tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-207939152024-03-07T05:52:08.494-08:00I am, I existI exist, I writeA Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-50892828197521206112018-10-05T10:55:00.001-07:002018-10-05T10:55:14.884-07:00Going SoloIt was a beautiful day for a morning walk, i.e., cloud cover, no sun, cool but not cold. We Southern Californians are discerning.<br />
<br />
I have noticed people do different things while they walk. Some folks just amble along with their dogs, stopping every couple minutes so their pups can sniff and mark their territory to their heart's content. Other folks are power walkers -- serious, intent on the road before them, but who still make time to smile, nod, or say "good morning." Some are company walkers -- usually women, talking away while walking away.<br />
<br />
I find this latter group fascinating. Many a friend has tried to rope me in to their walking schedule, or has tried to join me. I have always politely declined. I am not unsocial, I just cannot do two things at one time. If I am talking, my walking automatically slows down as I ruminate and cogitate. Really, talking is a very complicated thing to do. Listening, even more so.<br />
<br />
But walking tops the list.<br />
<br />
For most of my life, I have been walking on my toes. Really. I didn't know it was wrong. No one ever told me that most people walk heel first, then toe down. In fact, my mom used to call me "ballerina," which very flattering description egged me on when I was little to try walking on my tippy toes. Ergo, I grew up with terribly inflexible hamstrings and a humongous gluteus maximus. My butt never got the memo that it was a muscle. Net result, I have always walked too slowly to keep up with people.<br />
<br />
I first got the news that I was walking wrong from my physical therapist. After 20 plus years of a bad back, a medico finally tells me that my issues can be laid on the door of bad walking and, gasp, bad posture.<br />
<br />
Apparently while walking, one is supposed to thrust out one's chest and tuck in one's chin. Obviously, this person doesn't know what it's like to walk in India. When you've spent the first 21 years of your life hunching your shoulders to avoid errant and purposeful elbows, palms, arms to your bosom, when you've thrust your neck forward aggressively to show men that they have a tight one coming if they make the mistake of touching a body part, you kind of lose good posture.<br />
<br />
Who knew.<br />
<br />
So now, I have to focus on walking heel first, chest out, belly in, chin tucked. With all my mental bandwidth thusly used up, I go solo.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-2428148299793042442018-10-03T10:07:00.002-07:002018-10-04T14:33:49.594-07:00I am woman, hear me roarWas listening to a 70's song on the radio a couple days ago. It's called "I am woman," by Helen Reddy. It's really a powerful anthem, and women have been singing it during the marches in Washington DC and other cities. Some of the lyrics:<br />
<br />
"I am woman, hear me roar<br />
In numbers too big to ignore<br />
And I know too much to go back an' pretend<br />
'Cause I've heard it all before<br />
And I've been down there on the floor<br />
No one's ever gonna keep me down again"<br />
<br />
And I thought, gosh, women have been saying this since 1971, and feeling this for god knows how many more decades and centuries before the 70's. And here we are, in 2018 y'all, and we are still singing this damn song because dammit, it's still relevant.<br />
<br />
Just look at the Brett Kavanaugh hearings. Just hear Christine Blasey Ford's testimony about being pinned down under an inebriated male and groped. Tell me you didn't cry because the sincerity of her account rang so true to you.<br />
<br />
And tell me your blood pressure didn't rise during Kavanaugh's testimony. Yes, a man is innocent until proven guilty. But this isn't the court of law we are talking about. This is a hearing to determine if a federal judge is worthy of serving on the highest court in the United States. This is a job interview, for crying out loud. And Kavanaugh, whether he was guilty of sexual assault or not, gave his worst interview yet. He was rude and aggressive and uncooperative.<br />
<br />
At a gathering, my white male friend said he really felt for Kavanaugh and sympathized with his anger. "Because I have been falsely accused," he said. "It's a good thing I had an alibi and it came to nothing. But there are women out there who do this."<br />
<br />
Do you know how many women experience <i><b>sexual assault</b></i> and don't come forward? I countered. Do you know the stats on that? Versus the stats on men being falsely accused?<br />
<br />
My friend went on to say he'd been messed around with. "What you may today consider assault, but then it was just bullying," he said. He'd had guys pin him down and place genitals close to his face.<br />
<br />
I told him that wasn't okay either! Good grief, is it not assault if it happens to men? And just because men consider that "horsing around" and not "assault," should they assume that it's okay to do this to women?<br />
<br />
There's a lot of talk about rape culture, and what constituted rape in the 80's. If a boy or man you knew had nonconsensual sex with you, that was NOT considered rape. It was just you getting into trouble because you were drinking, you were at a party, you were wearing a short skirt, you were asking for it. You did NOT complain after, how much ever you may have complained DURING the act. If you complained or filed a report with the police, you were shamed, looked down upon as a slut.<br />
<br />
And this was in the United States, folks!<br />
<br />
So. We have a long way to go.<br />
<br />
I tried talking about this to Raina. She didn't want to hear it. Because she's grown up believing certain things are self-evident. That girls can say 'no' and mean it. That boys will stop when girls say 'no.' That girls are as smart as boys. That women should be paid according to ability on par with men, duh. Duh, mommy.<br />
<br />
She doesn't get the lyrics in the song.<br />
<br />
"Oh yes, I am wise<br />
But it's wisdom born of pain<br />
Yes, I've paid the price<br />
But look how much I gained<br />
If I have to, I can do anything<br />
I am strong<br />
(Strong)<br />
I am invincible<br />
(Invincible)<br />
I am woman."<br />
<br />
She already know this. As important, my son knows this. So there's hope.<br />
<br />
<br />A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-48629828560143865532018-10-02T10:23:00.001-07:002018-10-02T10:23:14.674-07:00A Slave to RoutineLiving in Southern California makes it easy to follow an exercise routine. You can't say, "Hey, it's raining today, guess I will have to skip that walk." Or "Yet another snowstorm?! I am sick of being housebound!" <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nope.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Here, it's sunny and 75 degrees F Every Single Day. No wonder this place is crawling with walkers, runners, cyclists, triathletes ... you name the exercise, there's someone doing it. We don't live in a pedestrian-friendly neighborhood -- no stores, bars or restaurants nearby -- but you will definitely see a whole lot of people going nowhere. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I live near the coast, there's an additional blessing, the marine layer. Every morning until around 10 a.m., the sun will not penetrate this thick cloud hanging under the sky. So you can't even say, "Hey, too sunny, guess I will skip that walk." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nope.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There's no darn excuse. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So off I go.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-75090541428195394362018-10-01T09:50:00.002-07:002018-10-01T10:07:23.776-07:00Doggy Don'ts<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Is it okay to be critical of a dog's appearance in front of its owner? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I had to think about this today while taking my morning constitutional around the soccer field. There was this chocolate brown lab, delicious and pudgy, prancing around the field, playing fetch with its owner. When I passed close by, he trotted over, tail wagging furiously. I had to stop, put out my fist and give it some loving. "Aren't you gorgeous?" I crooned. "Thank you," his owner said graciously, as if she had been in any way responsible for the dog's beauty. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then I continued talking to that lovely furry face. "You are so beautiful! You need the exercise, don't you?" Catching a glance at the owner's face, I saw she was no longer looking pleased. In fact, her gracious smile was gone. She whistled, and the dog obediently followed her out of the park. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I continued walking, I was conscious of committing a social solecism. In all fairness, I hadn't meant to be critical of the dog's pudginess. I was, in some oblique way, saying that it was okay for the dog to be running around the field, that I wasn't going to cite Section 3.2a of the city code about unleashed dogs. Okay, I was also saying that the dog, although cute, definitely needed the run, and what was an owner to do? The neighborhood dog park was often populated with unfriendly, aggressive dogs, and if your dog was naturally a mellow, comfortably plump fellow, the soccer field in the wee morning hours was the only way to go. So I was being sympathetic to the owner's plight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I thought some more. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It wasn't like the dog was a baby, right? I don't think anyone can get away with calling out a baby in front of a parent as being too plump. "You need to get out of the stroller more often, little guy," I wasn't going to say. Even if I were alone with a baby, I wouldn't think of being anything but complimentary. "Who's a cutie?" I would exclaim. Anything else, and the baby might absorb your words like osmosis and have self-esteem issues later in life. And who would be to blame for that but some random stranger at the park? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Do dogs feel the same? What about cats? Or are we reaching some new extreme of anthropomorphizing pets? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There are folks who take the dog-owning thing as equivalent to parenting. "My kids have four paws!" exclaim decals on many a vehicle. "We don't have kids, but we have 2 dogs and a cat," they say at parties. As if that's plenty, thank you very much, we can't possibly have human kids when we have animal kids, and what's the difference any way. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thinking this through, I concluded that I could have been more tactful this morning. I phrased it badly. I should have something innocuous to Yummy Lab like, "It's a good day for a run, isn't it?" Something I would say to a human, in passing. Only the human would be running too fast to hear me. But that's another story.</span>A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-55640939724436003682018-06-07T13:12:00.001-07:002018-10-01T10:09:32.327-07:00Pain ManagementI have been in such excruciating physical pain for so many months, you'd think we'd be good friends by now. But apparently, this is one entity with which one cannot further friendship no matter how old the acquaintance.<br />
<br />
Recently, I was reading this book which talked about dealing with pain by first giving it a name. Yes, like Bob. Or if you want to be desi, Rajendraprasad. Why Rajendraprasad you ask? Well, if it's got to have a name it might as well be something grandiose. Though it IS hard to have any degree of affection for a name like Rajendraprasad. Maybe if one affectionately shortened it to, say, Raju?<br />
<br />
But why must pain have a masculine name at all? Men can be a big pain, 'nuf said. Okay, so Raju it is. When it's being extremely troublesome, one can use the full name, just like I use Raina and Rohan's full name when they are in trouble.
So, the first step, naming it.<br />
<br />
Next, the book recommends that one should talk to it. Like "Hey, Raju, what's up, dude? You may be a nice person at heart, but honestly, I am not in the right frame of mind to discern any good qualities you may have. Actually, for now, it would be much appreciated if you just went away. Shall we try that, huh? You are trying to teach me a lesson? An important life lesson, you say? But you should consider that I may not want to learn it. No, really. I know you want me to be disciplined and do my exercises, and you promise you will go away if I do, but we've tried that before. Sure, you go away for a bit, but a few hours later, you are back with a bang. What you do is give one false hope."<br />
<br />
Apparently, I can curse at Raju. I can yell. I can be angry. It just seems silly though. It just makes me feel silly.
So the end result is supposed to be that Raju and I learn to deal with each other, because we are kind of part of the same whole (you knew that, right?). We slowly become friends.<br />
<br />
I tried, I really did. I worked with Raju. Only to be back to square one many months later. This isn't true friendship, this is toxic.
But what else do I have?
Pain can be such an isolating experience. People who love you pat your back, hold your hand, feel terrible for you. You understand they are trying to reach you to comfort you. And all that does is fill your eyes with tears of frustration and self-pity. Why me? my lips tremble. Why can't this just end? When will it?<br />
<br />
Giving your pain a name is supposed to make you feel less alone. Here's this entity that is with you always. Might as well get to know it, work with it, to reach a better place. That way, you don't relinquish control to pain. You fight, but you don't surrender. You work together, a team. You are no longer helpless.<br />
<br />
Theoretically. Practically, when you find yourself back at square one, you just want to give up. But that doesn't work because your body doesn't do what you want. It doesn't care what you want.
So you dust yourself off and start over.<br />
<br />
Here goes. "Hello, Raju."
A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-90216926494905097392015-06-17T11:43:00.000-07:002015-06-17T11:43:47.156-07:00Gearing UpGetting 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.
A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-42343213716215189392014-06-05T11:44:00.000-07:002018-10-01T10:11:31.012-07:00Age is but a number...which means, yup, I had a milestone birthday this year. I am all of 4-0 now.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.
A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-63988644753044477522013-05-15T09:28:00.001-07:002013-05-15T09:28:54.022-07:00Waxing philosophicalFor 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.
A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-86022864559015620432012-11-24T12:44:00.000-08:002013-05-15T09:29:35.997-07:00Meet ZiggyAs if life wasn't crazy enough, early 2012 brought with it a new kid.
Meet Ziggy The Dog.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-68952028574626968802012-10-27T20:36:00.000-07:002018-10-01T10:12:19.353-07:00That's family for youAbout 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.
A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-40892169950646379942012-06-08T06:59:00.001-07:002012-06-08T06:59:14.780-07:00You know you've spoiled your kids when...Your 8-year-old daughter admits she doesn't know how to peel a banana.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-23124174962671496072012-05-17T19:44:00.001-07:002012-05-17T19:44:10.575-07:00You 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.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-10599556535102184342011-11-24T20:49:00.000-08:002011-11-24T20:50:24.548-08:00And 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.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-8282617746154349122011-11-04T14:39:00.000-07:002011-11-04T14:44:15.191-07:00Happiness"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.<br />The boy's been asking a lot of questions lately.<br />"Yes, baby, I am," I reply. "Are you happy?"<br />"Yes," he said.<br />"Do you know why you are happy?" I probed.<br />"Because Mommy is here," he said, smiling.<br />I don't have a heart anymore. It's lying squished, a pile of goo at my son's feet.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-74588390791466042762011-09-01T22:34:00.000-07:002011-09-01T22:35:12.176-07:00It's what we call'em Chez MuserRohan: "Mom, why do you have such big elbows?"A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-35158722968794487992011-08-28T15:29:00.000-07:002011-08-28T22:23:30.489-07:00RohanismsIt's his turn for some classics.
<br />
<br />Tonight: "Mom, tomorrow's going to be another beautiful butterfly day!"
<br />
<br />This morning: "Dad, Raina's going to be a vet, and I am going to be a Corvette!"
<br />
<br />Couple days ago: "Mom, I'm a dog, Raina's a person, and you are QUEEN of the library!"
<br />
<br />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.
<br />
<br />A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-19029072495969644412011-06-09T19:45:00.000-07:002011-06-09T19:55:18.911-07:00Webster: A Book ReviewWas 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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />"No hitting, Rohan," I frown. "That's not nice."<br /><br />"Then he should just kick him," Rohan says.<br /><br />"No, Rohan! Kicking's not nice either!"<br /><br />"Then he should just kill him," says my 3-year-old, obviously oblivious to the message here. <br /><br />"Rohan, no!" I say desperately. "If we want to make friends, we should use our words, not our hands!"<br /><br />"But if we don't want to make friends, then we shouldn't use words," Mr. Logic replies.<br /><br />Aargh!A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-14014130163464551052011-06-07T12:54:00.000-07:002011-06-07T13:08:59.011-07:00Beating 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.<br />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. <br />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. <br />"I don't know of anyone whose eyes get stripes," I said quickly, moving the door an inch closer to shut. <br />"Yes they do!" chirped Ro. "If you talk a lot, your eyes get stripes." <br />"My eyes don't," I said, before shutting the door. <br />Talk about beating a hasty retreat.<br />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. <br />Moi, I exited fast. At least this time. <br />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.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-61876662164247537612011-03-18T21:47:00.000-07:002011-03-18T22:30:53.957-07:00Cuggling, and Other TermsMy baby is growing up. <br />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. <br />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.<br />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. <br />1. "Can I have a toy to cuggle with, mom?" he often asks, putting together cuddle with snuggle.<br />2. "No, mom, that's a heli-otter," he patiently tells his mom, who stubbornly insists that the thing passing overhead is a plane.<br />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.<br />4. "Do you get that toy for me, mom? Do you?" instead of "would you?"<br />5. "Sissah!" he calls out to Raina. On the other hand, he is "Wohan."<br />That's a good start for now.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-41994073778478758732011-02-22T20:27:00.000-08:002011-02-22T20:37:17.335-08:00Day at the MuseumOpen curtain.<br />Locale: The Natural History museum<br />Day: Today<br />Time: Late morning<br />Dramatis Personae: Senior Citizen Museum Guide, 6-year-old Raina, Age Undisclosed A Muser<br />(The museum guide stands among fossil displays of various animals of the Pleistocene period.)<br />Museum Guide (standing between two fossils): And can you tell me which one is a herbivore and which one is a carnivore?<br />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. <br />Museum Guide and A Muser look a little dazed. (For A Muser, this is a close to permanent facial expression.) Short pause ensues.<br />Museum Guide (finally): Very impressive. Do you want a job?<br />Curtain closes on Raina's smile.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-32462936338260639822010-12-22T10:09:00.001-08:002011-03-18T22:31:52.224-07:00May Your Days Be Merry & Bright...Merry Christmas and best wishes for a happy, healthy and prosperous 2011 from our home to yours.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-22816205809863988022010-11-08T19:32:00.000-08:002010-11-08T19:33:25.518-08:00Happy Diwali!Or as Rohan says it, "Aunty Deepali!"<br />:)A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-18364846772952173052010-09-21T12:23:00.000-07:002010-09-21T12:31:02.082-07:00This 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!"<br /><br />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.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-8535173546039445052010-08-17T19:54:00.000-07:002010-08-17T20:00:16.495-07:00The Function of the HeartEvery night before sleeping, Raina requests a verse of a Hindi song, followed by the translation.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />Ensuing discussion --<br /><br />Raina: So this basically means that this person's heart isn't happy because the person she loves is not around.<br /><br />Me: Exactly!<br /><br />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? <br /><br />:)<br /><br />Couldn't resist sharing that nugget.A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20793915.post-68698654301791752362010-05-26T16:51:00.000-07:002010-09-28T15:07:44.165-07:00Packrat"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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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."A Muserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12132780122731029205noreply@blogger.com10