Gearing Up

Getting ready for yet another trip to India. Gearing up with more than the usual gifts of clothes and chocolates. There's knee braces, back braces, Poises. Gearing up physically and mentally to help out as much as I can. Shoring some emotional strength. It's going to be different this time. The parents and in-laws are aging. Hoping this summer with their grandchildren and daughter home, their loads lighten a bit, they smile more, their aches ease. At least for a little while, they are distracted from the seemingly endless cycle of pain. Bas thodi der ke liye. Bas thodi der hi sahi. And maybe my sense of helplessness will lessen. Bas thodi der ke liye.

Age is but a number

...which means, yup, I had a milestone birthday this year. I am all of 4-0 now.

So, I did all the stuff everyone says you should do when you turn 40. I went out with my girlfriends on a microbrewery tour. My hubby arranged a wonderful couples massage in wonderful surroundings, with champagne and oysters after. And then I went out again with some other girlfriends. I did some wild stuff. More celebrations are due -- heck why not celebrate all year?

I am guessing all this partying is supposed to drown out the dreadful fact that I was turning 40. The middle age is here. Or maybe it should be called the Age when the Middle goes. The wrinkles are here to stay. The breasts are heading kneewards. The hair is getting grayer. You get a birthday card from your daughter assuring you that you don't look as old as you are. You feel warm at night and wonder if menopause is starting early.

But hey, did I care? Well, maybe a wee bit. Maybe I felt that I should care, and by not caring, I was violating one of those laws of the Sisterhood of the 40-Year-Olds. But mostly, I was just too busy having fun to care. 40 is just a number, right?

Today I attended a friend's birthday brunch. She'd turned 40 a couple years ago. My friend had obviously botoxed her face recently - hush hush. There was all this talk of liposuction, getting rid of belly fat, how 40 was the new 30. And I felt like a complete wide-eyed idiot, part repulsed, part fascinated. Is this what it takes to belong to the Sisterhood? Botox and lipo and plastic this and that? No more carbs, just drink coffee?

I can't be the only one who doesn't think 40 is the new 30. I am not sure I WANT 40 to be the new 30. Gosh, at 30 I had just become a first time mom. I don't want to relive those newborn years.

Sure, no one wants to be overweight. And everyone dyes their hair. Maybe lipo is the new hair dye, and botox is the new yoga. Maybe everyone just has different thresholds for this kind of stuff, and it's back to live and let live, the evergreen philosophy. Maybe I just want to enjoy being 40 and all that it entails. Hopefully, no warts. I draw the line at warts.

Waxing philosophical

For 10 years, one man, along with his brothers, kidnapped and kept captive 3 women in his home. Two of them were girls, really -- 14 and 16. A few days ago, one of them broke free and helped the others get out. The story is making headlines. News accounts say there is a reason why they aren't showing pictures of all 3 women. They were found severely malnourished, but that's probably not the reason why. One unnamed source described the basement where the girls were kept most of the time, tied in "stress positions," dog leashes hanging from the ceiling, chains on the walls. The source said that when Ariel Castro left the house for a longer period of time, he would duct tape the girls' faces, even their eyes, leaving only room for them to breathe. When he would return, he would just rip the duct tape off, taking out skin and hair. Castro would starve them, then eat in front of them, or feed one in front of the others. Apparently one girl was treated slightly better and allowed to live upstairs. Maybe because she became the mother of his 6-year-old girl. The others must have gotten pregnant too. By news accounts, they were kicked repeatedly to induce miscarriages. In this horror story, one thing I wonder: How many times in those long 10 years did those women wish themselves dead? And how do you come back to life after this experience? And then I think about the rest of us women, some so much luckier than others, living our humdrum lives, concerned about kids' schedules, what to wear to work, what to make for dinner. Worrying from paycheck to paycheck. Envying others who are thinner, prettier, better dressed. Working hard towards a goal or drifting through life looking for a goal. Going on holidays. Laughing, talking with family and friends. Living. And I think about our need to believe that we are so much more than animals. But we aren't, we aren't. And I wonder about a god, how so many people need to believe he or she exists, that we are being looked after, unto each life a little rain must fall, all our little tragedies will be overcome, and everything will be okay. Nothing is going to be okay for those three women. And there is no god.

Meet Ziggy

As if life wasn't crazy enough, early 2012 brought with it a new kid. Meet Ziggy The Dog.

That's family for you

About three hours ago, I dropped off P at the airport from where he's going to head to yet another conference. We all went for the drop off, dog included. Yup, there's a dog now chez Muser but that's news for another post.

Five minutes after, Rain starts to cry because she's missing daddy. "Raina, we just dropped him off," I said, disbelievingly. "Yes, but I miss him! It's going to take him so long to get back home! One week!" "Hardly a week," I protested. Man will be back on Wednesday. "That's a long time, right sister?" chimed in Rohan. "A hundred million HOURS long!" agreed Miss Drama Queen.

Two hours after, we're back to discussing what Daddy must be doing now. "If he was home now, he would be on the computer or eating dinner with us," Raina said wistfully. "He must have boarded the plane now," I said.

Three hours after drop off, the kids are in bed. I think of all I can do now -- watch the movie P never wanted to see, read until bedtime, talk to those friends I never have time to call. Instead, I find myself looking at the clock. He must be near LA now, I think. And miss him so bad, I blog about him instead. What a sad bunch we are without Daddy.

You know you've spoiled your kids when...

Your 8-year-old daughter admits she doesn't know how to peel a banana.

You know your kid is growing up when...

You both are reading the same book. In this case, Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

And we all give thanks...

"I am thankful for my little brother because I have someone to play with even when my friends can't." Raina, Thanksgiving 2011.

Happiness

"Mom, are you happy?" asked 4-year-old Rohan, perched precariously on a chair at the dining table, eating his favorite mac-and-cheese, his eyes huge and round.
The boy's been asking a lot of questions lately.
"Yes, baby, I am," I reply. "Are you happy?"
"Yes," he said.
"Do you know why you are happy?" I probed.
"Because Mommy is here," he said, smiling.
I don't have a heart anymore. It's lying squished, a pile of goo at my son's feet.

It's what we call'em Chez Muser

Rohan: "Mom, why do you have such big elbows?"

Rohanisms

It's his turn for some classics.

Tonight: "Mom, tomorrow's going to be another beautiful butterfly day!"

This morning: "Dad, Raina's going to be a vet, and I am going to be a Corvette!"

Couple days ago: "Mom, I'm a dog, Raina's a person, and you are QUEEN of the library!"

Needless to say, the last one is my favorite. If I could rule over a kingdom, it would be one of books. Well said, my boy.

Webster: A Book Review

Was reading a book tonight to the littlest right before bedtime: Webster, the Littlest Frog. It's about this tiny frog who is always by himself because none of the bigger frogs will let him play. "Scram, shorty!" says one nasty frog. Of course, all ends well with the littlest frog showing the bullies that he may be small, but he's smart.

So Rohan, now having become an angry young man who uses fists first and asks questions later, says, "He should just hit the big frog under the water."

"No hitting, Rohan," I frown. "That's not nice."

"Then he should just kick him," Rohan says.

"No, Rohan! Kicking's not nice either!"

"Then he should just kill him," says my 3-year-old, obviously oblivious to the message here.

"Rohan, no!" I say desperately. "If we want to make friends, we should use our words, not our hands!"

"But if we don't want to make friends, then we shouldn't use words," Mr. Logic replies.

Aargh!

Beating a Hasty Retreat

"Mom, why do your eyes get stripes?" asked my talkative 3-year-old, one beat before I was going to shut the door to his room leaving him to a blessed nap.
I paused, exasperated. It had been another long morning of chores, general running around, booking stuff for our forthcoming vacation, and taking care of the in-laws (yup, they've been in town since April). Plus I had had a king sized fight with P that had ended in tears.
I really, really was looking forward to Rohan's nap, hoping to escape to a similar oblivion for a half-hour at least. The last thing I wanted to do was answer yet another question.
"I don't know of anyone whose eyes get stripes," I said quickly, moving the door an inch closer to shut.
"Yes they do!" chirped Ro. "If you talk a lot, your eyes get stripes."
"My eyes don't," I said, before shutting the door.
Talk about beating a hasty retreat.
I thought later, I bet a better mom would have paused, dredged up yet some more patience from her never-ending quota and answered thoughtfully after some serious contemplation, which would have led to another seemingly endless conversation about nothing in particular.
Moi, I exited fast. At least this time.
But it's OK to be less than better sometimes, isn't it? It's OK to be unperfect in an unperfect world. I should wax eloquent over this, but I am too sleepy. It's my naptime, so time to beat yet another hasty retreat.

Cuggling, and Other Terms

My baby is growing up.
This weekend will complete one whole week since his potty training began. It ended soon after, with the Little Man graduating to Big Kid Underwear in an astonishing three days.
Experienced parents say that learning to go potty is like a switch that turns on just when the child is ready. At almost 3 1/2, Rohan was definitely ready. It was all so anticlimactic, I, who'd been consoling myself for months that at least he wouldn't be going to college in diapers, can still hardly believe it.
So before my big kid becomes a big man, which will happen in a similar blink of the eye, I thought I'd better treasure and record all the dear little pronunciations and miswords before they go the way of poopy diapers.
1. "Can I have a toy to cuggle with, mom?" he often asks, putting together cuddle with snuggle.
2. "No, mom, that's a heli-otter," he patiently tells his mom, who stubbornly insists that the thing passing overhead is a plane.
3. "No, mom, I don't want that, mom. No, no, no! Actually, yes," if I make the mistake of asking him if he needs a snack/hotwheel/water/you name it, he doesn't want it until he does.
4. "Do you get that toy for me, mom? Do you?" instead of "would you?"
5. "Sissah!" he calls out to Raina. On the other hand, he is "Wohan."
That's a good start for now.

Day at the Museum

Open curtain.
Locale: The Natural History museum
Day: Today
Time: Late morning
Dramatis Personae: Senior Citizen Museum Guide, 6-year-old Raina, Age Undisclosed A Muser
(The museum guide stands among fossil displays of various animals of the Pleistocene period.)
Museum Guide (standing between two fossils): And can you tell me which one is a herbivore and which one is a carnivore?
Raina (rapidly): That one is a carnivore because it has two sharp incisors so it can bite into the meat. The other one is the herbivore because it has short flat teeth which helps it eat plants.
Museum Guide and A Muser look a little dazed. (For A Muser, this is a close to permanent facial expression.) Short pause ensues.
Museum Guide (finally): Very impressive. Do you want a job?
Curtain closes on Raina's smile.

May Your Days Be Merry & Bright...

Merry Christmas and best wishes for a happy, healthy and prosperous 2011 from our home to yours.

Happy Diwali!

Or as Rohan says it, "Aunty Deepali!"
:)

This Is The Way We Wash Our Hands...

"Mom, I don't WANT to wash my hands! Mom, that isn't enough soap! Mom, I don't WANT you to sing 'Happy Birthday' while I wash my hands! No, I don't LIKE 'Row, row, row your boat either!' NO, NO, NO! Mom, I want you to sing 'Happy Birthday.' Mom, I NEED more soap! No, Mom, I WANT YOU TO SING 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY!' While I wash, Mom! I want YOU to turn on the water, Mom! No, I want to wash my own hands, Mom!"

This is the way we wash our hands, wash our hands, wash our hands. This is the way we wash our hands every time each day... thanks to Rohan.

The Function of the Heart

Every night before sleeping, Raina requests a verse of a Hindi song, followed by the translation.

Usually, I try for kid-friendly songs, but tonight, I just couldn't think of one. So I began singing, "Dil deewana, bin sajana ke, maane na..." Yup, Maine Pyaar Kiya. It's funny the songs one thinks of. Anyhoo, I digress.

So this was the translation: "My crazy heart, without the person I love, doesn't feel happy." I know. Sucky translation. But my daughter doesn't care. Probably because she knows no better.

Ensuing discussion --

Raina: So this basically means that this person's heart isn't happy because the person she loves is not around.

Me: Exactly!

Raina: Because her heart is full of love, right? Because hearts have a lot of love. They pump love. They pump blood too, but in the center is love, and they have blood in the sides, right?

:)

Couldn't resist sharing that nugget.

Packrat

"No, Raina, you don't get to keep a broken hairclip as treasure. That isn't treasure, that's trash," I explained exasperatedly to my recently turned 6-year-old. Raina would put packrats to shame. Her toy bags (yes, plural) are overflowing with stuff any sensible kindergartner would have dumped as garbage a long time ago.

There are the ubiquitous rocks. Many, many rocks. All indispensable, of course. There are stacks of paper of all shapes and sizes that have been cut out and painted. All sculptural and artistic masterpieces and therefore, unthrowable. Then there are miscellaneous itty-bitties -- pipette bulbs from her dad's workplace, bits of ribbon and string, pieces of shells. The plastic whatnots like hair clips, paper clips, garish rings, beads... Just a casual glance around the playroom is enough to make my fastidious husband shudder.

So I put my foot down recently and explained to Ms. Raina the difference between trash and treasure. Her response? "Mom, it's good to reuse."