Exercising Restraint

"Mommy, you want to see how I put lipstick?" asked my almost-4-going-on-almost-14-year-old, brandishing a tube of plastic lipstick in a lurid shade of red her best friend had generously gifted her.
Badly wanting to say, "Er, no," I sighed instead and said, "Sure." Raina carefully applied the plastic on her lips and smacked them. "Well, you can do it this way or the other way," she explained, now exhibiting a plastic lip brush, which she rubbed on the lipstick and then applied to her lips. Followed the action with that resounding smack.
"Mmmmm," I murmured, instead of the WTF? that was trembling on my lips.
This must be what those in the know refer to as a generation or cultural gap. More like a yawning chasm, I think, remembering my own childhood.
My earliest memory of makeup application is charged with tension and elation. I was 8 years old, standing before my mom's vanity mirror, applying her very real lipstick, terrified of the hand I know I would feel on my cheek were she to walk in unserendipitously, yet sharply conscious of the zing of doing something forbidden. I would dust some talcum powder to whiten my face, spritz on a little French perfume. Then I would scrub my face shiny and be back to being 8, dreaming of being 18 and allowed unimaginable freedoms.
The first time I was permitted to wear nailpolish was when I was 14. It was such a big deal because we were actually allowed to wear our grown and polished nails TO SCHOOL!
Fast forward to now, my daughter's already asking if she may have a pedicure like her best friend recently did. At my definite negative, she follows hopefully, "Maybe when I am 8?"
Oh my dear god.
P tells me that it's better this way: she can do the makeup thing earlier than me -- and put it behind her faster than I did. Maybe he's right, but I think my fear runs deeper than the idea that she may become one of those girly-girls who can't look beyond her powdered nose and perfectly manicured nails to think about an education, a career.
Maybe I'm just scared she's growing up too fast. As her experience widens, she learns things I can't control. She does things I don't like. It's scary as heck to see her test her wings. It's too soon, I want to yell. I want to put blinders on her so she can only see the good monsters like Ernie. And I want to hold on to her tight, so tight. I want to throw away that plastic lipstick and lip brush, so I don't see her use the real thing.
And with that, I suddenly realize. I'm becoming like my mother. My mother who still calls me "gudiya" (doll), who still talks to me like I'm a tiny tot instead of a mother of two tots, who just can't grasp her mind around the fact that I'm a grown woman.
Dang it.
As the one thing I promised myself since time immemorial was to not become like my mom, this nonsense has gotta stop. So I guess I'll continue to mutter sotto voce when my daughter dabs lip gloss that she received as a party favor. (A party favor for a 2-year-old girl's birthday!) Maybe my lack of enthusiasm will have a more beneficial effect on R than outright criticism. I can always hope.

5 on 5

Got tagged over a month ago by Choxbox (thought I'd forgotten all about it, hadn't you?) and have a few minutes before I unload the dishwasher, wash the dishes I couldn't load in the dishwasher, dump clothes for laundry, send the cat out, comb my hair, put away some old clothes for AMVETS... all of which means that yeah, the baby's sleeping, Raina's in preschool and I can wallow luxuriously by the computer.

OK, here are the instructions:

Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the key words given (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

If I gotta link 5, you folks are going to have to bear with a bunch of URLs as I STILL haven't figured out how to do the link thing on my IMac. Just sheer laziness. Oh wait, I have the mom of 2 small kids excuse to use! Yeah, baby sleeping, R preschool, got stuff to get done, need to add this to the list. OK, without further ado...

1. Family: Well, I write about Raina and Rohan all the time, but since I've been blogging for a couple of years now, I'm going to delve into the past and come up with a couple of priceless Rainisms -- http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2006/03/growing-up.html
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2007/04/rainisms.html
And one on The Cat because she's my first kid:
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2007/01/isnt-she-lovely.html

2. Friends: Hmmm, more about me than my friends, but here they are:
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2006_01_01_archive.html
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2006/12/heart-versus-head.html

3. Myself: Jeez, this blog's mostly about me in case you hadn't noticed. OK, again from the past:
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2006/04/lifes-journey.html
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2006/05/straddling-worlds.html

4. My Love: Books! Here are a couple I enjoyed:
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2007/01/ruth-prawer-jhabvalas-my-nine-lives.html
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2007/01/kazuo-ishiguros-never-let-me-go.html

5. Finalement, since I'm to post links on Anything I Like, I choose philosophy and parenting! Yep, more about me and my mental makeup:
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2006/10/dancing-with-daffodils.html
http://www.raisingraina.blogspot.com/2007/06/HUG

I think this tag's done the rounds, but if anyone feels like taking it up, feel free!

This Parenting Stuff

*Warning: Long, rambling, possibly scatter-brained post.

I am in the middle of re-reading "I Feel Bad About My Neck" -- a collection of essays by Nora Ephron. For those unfamiliar with Ephron, she wrote the screenplays of two of my favorite movies "When Harry Met Sally" and "Sleepless in Seattle" (which she also directed), as well as "You've Got Mail" -- Meg Ryan owes her career to Ephron. She's also the author of numerous funny, insightful books, other than this particular collection, which deals with being a woman "of a certain age."

So the reason I'm blogging about E is what she says in one of the essays "Parenting in 3 Stages." In this piece, she talks about how parenting seemed a fairly straightforward business, until the 1960s, when she had kids. Quoting here, "You can blame the women's movement for it -- one of the bedrock tenets of the women's movement was that because so many women were entering the workforce, men and women should share in the raising of children; thus the gender-neutral word 'parenting' and the necessity of elevating child rearing to something more than the endless hours of quantity time it actually consists of.

"Conversely, you can blame the backlash against the women's movement -- lots of women didn't feel like entering into the workforce (or even sharing the raising of children with their husbands), but they felt guilty about this, so they were compelled to elevate full-time parenthood to a sacrament."

She goes on to make her case with lots of examples, including "playing Mozart CDs while you were pregnant, doing without the epidural, and breast-feeding your child until it was old enough to unbutton your blouse." (! So funny!)

This brought to mind a struggle we women, educated, highly qualified mothers, are facing these days. Let me see if I can articulate my thoughts in some cohesive manner.

If you're a stay-at-home mom like moi, chances are you've patted yourself in the back often with a self-satisfied smug smile, because you've sacrificed your no-doubt high falutin' career for The Greater Good. We are martyrs, we are. Not like our own moms, who, let's face it, didn't HAVE a career and barely any education to sacrifice for The Cause. They were parents just because they didn't have anything better to do.

And if you're a working mom, chances are not a day goes by when you don't feel guilty about having a life that doesn't include your kids. So you struggle. You compromise. Maybe you work from home. Maybe you take a pay cut and work part-time. Or you just live with the guilt of Not Watching Your Children Grow or Not Being There For Them.

Where am I going with this? I really don't know. I'm sure I'm not saying this as well as I want to. What comes back to me is this friend I met at a party recently. She's a biologist, who's worked very, very hard for her Ph.D. She's spent a few years as a post-doc. And she's a mom of two kids. She'd just gone part-time and was feeling glum.

"Why is it always we women who have to make these choices?" she complained. "I'm thinking right now that there was no point in my studying so much if all I was going to do was stay at home with the kids. But I feel guilty for working -- I don't even remember my youngest son's childhood. I want to have it all."

I listened, nodding sympathetically. But I disagreed with her on several points. First, her argument that she might as well have done just a B.S. if all it boiled down to was "just" staying at home. I think any and all education enhances one's life experiences, colors beliefs, boosts self-confidence, even a sense of self. If you're rearing a child, you're passing all that wonderful stuff on, so this should be a no-brainer.

Second, I told her she needed to define what "all" was. She wanted to be a full-time professional pouring all her energy and dedication to her job, as well as a mom who was a constant presence in her kids' lives. Since she couldn't be in two places at one time, that was just not possible. So what did she mean by "all"? And by working part-time, hadn't she come as close as she could to having it all? Why not?

She had man-envy. Her husband didn't have to make that choice, she said. I didn't say anything then, but it did get me thinking. Our husbands don't "have it all" either. They aren't always physically there for their kids -- does that mean they care less? If not, where is their sense of guilt? Is the answer that our kids need moms more than they need their dads? Or that they just need one parent to be always physically there? At what point do they stop needing that constant presence?

My mom was always physically there for me -- she was there when I left for school, when I came home to lunch, when I did my homework, when I had my dinner (except for the weekends when she and my dad transmogrified into party animals, but that's another story). Despite all that, I was always closer to my dad.

So, to stay at home or not? If so, for how long? If not, why feel guilty?

The bottom line I think is for the mother to be happy, whatever she's chosen to do. If she's happy, the kids are happy. If she's happy, she has it all. Simplistic? Possibly. But heck, it works for me.

On A Lighter Note

Raina: "Mommy, I love you so, so much. I love you 49."
Me: "I love you 89."
R: "I love you 100."
Me: "I love you 1500."
R: "I love you 2900."
Me: "I love you 100,000."
R: [nonplussed, then lit up with inspiration] "Mommy, I love you ZERO!"

----------------

"Mommy, did hair fall from your head to your vagina?"

What Did You Do?

Rather unimaginative title, I know, but I am at my wits' end. So calling all you mommies out there... what did you do when your 3-month-old (or 6-month-old or 9-month-old) refused to take naps?

For the past week, Rohan seems to have decided that he's done with naps. He will NOT sleep. And if he does deign to fall asleep while nursing, he's going to wake up when I put him down on the bassinet. AND if he does not wake up then, he will wake up five minutes later. Or ten. But wake up he will. And start screaming like his mama's putting pins on him.

So I burp him. Or try to get him to pass gas. Or rock him. Or put him in the bouncer. Or talk to him. Or play with him. Few minutes of this, and the bawling starts all over again.

So I change his diaper. Coo. Take him for a walk in the stroller. Or the baby sling. Sing to him. Hum. Whatever, to get the job done. But it's no use.

It's gotten to the point that I've begun to doubt everything -- whether he's getting enough milk, whether I ate something that didn't agree with him, should I give him some formula, what? What is it I am doing wrong? And what should I do to fix it?

I went through something similar with Raina but it was when she was much older, and those were nightmare months of rocking and rocking and singing. And if she woke up, starting all over. Eventually, I just would let her cry herself to sleep. Because I knew she was tired and knew she needed to nap.

The good thing about this problem with Rohan is, come dusk, and he just drops off. He's gone for the night, or most of it anyway. But I am worried that if he continues to not nap during the day, it's eventually going to affect his night sleep.

So I turn to you, blogging mommies. WWYD?

Three Months Since

I knew life would change after Rohan's birth, not just for me, but for Raina, P and even Pikey The Cat. What I didn't know was HOW. Here are some hows:
1. Everyone tells you having two kids is double the work. And after having one child, every mom knows what's coming when she decides to go for a second one. So everyone tells you it's going to be hard, you know it's going to be hard, you prepare yourself mentally for it, you convince yourself you can deal with it, and when it actually happens... it's still SO DAMN HARD! Yesterday Rohan barely slept all day and was still up at 9 p.m. at night. After dealing with him and Raina the entire day, I was just ready to cry. So I did.
2. The past week has been especially bad as my in-laws left last Thursday for India. I miss them. My mother-in-law would cook everyday and ask me every morning what I felt like eating. My father-in-law did the laundry religiously. When Rohan was cranky and wouldn't sleep or eat, they would accept him gladly. Mummy would coo him to sleep in the bouncer; Papa would carry him on his shoulder and talk to him. When Raina was feeling housebound, Papa would take her with him for his walk to the park. When I couldn't watch the Hanuman movie with her (Raina's latest craze), Raina would cuddle with her Dadiji. Children grow so much easier in a joint family.
3. But I also realized that living in a joint family is not for me. Eventually, I need my space. But that space comes at a price.
4. And presently, that price is having Rohan attached to me like a temporary extra limb, while Raina hovers restlessly around, being constantly shushed by me.
5. The past week has also made me realize that while I'm trying too hard to be the perfect mom for a 3-month-old, I'm trying too less to be the perfect mom for an almost-4-year-old. Am trying to dig up the patience to be a good mom to both, versus a perfect mom to none.
6. Raina LOVES Rohan; she's constantly around him, kissing him, reading to him, singing songs, talking baby talk. She wants to swing him, she wants to cuddle with him on his activity mat. And instead of appreciating it, I'm always telling her to watch out, not so hard, not so loud, be careful, he doesn't like that, don't put that on top of him, be careful, BE CAREFUL! I can't seem to stop myself, even though each time I tell her that, her face falls.
7. While Raina's an angel with the baby, she's being the devil with P and me. Hardly surprising considering the above. Two days ago, she threw a screaming tantrum absolutely refusing to go to bed. I have never heard her scream that way. It wasn't because she was scared to sleep in the dark because she started by smiling at me with a "What are you going to do now?" look on her face. She went to bed only after we threatened to put her in the garage -- and began carrying her there.
8. She's put a bunch of cream in her hair, fiddled with her medicines, refused to eat, created a mess around the house. During one afternoon nap, I found her in bed with about 20 baby wipes. The other day she was wearing three sets of underwear. Some of it's funny, some just scary. Most of it is designated to have me scream at her.
9. P and I are trying to step back from the scolding. I wish we wouldn't expect her to always be obedient and good.
10. Am also trying to get out of the house more often with her and the baby. But the weather's not been cooperating lately.

I tell myself things will get better. We three will get into a routine. Rohan will grow bigger and more independent of me. As he grows more independent, I'll grow more patient and Raina will act out less. The future will come as always, one day at a time.

Playing Favorites

I've been fuming since yesterday and I know if I don't blog about what's bothering me, I will eventually start tearing my hair out. As I have just a few strands anyway (my hair's what is euphemistically called "fine"), they need protection. So here goes:

Yesterday, I was on the phone with my mom and the conversation went thusly --

Mom: "I got the picture that you sent of Raina and Rohan."
Me: "Finally! And?"
Mom (unenthusiastically) "It was nice. But" -- and here we have some enthusiasm -- "he's not as cute as our Raina. He doesn't give poses like she does, I am sorry. He looks like a gudda (doll in Hindi)."
Me (shocked and confused): "But why are you sorry? A gudda? That's a good thing, isn't it?"
Mom: "He has no expression on his face. Not like humaari Raina (our Raina)."
What? What?
Me: "Mom, how can you compare the two? Why can't you look at him just as a baby, not in comparison with Raina? Of course he's not like Raina -- he's Rohan!"
Mom: "Yes, yes. I am sorry, but..."

But what??? I just don't get this. First, the insensitivity of my own mother. The same mother who's always dramatically maintained how she NEVER MADE ANY DISTINCTION BETWEEN HER DAUGHTER AND HER SON. Even though, said son, besides being a precious male, was way cuter as a baby. How do you tell your daughter that one of her children isn't cute enough? A child who's not even three months old. Even if you're comparing that child to another of her children?
Second, why compare at all? I never got this comparison crap, and have always taken care not to compare Raina to other kids her age. Is it because my mom's heart isn't big enough to love two little kids equally?
I know favoritism exists. I've seen my mother blatantly favor Raina over my brother's little boy and I used to think it's because of the strained relationship that she has with her daughter-in-law. But now I know that's not the case. My mom -- and likely, my dad -- have just got it in their heads that they're fond only of little girls. They just don't like boys. It's senseless, especially when you think how rarely they get to see their son's only child. And they haven't even seen my little boy -- and have pronounced judgment.

I think part of the reaction also stems from jealousy. My mom was with me when Raina was born -- and stayed until she was 4 months old. This time, my in-laws are here -- and my mom, seeing all the pictures of Raina and Rohan with their Dadiji and Dadaji, has been bitten by the green-eyed monster.

Whatever the reasons, her comments really hurt my feelings. Here I was eagerly looking forward to telling her how Rohan laughed two days ago for the very first time! How he looked so cute right after his bath with his blue towel wrapped around him, all clean and warm and happy. How he smiles right in the middle of a feeding as if he's having a blast. And I'd wanted to share with her how gassy he'd been lately. How he hadn't been sleeping all day. How tired I was and how tiresome he sometimes seemed.

At least my mom's comments cured my frustration with Rohan. But I saw myself looking at him differently, hating it, but doing it anyway. Maybe, objectively speaking, he isn't as cute as Raina was as a baby. If that's true, to hell with objectivity.

'Tis The Season To Be Jolly...

And Rohan's over 2 months old! Sorry for the disappearing act, folks. Life for a do bacchon ki maa (mother of two kiddos) is tres busy. Hope to get a chance to blog more often come the new year. Merry Christmas and a happy new year to all!

Breastfeeding 101

Courtesy Ms. Raina who apparently had been closely watching her best friend's mom nurse her new baby.

"Mommy, I'll show you how to nurse. You have to lift your t-shirt like this, put your booby forward and the baby has to take the booby in his mouth. Take the booby, baby, TAKE THE BOOBY! Yeah!"

Enthusiastic applause follows.

My personal lactation consultant and breastfeeder cheerleader. How did I get this lucky?

1 Sick Child + 1 Newborn = 0 Blogging Time

Raina's been down with an ear infection and a bad cough and cold since Diwali. Hope everyone else had a sickness-free festival!

Meet Rohan

Height: 18 inches (but Daddy says he refused to straighten his legs so it may be closer to 20)

Weight: 6 lbs. 11 oz.

It's been crazy as expected, but one of the worst wildfires in SoCal history has added to the belief that we are so lucky...

Imminent Motherhood

Baby and Mommy Stats 12 Hours Before Arrival:

Estimated weight: 8 lbs.
Dilation: 1/2 cm
Labor Pains: Often, varying in length and strength
Status: Baby -- Active
Mommy -- Uncomfortably Restless and Aware That This Is Her Last Night As Ek Bacche Ki Maa

Wish me luck!

Food for Thought

Got the middle name tag from Choxbox -- a week or so ago. Other than pregnancy-related somnolence, have also been suffering from besan-ladoo stuffiness. Yep, the in-laws have arrived, complete with besan ladoos all the way from Amritsar to feed their beloved ladoolike d-i-l. For those anywhere CLOSE to Amritsar or who've relatives there or happen to live a small train ride away (Delhiites?) -- I'd suggest you get to Kanhaya Lal's asap. Those dudes know their besan ladoos. I finished one whole box. Yep, one-whole-box. About 24 besan ladoos. In one week.

So what was I blogging about? Ah, middlename tag from Choxbox. Like most desis, my middle name's my dad's name, so am going with A Muser instead.

A -- Amritsar! Did I mention besan ladoos?
M -- Mumbai. City of my dreams. Land of hogging chocolate mousse at Pot Pourri, idli/sambar at Kamat's or Satkar's, beers at Toto's, dal pakwaan (on Sundays) at Khar Gym, bhelpuri at Pali Hill, mutton rolls at Andora's and Candies, crabs at Mahesh Lunch Home, manchow soup at Sampan (in my opinion the best Chinese joint in town), masala milk at Anando's, frankies in Linking Road. Dang, this can be a post by itself.
U -- Should get off the food topic, huh. OK, U is for Unkind, Unjust, Uncouth, Undignified behavior. The four deadly sins in my bible.
S -- Sense of humor! One of the things I like about myself is my ability to be easily a-mused. But I don't find ethnic jokes amusing. Really.
E -- Elegance. That so not describes my mussed hair, jeans and t-shirt self. But I will start trying, oh, in another five years or so, and hum honge kamyaab ek din.
R -- Rock 'n' roll! Dancing the night away's among my top 2 favorite ways of spending the night. ;)))

Am not tagging anyone because almost all my favorite fellowbloggers have already done this tag! Amodini, hope to get to your tag soon!

What to Expect When You're Expecting

Here's an article which indicates to me that what doctors tell you NOT to do today, they'll tell you tomorrow to do the exact opposite.

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/10/05/should-pregnant-women-eat-more-seafood/

It's so annoying. It's a good thing I'm such a seafoodie, I've been eating quite a bit throughout my pregnancy anyway. Next the medical world will insist that sushi and sashimi are not only OK for pregnant women to eat, they're ABSOLUTELY VITAL for your baby's health. When it happens, know you first heard it here.

Prepping

The mind has shut down all sign of cranial activity. The eyes are either closed or looking over the pages of some trashy novel. The ears register only sounds related to babies. The rest is filtered as just so much noise. The world has ebbed away. Is Newt Gingrich threatening to launch a presidential campaign again? Who're the Ohio State Buckeyes playing this weekend? Is Musharraf going to finally resign as army chief? Issues once fodder for intense discussion have fallen by the wayside.

The mouth opens only to recount yet another instance of baby movement to a bored audience. The limbs move only to swipe the credit card at Target or Babies 'r' Us for diapers or onesies. Otherwise, they lay supine, static, like the projections of a sleepy starfish whose dead center is one humongous belly.

This is the status two weeks before the baby's expected arrival. Expect continued inertia.

Nick Knack

Tagged by Choxbox (choxbox.blogspot.com) to mention the nicknames we call the kids. Nope, not talking about the Unborn One yet; he's mostly still The Baby. I am talking about Pikey The Cat and Raina The Pookie. It's no use pointing out to us that Pikey's not our kid -- she may not have been our first experience in childbirth, but she definitely gave us a taste of childrearing.

We got her when she was 3 months old, and she sat on my lap and meowed all the way home. Once there, she quickly settled in which was obvious by the speediness with which she began making demands -- for lap time, scratch time, play time. Each demand would be underlined by a corresponding meow, which we quickly learned to decipher. Short, staccato meows meant "I'm hungry"; long drawn out meows meant "I really really want something, and you better get it quick otherwise I'm going to scratch the sofa." So it's not surprising that she was nicked The Meow Cat. Pikey itself was a nick for the stately Pilcrow (you know, the paragraph mark on your word doc on the computer).

Other nicks that quickly followed: Pikeymon, Pikery, Peekaroo, Pikeysan, Mikey, Mouse (she's scared of everything, including mice), Silly Billy (billy means cat in Hindi). She answers to them all.

OK, Raina's turn. When she was born, P began calling her The Bug or Bugga because of her big lamplike eyes and teeny nose. I'd call her Smilu and Cheeky for her obvious attributes. Innocuous enough, but the nicks have deteriorated since.

I now call her Cheekoo, Cheekoodee, Pookie (further bastardizing the nick Raina Pooh), Pookeymon, Pookers and sometimes, Pooky Friend (from her favorite Halloween tee with a graphic of "Spooky Friends" which she would mispronounce as Pooky Friends).

But I can't top P, who often calls her Altu (as in Altu-Faltu, meaning useless in Hindi), her baby brother's Faltu and the cat Paltu (pet in Hindi). And then sometimes he calls her "Boogers" -- as in yucky dried snot. What can I say? The man's a creative genius.

Happy 75th Post to Me!

Wow, when I started this blog, I didn't think I'd be able to come up with anything to write about. I was quite out of practice. But here I am on Post#75.

Wanted to note another funny instance of RainaSpeak here. This conversation occurred in the morning:

Raina: Mommy, look I weigh 31 pounds!
Mommy: Yeah, you're so big!
Raina: But I don't weigh as much as you.
Mommy: That's true. I am bigger.
Raina: Your butt is bigger.

Thanks for pointing that out, daughter o'mine. Especially since Mommy's belly is so big, she doesn't pay any attention to her behind anymore -- there's a reason it's behind, right?

A Fairytale Ending

So most everyone knows the Sleeping Beauty fairytale, right? Princess is born, party's given but the wicked witch isn't invited. Said wicked witch gatecrashes party, curses baby to die on 16th birthday by pricking finger on spindle of spinning wheel (like she couldn't come up with something a little less complicated). A good fairy changes the curse to falling asleep instead of dying (why couldn't she just nix the curse?) and for good measure, whisks the baby along with her co-fairies to live as a peasant in a forest. Babe grows up hot, falls in love with a prince on her 16th birthday and then is whisked back to the castle to meet mom and dad (why on the dang birthday?) where she of course proceeds to prick her finger, fall asleep until the prince comes rushing in to rescue her after slaying wicked witch. And they all live happily ever after - blahblah.

Lotsa murder and mayhem for a fairytale, wot?

The three-year-old is hooked on Sleeping Beauty presently and doesn't seem to be bothered by the sound of gnashing teeth which her mom makes every time she reads about the dang prince rescuing the idiotic princess. But there were aspects of the story that bothered her, which I found out soon enough.

Raina tends to come out of her room a couple of times after being supposedly tucked in for the night, asking for yet another glass of water or someone to adjust her blankie or whatever. So during one of these night excursions when she said she didn't want to sleep alone, I just pooh-poohed it, told her she was a big girl and she wasn't alone anyway as she was sleeping with Prisha (her stuffed white tiger).

The next day, while we were consuming breakfast, she said, "Mommy, you know when I said that I didn't want to sleep alone last night? It was because I was scared that Maleficient (aka wicked witch) would come to our house and kill my baby brother."

Mommy (rendered temporarily incapable of speech)

Finally founding my voice, I said, "Maleficient is just pretend, baby. She's in the book. And she only cursed the baby because she was mad when she wasn't invited to the party."

Raina: "She is mean and wicked."

Mommy: "Yes. If you wish someone dead, it's a mean and wicked thing to do. But she's only interested in Aurora (aka idiotic princess), not you or your baby brother."

Raina: "I don't like her. Do you like Maleficient?"

Mommy: "No one likes Maleficient."

Whoa. I've read that fairytales are OK to read to kids because it introduces them to a wickedness that they already know exists in the world, but also teaches them that good triumphs over evil. But is age 3 the perfect time to know about the fact of murder -- the wish to kill (in Maleficient), the need to slay (in the prince) -- to bring about that happy ending?

Maybe I'm just looking for another reason to chuck those fairytale books into the trashcan.

Crazy Me

So I've been tagged by Choxbox aka Namvor (who just began her blog -- congratulations! -- choxbox.blogspot.com) to put down five eccentricities or five reasons why those who know me think I am stark raving nuts and belong in a loony bin. Hmmm, shouldn't be too hard. Here goes:

1. I am the quintessential bookworm. What free time I have, I spend with my nose in a book. I have books on my kitchen counter, dining table, coffee table, all the bedrooms and bathrooms in the house, and some even on the bookshelves. All of which I am presently reading. And if I don't reply to a question, the people in my house have realized that it's because I am daydreaming about a book or several that I am in the process of devouring. My husband opines I am heading towards blindness, but if that ever happens all I can say is, thank goodness for audio books!

2. I HATE talking on the phone. It doesn't matter who's on the other end -- my parents, in-laws, best friends -- I try to keep the conversations short. It's out of a sense of duty that I call my parents every weekend. (And then my mom calls me once during the week.) My best friends know better than to expect a call from me. If I do happen to call, they baldly ask, "Is it my birthday?" (I do call on birthdays.)

3. I don't notice dirt -- either in my house or in other people's homes. It drives my finicky husband crazy that I don't notice the former; my friends love me for never noticing the latter.

4. On the other hand, I always notice a misspelled word in books, newspapers, hoardings, pamphlets. There should've been spelling bees in India, I swear I would have won every single year. OK, maybe at least once.

5. I talk in a sing-song fashion in a voice that's so sweet, it'd give any healthy person diabetes. It's really awful. I wouldn't believe it if I wouldn't have heard myself with my own ears. I also tend to smile at perfect strangers. In fact, I am usually smiling all the time. Loony, see?

That's my five. Would love to tag the usual suspects: Terri's mom, Rads, Mystic Margarita, Cee Kay and Crazy Mumma.

Anniversary

Twelve years ago this day, I landed in the United States to begin graduate school. It wasn't my first time to the States; I'd come on vacation when I was 10. But I couldn't have been more excited if it had been my first. Finally, at 21 years of age, after being more of a spectator than a participant in my life, I was ready to live. Woohoo! And what a life I wanted to live! One that primarily involved being away from any protective influence, being away from all and everything I held dear. Now I would figure out what I was about.

Life until then had seemed too easy. I had grown up feeling mostly detached from family members and friends. It was a defense mechanism -- if no one got close, no one could hurt me. I see that now; then, I was just uninvolved while I watched the lives of all my family members unravel. Extreme emotion was strange to me, and I often thought rather wistfully how nice it must be to feel strongly about something, anything. Trial by fire was essential to build character, I thought, and if I didn't feel anything, how was I to build my own?

So, although I came to the U.S. ostensibly to study, I mostly came to experience life. I came prepared to be vulnerable and open to new experiences, willing to feel disappointment, anger, sadness, hurt, loneliness all the negative emotion that thusfar seemed to have eluded me. Knowing them, I could finally realize what would make me happy.

Well, I got what I wanted. I made the best of friends -- one of who brought me the loneliest, saddest times I'd experienced. I felt the hurt of being misjudged by people I cared for. My confidence in myself ebbed away as my personal life deteriorated in tandem with my academic life. But I was right about one thing -- my unhappiness forced me to take control of my life. I made some hard academic decisions, like switching from broadcasting to print journalism. I took up a job in a small U.S. town where I was one of three non-white folks. I didn't know a soul.

And along the way, I made some right decisions, like starting to date P, now my husband.

Yes, it's been 12 years since I first met my husband. At first, we were acquaintances who'd occasionally bum cigarettes off each other. Then we became friends who'd go dancing in a group once a while. More than 10 years ago, we began to fall in love.

I chucked my dream of going back to Bombay with nary a thought but to be with P. And though I've missed my city, I've grown to love other places too: some small unassuming Midwestern towns, other big Western cities. At all places, with all experiences, I've learned and grown as a person beyond my wildest expectations.

And by growing, I've eventually discovered the key to my happiness (drumrolls please): It's not about finding out who I am. It's about changing myself to who I want to be.

A dozen years from now, I'm probably still going to live in the U.S., a mommy to one ABCD teenager and one ABCD pre-teen (heaven help me). But few things I hope will remain constant: my need to learn, my desire to grow and to do both with my husband always by my side.