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."

???

Just after a bath tonight, Raina said, "Mommy, since I am a lady, I don't need to be married to have kids, right?"
"Er, no baby, you don't," my eyebrows raised high as heaven.

Just a couple of weeks ago, the topic of being a mommy came up while I was bringing her home from school.
"Mommy, A [Raina's best friend -- a girl] and I are going to live together and not have any babies," R remarked.
I was truly surprised. It was about two years ago that Raina was threatening to have a dozen offspring.
"I thought you wanted to have a bunch of babies," I said. "How come you changed your mind?"
"Well, I don't want to be cut up for the babies to come out," she replied.
"But, but..." I floundered, "you don't always HAVE to be cut up for babies to be born."
"How else are the babies going to come out?"
I sure walked right into that one.
"I will explain it to you when you are older," I answered feebly.
"Maybe when I am 10?" came the pat question.
"Sure, sure, that's a good age."
Phew. Close call there.

Supermoms

There are many benefits to taking Rohan to the park every morning. One, he stops saying, "Go there! Go there!" -- his morning chant until I give in. Two, there's the power of fresh air, swings and slides to tire a 2-year-old. Three, I get to hang out with other stay-at-home mommies, though there are usually more nannies than mommies at the park. It's also amazing to see the number of grandparents there, keeping up gamely with the little ones, while their parents work. I'm totally envious of these parents. They come really close to getting it all -- career and minimum guilt about leaving their kids behind.
But what I want to talk about are the times I hang out with other SAH mommies. There are the multitaskers, mothers who talk on their cellphones while pushing the swing. Others chat with other moms, while their kids run around. A mom or two just sits in the sidelines, probably enjoying a moment of peace. Then there are the inspiring ones -- the ones with teeny babies in a sling against their chest, patiently explaining to their 2-year-old why they need to share.
These look like Supermoms to me.
I met one at the park today. She had her 10-day-old son on a sling, while her just-turned-2-year-old boy climbed, jumped around and almost broke his neck a few dozen times. And she was telling me how much fun she was having. I think my eyes were wide. I mean, I love babies and all. Cute things, wot. But to deal with a 2-year-old and a newborn at the same time would have me headed to the nearest loony bin. She must have the patience of a saint.
But it seems such a common American trend these days -- to have babies who are months apart. And the moms just deal. Which makes me feel, why do I think it's a big deal to raise a 2-year-old and a 5-year-old? Why is it so hard for me? Why do I need my time away from my kids, my personal space, something "other" than taking care of the kids, without all of which I start getting realllllly snappy?
The plan is to put Rohan in a preschool in September, when he's close to 3 and hopefully potty trained. At which time, I will, also hopefully, work from home as I used to with Raina. But September seems far away, and I am soooooo bored.

Rain

It's always wonderful when it rains in Southern California. Mainly because it happens so rarely. Life slows down, as if straining to listen, to memorize, the soft rhythm of the raindrops.
Rohan goes, "Raink, raink!"
Raina rushes out, arms aloft and wide, an eager recipient for what the dark clouds may bring. The world greys and glistens, while we dance.
Lights turn on in the daytime, echoing the warm glows inside us. We huddle close, listen to music. I drink tea, and more tea. The kids nap because they feel like napping. And I blog, finally, after months.

Here Comes Trouble

Typical scenario at breakfast/lunch/dinner:

Mom and Rohan wrestle to keep Rohan on his chair at the dining table. Rohan agrees to stay, provided he's standing or leaning precariously against the back of the chair.
Mom: Rohan, noooooo! Sit properly baby, or you're going to fall!
Rohan: (happily) Fall.
Mom: No fall. Rohan will get an owie.
Rohan agreeably sits down -- for precisely 3 seconds. Then he's leaning on the table, climbs it. Mom firmly picks him up and puts him in his chair.
Mom: (pointing to Rohan's nose) Rohan, you are trouble. TROUBLE.
Rohan: (perplexed) Nose?
Mom: Yes, Rohan's nose.
Rohan (smiling toothily): No. Tubble.
Indeed.
Need I add the terrible two's have begun in full force Chez Muser?

Why Work?

My neighbor was in a mood today. She keeps going back and forth over her decision to re-join the workforce after having 2 kids, even though she's now been doing it for over a year. Every day after she comes home from work, she says, "I just want to resign. I miss my kids. I should just resign."
Today, she talked about why she went back to work.
"It was just killing my marriage," she confided. "I couldn't stop myself from resenting K. I mean, he had lunch breaks, where he would get to relax. I would be so frazzled by the end of the day, watching the kids."
She talked about her friends who were stay-at-home moms, how they would endlessly bitch about their husbands. Maybe she was waiting for me to make a similar confession.
Instead, I said, "It is hard. It was harder for me when I had just Raina to take care of. Now that I have two, it's easier."
A paradox, I know. But what I mean is that I am now more used to the job.
After Raina was born, the first couple of years were miserable for me. I had been working till a month before her birth, and I sorely missed being outside the home, interacting with fellow adults. Motherhood seemed such an isolating experience to me. And anyone who's ever earned a paycheck can testify that there's a unique satisfaction in making your own money. For not just days but months I resented my husband for being able to say "bye," turn around and head to work. I couldn't sympathize with his concerns at work, simply because I didn't feel I had anything worthwhile to contribute to the discussion. There was nothing exciting going on in my life, or so it felt like to me. In short, I loved my daughter, but I was bored out of my skull.
So when she was 15 months or so, I put her in a home daycare for a few hours a week. It was so liberating to be the one to say "bye" and turn around and leave. It sounds pathetic, I know, but I needed that break from my daughter. I needed to use my brain, interact with grown-ups, make a little money and become a "productive" member of society again.
I continued to freelance from home until Rohan was born. Then I went back to being a full-time stay-at-home mom. Sure, I did a couple of projects from home, but it was too taxing to work during naptime or after the kids went to bed at night. So I gave it up. I could've put Rohan in a daycare instead. I chose not to -- because I was actually having FUN.
Sure there are hard days. It's true that raising two doesn't double but quadruples the workload. The laundry is endless, for example. The dishes, oh my goodness. And then there are worse days when I feel like an unpaid servant.
But I am not one, I remind myself. I am a mom. And I get the chores, but I also get the hugs, the taking care of booboos, the questions, the laughter, the sheer joy of watching my kids be kids, be siblings, bond and grow.
I don't resent my husband anymore for going to work everyday. Some days, I actually feel sorry for him because he's missing out on some fun times. But then when he comes home, I get to recount what the kids were up to all day. And no, I no longer think I have nothing worthwhile to contribute to our discussions anymore.
So if you're a working mom, I want to hear from you. Was resenting your husband part of the reason why you went back to work? Just curious.

No News Is Definitely Bad News...

... and there's been no news of Pikey for almost 2 months now. We've informed our neighbors, put up fliers, visited the neighborhood animal shelter. I had pinned my hopes on the shelter because Pikey didn't have a tag or a collar and if someone had found her, that's where she would be.
There were lots of cats. Lots of black cats. But none with Pikey's sweet face. None who was 8 years old. None who meowed happily on seeing me and Rohan. So we went back to the car. I buckled Rohan to his seat, sat down behind the wheel and bawled.
There's nothing else for me to do.

Pikey The Explorer

This Saturday, it will be 2 weeks since we last saw Pikey The Cat.
It's been a long 2 weeks.
Since then, we've wept, called out her name endless times, walking our front yard and back yard.
We were hopeful, at first. Even though the longest Pikey had been out was one night. Always the next morning, we would see her black funny face at our backdoor, meowing piteously, waiting to be let in so that she could run upstairs to our bed, cuddle on soft sheets and take a blissful nap.
When we didn't see her the next morning, we went looking, sure we would hear her meowing behind a garbage can or underneath the car parked on the driveway. When we'd looked and looked, we figured she was hiding somewhere waiting for the dark to make her way home. You see, while Pikey acted like a tiger on the prowl at night, during the day, she was just an itty bitty scared kitty.
So we waited that night. And waited. We checked the back door many times before finally falling asleep. Called out a few more times. Tried not to think of the coyotes the neighbors had seen nearby a few weeks ago. The first tears began to fall.
Of course we didn't tell Raina about our fears.
We told her that Pikey was off on a big adventure, exploring just like Dora.
Rohan thankfully is too small to miss her. Even though he was the one who adored her the most, followed her around like Mary's little lamb. She rarely minded it, often plopping down right next to him, so that he could pat her gently or tug at her tail.

As the days passed, the tears began to fall faster.
P and I recalled the many times Pikey had made us laugh in the 8 years she'd been with us. Recently, she'd made us angry more often than not. Bringing mice home. Clawing the new handmade rug. We'd been impatient with her, complaining about the black hair all over the house that she'd shed. Maybe she decided she'd had enough, P said.
I pointed out to him that through it all, Pikey still slept right on top of him at night. Or next to him. Somewhere within touching distance. That she still got attention in the evenings once the kids were in bed. Pikey time, we called it. She'd plop on a cushion on our laps and get caressed to her heart's content. Then off she'd go to the backyard, and from there to the canyon beyond, hunting mice, doing what cats do.
But when it was time for bed, we'd call out to her and she'd often come running back.
So we've put up some posters in our neighborhood. If anyone's seen a black cat with yellow eyes, skittish but affectionate and very, very loving, please call.
Deep in our hearts, we're still hoping. We see her everywhere, a black blob in the closet shelf, in the shadows of the house at night. But for now, the food and water bowls have been put away.

Raina Proposes

About a month ago, just when she was about to step into the bath, Raina had something important to say.
"Mom, when I grow up I'm going to marry Z," she said.
Z is Raina's best friend at preschool, and to him, she's the "awesomest" girl he knows. Z's a little younger to Raina, so he started in her class just a few months ago. One day they began chatting, and since then, it's been Z this, Z that Chez Muser. It wasn't hard to figure out why they became such fast friends. Z's parents are from Lahore and his resemblance to Raina is marked.
A couple of weeks after announcing her nuptials, Raina said, "Mom, I'm so glad Z is not my baby brother. Because if he was, I couldn't marry him, and I want to. I asked him today, and he said, 'OK.'"
"Oh, OK," I said weakly. "Good to know."
My 5-year-old girl just made her first proposal.