he was orange.

It was just astonishing to see those chubby cheeks, that tiny nose, those big big eyes, the little fingers and toes squirming around. He had his left foot up to his forehead -- crazy little guy! We saw him open and shut his mouth like a little guppy. One hand was tucked under his plump butt, and when the ultrasound tech tried to zoom in on the family jewels, his other hand promptly covered them up. A shy one -- or maybe just bidding fair to be uncooperative like his Big Sister. (At her 4-D, Raina presented her butt to us viewers. We have a lot of butt pix.)

At one funny point, the tech prodded my belly gently to get him to move his hands, and as she prodded, you could see him grimace and frown, none too happy about the disturbance in his comfy little world. Then he smiled.

We came away stunned and awed. He looks so much like his daddy, it's not fair. At least one kid should look like the mom. But there was relief, as well. He has 10 fingers and 10 toes, and we didn't have to wait for his birth to count them. Is technology amazing or what?

Sex Tag

Hey, if that headline doesn't make you read this post, nothing will! Have been tagged willy-nilly by Mad Momma (themadmomma/blogspot/com -- can some tech-savvy person puh-leeze tell me how to do the link-thing on a mac?? My posts are littered with URLs *grumble, grumble*). Tag's about how do I have rocking sex -- ok, any sex at all, any way, any kind -- apres-babies. Cool! Sundry tagged bloggers are worried about parents reading this post; moi, I merely have to face the wrath of my very very embarrassed husband. So that makes it OK, of course. ;P

P and I get it on usually on weekend afternoons. Sunny and soporofic weekend afternoons, with the 3-year-old tucked in bed for an afternoon nap. If it's summer, ummmm, the overhead fan's whirring slowly. I don't know what it is about that fan. It makes me feel all sleepy and sexy. So we start off cuddling, thinking we're going to take a nap ourselves. Yeah, right. At some point, we have to get up and lock the bedroom door. After the deed is done, we take that nap we'd been originally planning. Mmmm... nothing like post-making-love naps!

Dunno what we're going to do once Raina stops taking afternoon naps -- we'll probably bribe her. And after Baby 2 emerges in October, in the august company of the in-laws, afternoon sex just may take a backseat. But then, there's always the backseat. Dang, you think that's too much info?

P.S.: Am tagging Terri's mom (terristurf.blogspot.com), Rads (kowthas.blogspot.com) and s.b.!

Introducing Detective Herculee Pikerot

Detective Herculee Pikerot's green eyes gleamed with a strange light. After much exercise of her uncommonly few grey cells, the criminal had been deduced. It had been no easy work. The crime had been executed to near perfection. After all, it was easy for mere mortals to be taken in by the innocent demeanor of My Little Pony. But the cunning pony had reckoned without the superior intellect of Detective Pikerot. Now Scotland Yard was on its way. All that remained was to hand over the suspect. But how to detain said suspect until the Yard arrived -- tardily, as usual? Pikerot's majestic moustache quivered. In the end, there was only one method.

Some thoughts on NRIs

Or I should say, some thoughts of NRIs.

I was reading Anamika Mukharji's latest post (righttowrite.blogspot.com) on the 60th Indian Independence Day. In one graf, she pointed out she was tired of Non Resident Indians (NRIs) who criticize India while comfortably enjoying life outside des. Couldn't agree more with her, and I would like to think I refrain for the same reason.

Then I got to thinking about the NRIs I knew. Attend any desi party any time and the favorite topic of conversation isn't India-bashing. It's bashing the U.S. -- the country the desis I know have chosen to live. If they aren't grumbling about how their white boss passed them over for a promotion (racist bastard of course), they are grumbling about the weird habits of their black/Chinese neighbors or the laziness of their Mexican gardener or housecleaner. Which attitude doesn't make them racist bastards, merely superior.

Indian heritage, culture, traditions, food are praised to the skies -- I am talking specifically about Hindus here because my experience is limited to them. On the other hand, NRIs claim Americans have no culture, no history and zero moral and family values. Because these folks may have a bad influence on Indian family values, NRIs do not fraternize with whites (derogatorily referred to as goras) -- forget the Chinese, blacks or Mexicans (you don't want to know how they refer to people belonging to these races). The only friends their children have are the desi offspring of their parents' desi friends. It's either that, or these children know early on not to bring their non-desi school friends home, aware that they won't feel welcome or comfortable.

It's hardly any wonder that these kids grow up confused (everyone's heard them referred to as ABCDs -- American Born Confused Desis). After all, they go to school and have to interact on a daily basis with non-desi kids. Soon they discover that American parents are pretty much the same as desi parents when it comes to doing homework and generally being involved in their kids' lives. Then they go to India for vacations. Thanks to the magnificent portrait their parents have painted of India's beauty and culture, they are doubly shocked to see the Unwashed Masses, the garbage piled on street corners, the careless disregard for the poor, the lame and the destitute. Then they see their parents hobnobbing with the resident Indians, glorying in their NRI status and complaining about the heat, the dirt. When will the country improve? they lament.

Eventually, these kids learn an important lesson: their parents are hypocrites.

Not all NRIs are this bad or racist. But we're all guilty to some extent of creating/participating in little mini-Indias where non-desis are deliberately excluded. If we can't interact normally with our American neighbors -- be they white, Southeast Asian, Hispanic or black -- what example are we setting for our kids? We have to accept that just as we will always be Indian at heart, our kids will always be American. And being American means accepting others, while celebrating what makes each one unique -- that Indian heritage that we will pass on to our children. A heritage to be proud of at all times -- one that acknowledges that tolerance for others is the backbone on which it has been based. Unity in diversity, remember? Indians and Americans should have at least that in common.

Raina The Geek

In the midst of a crying jag (yes, these are quite frequent), Raina suddenly asks, "How do you spell 'cry'?" Followed by "How do you spell 'tear'?" As the husband says, referring to her mommy's nerdiness, the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.

Nine Weeks and Counting...

The thing with cliches is that they make so much sense. Like the one about time going fast when you're having fun. In 9 exact weeks at this particular moment, I should be holding my baby boy. I can't believe how fast this pregnancy's gone. After the first trimester, the days have just been zooming by. On the one hand I can't wait to see the baby, though I'm terrified of the nursing, diaper-changing zombiedom that will follow. There's excitement, yet that sinking feeling in the pit of my belly that overwhelms me occasionally. Worry that I'm not prepared, that I'll never find a decent changing table (!), that I've forgotten something crucial for the baby's survival or my sanity.

And right now, I'm just plain clumsy. A couple of weeks ago, when I was going down the stairs in the pitchdark, I missed the last two steps and landed on my big toe. Used up all the cuss words in my vocab. And why hadn't I turned on the light? Oh yeah, common sense has been a recent casualty too. Was limping around with a sprained toe for a few days. Then last night, as I was putting on jammies, I lost balance and fell like a stone. No, more like a mountain. Lady with big belly should not balance on one jammied leg, while putting her other leg through. Another titbit of common sense learned.

On the whole, I'm doing pretty good and have the pregnancy glow down pat. But now that I'm slowly getting used to this pregnancy thing, it's almost at an end. Yesterday I looked at Raina and suddenly realized that the days when it was just going to be the two of us pottering around at home were ending too. She wasn't going to be my only baby for long. And I wish I could buy her a few more months, just to protect her from the pain of change. Mostly the onus is on us to make sure that she adjusts well and gets enough attention. But I tend to be such a bad-tempered, impatient, MEAN person when I'm sleep-deprived. How do I protect her from myself?

Just another worry to tack on the list.

What's in a Name?

I know -- out of all the Shakespeare quotes that have become cliches, this one is prime. But really, since this post is about a name for my baby boy, I couldn't think of titling it any other way. So sue me.

Am in such a pissy mood these days, this post is one long whine. You've been warned.

Began my final trimester a week or so ago, and my mom's still bombarding me with baby boy names every time we talk. Which is, like, twice a week. Don't know what part of "it needs to be easy for non-desis to understand" that she just doesn't get. Her recent contribution: Moksh. Yeah, try that on any American and watch his eyes glaze. At least it was the first time she'd mentioned that one. She's been trying "Karan" for weeks now. OK, months. And I tell her for the gazillionth time, Karan's going to become "Karen" the first day of school and my 5-year-old boy will come home and murder his mom for naming him so thoughtlessly.

Who knew it was so hard to come up with desi names that's not only easy for non-desis to pronounce, but won't be perverted by the first obnoxious boy my boy meets? My husband's king of coming up with ways names can be perverted. He was the one to warn me about Karan/Karen. When we were thinking names for our daughter, it was he who pointed out how Anusha could be messed around with (Anus-ha, see? Duh Mommy!)

But even he couldn't have predicted how his friends' kid's name could be messed with. Our friends recently had a baby boy who they named Ravi. Simple? Check. Easy to pronounce? Check. So you would think. My daughter still calls him "Robbie." And how could one possibly come up with a way to tease a kid called Ravi? "Ravioli!" announced another friend -- a German-born American. Thanks, dude.

Thinking simplicity, I ran "Aditya" by some friends. They looked at me vacantly. And these are Thai-Americans, mind you, not themselves known for the easiest names. I tried "Varun" by a Filipino-American friend. Similar vacant look. She didn't even try to say it. Varun, for crying out loud. How much easier can one get?

After all this hullabaloo, we've come up with Rohan. Yeah, "row, row, row your boat..." but at least most people can say it OK. And it's got some coolness factor, thanks to The Lord of the Rings. Plus, it's kinda global: When we googled "Rohan," we came up with West Indians, Irish, Sri Lankans... works for us. Of course, my mom hates it. HATES it! So twice a week, she comes up with new ones to change our minds.

Which brings us back to square one. Moksh? God, I need some Nirvana...

Huh?

Seen on the vanity license plate of a black BMW convertible driven by a gorgeous brunette on a balmy Southern California evening: "IMSMELY." ????

Not for Future Einsteins

A friend forwarded me this crazy article on time.com (http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1650352,00.html) on kids watching the popular Baby Einstein and Brainy Baby DVDs. In brief, according to a study conducted by University of Washington researchers, babies exposed to the DVDs don't grow smarter than infants not exposed to the DVDs. In fact, they show LESS language development than them.

This would be the moment I would pat myself on the back. I never bought into the hype that watching TV -- any kind of TV -- would make Raina smarter. Instead, we did a lot of talking and playing together -- with a heavy emphasis on music and singing.
Not to boast or anything, but Raina's verbal and vocabulary development has always been far ahead of her peers, and I totally believe it's because of the one-on-one interaction.

Anyhoo, so there I was, getting ready for the back pat with a smug smile forming on my face. Then my mouth fell open. As I continued to read, the article mentioned that the researchers found 40% of infants 3 months and younger REGULARLY watched DVDs, videos or TV. There's more: almost 90% of kids upto 2 years of age spent TWO OR THREE HOURS in front of the television every single day.

Unbefuckinglievable. Excuse the language, but that's pretty dang close to parental negligence. I mean, why have kids if you are going to plop them in front of the TV? I know mommies need to get things done, and sometimes, the TV can be a convenient babysitter, but TWO HOURS EVERY DAY? That's just nuts, people!

Observed

On being told that if she wanted to indulge in a loud Crying-For-Crying's-Sake tantrum, she needed to seek a room other than one containing her mother, Raina was seen heading to the closet, turning on the light and artistically bawling before the full-length mirror.

The Half-Sleeved Half-Pint

Ever since we found out that we're having a baby boy, I've been busy digging in the closet for all of Raina's old clothes. Presently, my bedroom is lined with plastic bags of varying sizes filled with R's clothes to give away to all the neighborhood's little girls or to preggie mommies expecting baby girls or to AMVETS. So far, have given away just one -- some of R's 2T stuff -- and the mommy of the little girl I gave it too was astounded that the clothes were in such good shape.

One reason they are in good shape is because R always wears a bib when eating. But the biggest reason is Raina herself.

Ever since Raina turned 18 months old, I've been asking her what she wants to wear. I think it gives her a feeling of control over her life, plus it helps her make decisions. Raina took to it pretty quickly -- and I was glad about that. The downside? Raina would wear the SAME clothes over and over again. I didn't know I could get sooooo sick of seeing my daughter wear the same outfit every third day.

My first resort was to keep a longer gap between laundries. If something was dirty, she couldn't wear it. But even if I did laundry just once a week, it was tiresome to see the same clothes the very next week. She had a Monday outfit, a Tuesday outfit... one for every day of the week. Then I resorted to hiding some clothes that I just could not BEAR to see her in. But then, the whining would start.

A typical morning in our household:

Raina and I standing in front of her closet.

Raina: I want to wear that striped half-sleeve t-shirt with shorts.
Me: How about wearing a dress instead? You haven't worn that in so long.
Raina: No. I want to wear a half-sleeve t-shirt.
Me: (appealing to her vanity) But dresses look so cute on you!
Raina: Half-sleeve t-shirts look cute too. See, it looks so cute!
Me: How about a sleeveless t-shirt? You never wear those and you have so many of them.
Raina: No. I want to wear a half-sleeve t-shirt.
Me: OK. How about a skirt instead of those shorts? You never wear a skirt.
Raina: No. I want shorts!
Me: (Now resorting to blackmail) Raina, I am going to stop buying you any new clothes if you won't wear anything other than half-sleeve t-shirts.
Raina: But I want to wear half-sleeve t-shirts. I want new ones!
Me: (cunningly) Miss Cindy said she would really like to see you in a dress.
Raina: (thoughtfully) Maybe I'll wear a dress tomorrow.

And I have to be satisfied with that. Sometimes, that tomorrow never comes. When it does, she'll wear the SAME dress she always wears when she's in a conciliatory mood. It's like beating my head against a brick wall. But that's the whole point, I guess, to give her control. I just wish she wanted to wear what I wanted her to wear.

Cool quote 2

Am presently reading Francoise Sagan's "The Painted Lady" -- a funny, heartbreaking book. Came across these lines mentioned right at the start, and wanted to share them:

"What importance can we attach to the things of this world? Friendship? It disappears when the one who is liked comes to grief, or when the one who likes becomes powerful. Love? It is deceived, fleeting, or guilty. Fame? You share it with mediocrity or crime. Fortune? Could that frivolity be called a blessing? All that remains are those so-called happy days which flow past unnoticed in the obscurity of domestic cares, leaving man with the desire neither to lose his life nor to begin it over."
--Chateaubriand, Vie de Rance

My 2 Cents Too

Cee Kay (my2centstoo.blogspot.com/ -- I can't figure out how to do the link thing on my mac) just did a wonderful post on people she admires and those she judges, and I agree with her so completely, it's hard to come up with some original points. But she wants me to give it a shot, so here's my 2 cents, folks -- first, the judgmental moi:

1. I tend to laugh at strangers who ask me what cars I own, how much a piece of jewellery is worth, how much income my husband brings in as measures of whether it's worth their while to further the acquaintance or not.

2. I look down on those who look down on those who are socially or economically inferior to them. I was taught at an early age to show a basic respect for all, and I look upon social snobs as appallingly ill-mannered and without class.

3. I dislike parents who hit their kids. I am not talking about an occasional tap on the butt for exceptionally bad behavior, but hard slaps that make kids cower. To me, it counts as domestic violence.

4. I judge others who pass judgments on people based on their race, nationality and sexual orientation. I am especially harsh on U.S. resident-Indians who do this, and then complain of racism when their bosses pass them over for a promotion.

5. I cannot stand those with a martyr complex. I grew up with one such person in my house, and am strongly of the opinion that you should make only those "sacrifices" which you can refrain from announcing to all and sundry who will listen and using them as leverage for sympathy.

6. I have a problem with those who publicly criticize their spouse and humiliate them. You have a problem with him/her, talk to them about it, not to the world.

7. I intensely dislike people who have no respect for privacy. It makes me see red.

Now, the admirable folks on my list:

1. I admire those who are content. It takes a special mindset to achieve peace of mind, one that requires a lot of effort.

2. I admire people who are aware of their duty toward those who are dependent on them -- and do it, even when it's often thankless.

3. I admire those who are focused and passionate about their life's work -- not for aggrandizing themselves, but for the pure joy and satisfaction it gives them.

4. I admire people who deal with frustration and stress in their life without constantly bitching to others. Life ain't a bed of roses for nobody.

5. I admire parents of developmentally challenged kids. I can't even begin to fathom their daily worries, frustrations, exhaustion...

6. I admire good writers.

7. I admire go-getters, but not those who go get by trampling all over someone else. I admire a strong character and conscience.

Well, that was easier than I thought!

Anatomy and Philosophy

"Mommy, what does Henry have on his pee-pee?"

So, it was finally here. The 3-year-old girl had commenced the study of a lifetime on What Makes Boys and Girls Different. I knew it was coming sooner or later -- just didn't realize it was going to be sooner. But I reacted pretty calmly, I think.

"Henry has a penis, baby."

"What's that?"

"All boys have penises for pee-pee. Like all girls have vaginas." Yeah, I'm big on calling a spade a spade.

"Why?"

"Because boys are different from girls."

"So Josh has a penis too? And Jordan has a penis too? And Hugo! And Owen!" she began a list of all the boys she currently knew. Glad we made that clear.

That was pretty easy. But it got me thinking on how I would reply to Raina when she came up with other inevitable questions -- like the one about God.

I've believed in the existence of God most of my life, even though my thinking mind (and scientific husband) played havoc with that belief. On the one hand, I well understood the Big Bang Theory and the randomness of our own life on earth. On the other hand, I just believed that everything happens for a reason, that there's good in all people, that there was something spiritual about feeling one with the world around us. But lately, believing all that just hasn't been adding up for me. Bad things happen to good people all the time. Some people are just born bad -- and will stay bad all their lives. And what does feeling one with nature have to do with a god at all?

These are just a few of gazillion thoughts that dwell in my mind, and I'm far from having any answers. But believing in God stops the questioning, I think.

How do I convey all these thoughts to my little girl? The U.S. is a very God-saturated country -- a Christian God at that. I think I'd like her to know that mankind doesn't have all the answers dealing with our existence, and believing in any god gives people's lives some meaning and purpose. It makes them accept the elements in their lives that's beyond their control. That although I believe all the gods are "equal" in a sense, most people believe their god is better than anyone else's and will try to change her mind if she believes in the "wrong" kind. Then I will tell her about her heritage -- the pantheon of Hindu gods and goddesses. I will encourage her questions and I will admit when I don't have the answers. And if when she grows up, she decides to believe in God or not, that will be her choice, and I will have to accept it.

When I write this all down, it doesn't seem that answering her about God would be that hard. And if I don't have any definite and satisfactory answers for her, I can at least pass on my questions.

Bummer

Am feeling a little bummed out today. I took Raina to the pediatric opthalmologist this morning, and it looks like despite all the carrots my 3-year-old's so fond of eating, she's going to need glasses soon. This sucks sooooo bad! Both P and I are nearsighted -- in fact, my glasses favor a soda bottle in appearance -- and I have astigmatism. And it looks like R's got the early beginnings of both nearsightedness and astigmatism.

The doctor recommended that she get glasses in around 18 months. She won't even be 5 years old!

I got glasses when I was 7-8, and I hated them, hated them, hated them... I thought I had to be the ugliest, nerdiest-looking kid on Planet Earth. Then, I have a small snub nose, and everytime I would run and play, my glasses would slide down and I'd have to keep pushing them up. It made me self-conscious, so instead of playing, I'd bury my nose in the nearest book, which didn't improve the eyesight any.

The day I switched to contact lenses is among the happiest in my life -- and that was after 7 very long years.

The doctor said I could start talking to Raina about wearing glasses now, so that 18 months later, she'll be used to the idea. I think her mom is more in need of those 18 months to adjust her attitude towards them. I have to put aside all this silly baggage I am carrying around, so I can make wearing glasses sound cool to her, so she knows that she's still pretty cute, so she knows she can still run as fast as any other kid, so she doesn't become a social moron for the rest of her childhood like her mom.

I know, I know, it's a storm in a teacup, but if I blog about it, I can start dealing with it...

Raina's To-Do List

You remember when you were a kid and you couldn't wait to become a grown-up for such random joys as wearing high heels and perfume? When you were a teenager and couldn't wait to get out of the house because your parents and siblings were, as usual, impossible to live with and driving you up the wall? And now, as a parent, I want to hold on tight to time because I'm so enjoying watching my girl grow up.

Raina, on the other hand, already has a list going of things she'll do when she grows up. Here are a few fun items on her To-Do-When-Grown-Up list:

1. Drink Diet Coke like her mom. Until then, she regularly feeds her baby doll Baby Diet Coke. Come to think of it, now that Coke has a vitamin version, it might be just a matter of time before it comes out with one that's for toddlers.

2. Wear lipstick and nail polish. Yep, I am one of those moms who doesn't let her preschooler "experiment with makeup." In fact, I can get shrieky about it and realize that I am beginning to sound like my own mom as each day goes by. Aarghhhh!

3. Walk by herself on the road. That's Raina's prime ambition to date.

4. Carry her baby brother. I don't have the heart to point out that when she's a grown-up, her baby brother may be a tad too big for her to hoist around like a bag of potatoes.

5. Have babies. While Raina seems to have understood that she's too small to have her own babies, she does like to say she has a pretend baby in her belly, who by some coincidence, is also due to make his appearance in October. The other day, I placed her hand on my belly so she could feel her brother jump -- he's turning out to be athetic unlike his lazy-ass mom. Then she insisted I reciprocate, saying her baby was moving too. So I played along, putting my hand on her belly and squealing appropriately. Her face just lit up.

She's the funniest thing I've ever met.

Music Madness

Taking a cue from Mad Momma's blog and tagging myself to talk about the songs that hit the Billboard charts the year I turned 18 -- 1992. Those who read this, consider yourself tagged!

Here are the rules:
1. Go to http://www.popculturemadness.com/ or http://www.everyhit.com/
2. Pick the year you turned 18
3. Get nostalgic over the songs of the year
4. Write something about how the songs affected you
5. Pass it on to more music-loving bloggers

Michael Jackson's Black or White: OK, this was likely the last MJ song I loved. I thought the video was especially cool and cutting-edge, and I remember looking at MJ and thinking, boy, if it doesn't matter to him if he's black or white, why the heck does he get whiter every year?

Right Said Fred's I'm Too Sexy: Ooooooh, parttyyyyyyy! This song was played at every party and nightclub I went to! Everyone knew the words.

Vanessa Williams' Save the Best for Last: Have it on CD and still listen to it and still know all the words.

Boyz II Men's End of the Road: Tragic break up song. Sigh, sigh. Brings back bittersweet memories.

Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You: Same as above, except now I find it slightly boring. WH does go on and on. I remember I saw "The Bodyguard" at the Eros Theater near my college in Mumbai. That was unforgettable.

Your turn, folks!

NDN

If you've ever seen the above decal on U.S. cars, you may have wondered what it means, like me. Last week, I found out. My friend D was visiting from my all-time fave American metro NYC, and she and I went to Anaheim Hills to grab haircuts. Our hair was treated by this amazingly nice hairstylist, who at first glance, appeared as desi as they come.

So while he shampooed my hair, I asked him if he was Indian. He guffawed out loud, saying no one had said that to him before. He wasn't Indian, but NDN (pronounced like the letters) aka American Indian, which he prefers to the "corny" native American. His family has both Kumeyaay (tribe from San Diego) and Chumash (Santa Barbara) blood, and he himself is married to an Apache from New Mexico.

He was discernably proud of his heritage, and I asked him something that had been on my mind for a long time. "Don't you -- and other native Americans -- mind being referred to as 'Indian'?" He shook his head, saying that American Indians had made the term part of their identity a long time ago. He also told me a little of the history behind the word, as he understood it:

Apparently, Christopher Columbus who's credited with "discovering" America for Queen Isabella of Spain was Italian. So his Spanish, apparently, wasn't too hot, and in his journal, he wrote about discovering the children of God in America -- "in Dios" -- which somehow got corrupted to Indian. Also, he'd believed he'd reached India. So it was a combination of factors, he said.

Don't know how far this is true. But I finally get NDN.

Notes on Yashomati

As you can see below, the mountains at Yosemite were awe-inspiring. The last pic shows P. and Raina frolicking in the icy cold water (yep, that's snow you see in the hills beyond) of Lake Tenaya on our way to Tioga Pass. What you can't see are the gigantic mosquito bites P.'s back was covered with -- no one warned us about the bugs! We are so duh.

Also, what no one warned us about was how hot Yosemite Valley would be. We stayed in 90+ degrees in a wooden cabin (sans a/c, of course, this was our getting-away-to-nature fling), and the heat sapped away what little was there of my energy. As a result, we did a lot of Yosemite via a/c minivan -- very comfy -- and sympathetically watched folks in bicycles puffing up steep hills under a blazing sun. Then, there were the hikers, but never mind about them.

What we were warned about -- repeatedly -- were the bears, who apparently had a tendency to tear up cars that not only contained the processed food we cannot live without, but also innocuous boxes of Wet Ones. So P. hauled all our stuff to our wooden cabin, that looked flimsy but had to be sturdier than the tent cabins also at Curry Village. Sturdy enough to ward off a marauding bear -- that I did not know and was to spend sleepless nights worrying about.

You see, the first night we slept in our tres lumpy beds, I heard one. What I first heard were loud clanging sounds of people beating up pans. Being reasonably intelligent, I concluded that we had at least one bear on the prowl, and lay terrified, eyes wide open, the bedcovers clutched with tense fingers. Then I heard the growling. More clanging and more growls later, shots were fired, probably the rubber bullets that we read about in the Bear Aware fact sheet handed to us at check-in. Then silence. Then I hear this humongous being brushing past my cabin that shook like it was experiencing an earthquake. They say your life flashes before your eyes in moments of extreme fear, but all I could think was "F%$K!!!!!!"

And that was it.

It was probably just an half-hour of drama, but seemed like an aeon. And P. and R. slept through it all. P. was sore about missing all the action and lamented I should've woken him up. I think he's half-crazy. He didn't spend our remaining two nights there with the covers over his head. In the bloody heat, I should reiterate, because we slept with our windows soundly closed (yes, our windows were covered just by a mesh screen when the bear brushed by).

OK, so other than the heat and the bear episode, Yosemite was incredibly beautiful. It was a wonderful experience to sit on the deck outside our cabin enclosed by tall pines. No sounds of TV or music, just an occasional laugh from real live humans hanging outside their cabins playing board games or cards, or reading or watching the twilight fall softly around them, like us. The multitudinous squirrels darted around the pine cones, stopping to munch on some bug or nut. The night brought soft, cool air, scented by pine. We breathed in gulpfuls, and slowly headed out of Yosemite, making plans to be back someday.

Yosemite Pix As Promised