Freelancing and an Award

I haven’t blogged in 4 months! Yikes! I hadn’t even realized I would be away for so long. No time for excuses and feeling sorry for myself this time. I need to look myself in the mirror and give myself a good slap on the forehead for procrastinating for this long. Plain and simple. That’s what it is. Procrastination. Because if I wanted to I guess I could write every single day. But it took a freelancing project and a blog award to shake me from my reverie and ask myself, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, woman?”

First the freelancing bit. I am mighty happy (with much jumping and whooping) to report that I am back to serious freelancing. I had never really stopped freelance writing, doing bits of this and that throughout my pregnancy last year and even after that. But I had stopped working with my friend Kavita. Old readers of this blog (yes, I like to imagine that I’ve been blogging for eons and have like a gazillion readers) will probably remember my mentioning working with her. We work so well together, I wonder how I ever managed projects all by myself. Just last week she called to ask if maybe I was interested in this lucrative project, and I, who was pulling my hair out due to the frustration of domesticity, jumped at her offer.

While I love taking care of my kids, and cooking for them, and feeding them and putting them to sleep and playing with them and doing every other lil thing that goes into bringing up a child, I started to crack under the stress of it all. I wanted ME time. And I wasn’t getting it. I wanted to work, for no one but myself. I wanted to spend money that I had worked for myself. Yes, we women are a weird lot. But you know what I’m talking about, right?

So you can see how much I welcomed the freelancing projects. But it was going to be tough. I still had the kids and regular chores to take care of, which pretty much is a full day. To top that, we have a wedding in the family this month and LOTS of tasks pending there. But I JUST.HAD.TO.DO.IT. So I started with fretting and cribbing and biting the heads off everyone around me. Then I found the 2 to 3 hours of almost uninterrupted work time every afternoon. And then, when the need arose, I arose… at 3:30 am to get the damn assignment delivered on time.

And I made it! The first assignment went off today and I got such a high sending it a day early that my fingers are dancing just typing about it.

Okay, the second thing I mentioned was the blog award. My second award. See it proudly displayed on the right there? I know anyone can give anyone an award in the blogosphere. Blogs don’t have to go through a rigorous round of scrutiny by a panel of expert judges to get an award. I mean, it is perfectly possible for me to write nonsense, which I believe I sometimes do, and maybe, just maybe someone might decide to give me an award. But still… it’s an award. This wonderful girl who I don’t know at all has been reading my posts and liking them. In fact, she likes my posts so much that she decided to bestow me an award that reads ‘The Versatile Blogger’. Thank you. For spreading some joy. Because that’s what compliments are, aren’t they? Little snippets of joy passed from one human being to the other.

D is for Dreams...

I’m running a day late in the ABC challenge so I’m going to try putting up two short posts today.

I googled for quotes about dreams and the search results threw up a long list of interesting quotes by famous people. Some were funny, some were preachy but mostly they were just blah. Nothing connected to my perception of dreams. That maybe because an individual’s dreams are something so personal that it would be difficult for another person to relate to them. Only one worthy quote comes to mind impromptu. In the words on Cinderella, “A dream is a wish your heart makes”.

I used to have a wonderful collection of animated movies, right from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs to The Little Mermaid, Aladdin and Cinderella. The stories contributed hugely to my day dreams about my future – meeting my Prince Charming, good conquering evil, living happily ever after in a palace (I was ready to settle for a mansion though.) Some years later, when I was still in school, I read a lot about how these traditional fairy tales were so politically incorrect. Why did the hero and heroine of the story have to be fair and good looking? Why was good and evil so contrasted? Why couldn’t there be grey characters with insecurities and bad habits, who we can relate to? I pondered on this too and tended to agree. We didn’t really need these stereotypes moulding our dreams, telling us what our ultimate aims and hopes must be. No wonder I always like the Beauty and the Beast story – I found it endearing that Beauty fell in love with the Beast despite what he looked like.

I always hated it when people discussed looks and complexion. It sounded petty and superficial. I vowed that when the time came to choose a husband (yes, I actually imagined there would be several suitors, each falling over themselves asking for my hand in marriage!), appearance would be secondary in the decision making process. What mattered was what lay in his heart. I’m convinced that my thoughts on the matter pleased the Lord so much, that He decided to reward me with what I didn’t even ask for, but probably what my childhood dreams were about – a handsome husband, with a heart of gold.

So I still, kind of, root for the politically incorrect fairy tales. And, it looks like they are back in fashion too. Check this out. Apparently, it is now all good to believe in those lofty, dreamy story tales we grew on. And, here is the alternative. You decide what you want your kids to hear. And dream about. :)

D is for Dreams...

I’m running a day late in the ABC challenge so I’m going to try putting up two short posts today.

I googled for quotes about dreams and the search results threw up a long list of interesting quotes by famous people. Some were funny, some were preachy but mostly they were just blah. Nothing connected to my perception of dreams. That maybe because an individual’s dreams are something so personal that it would be difficult for another person to relate to them. Only one worthy quote comes to mind impromptu. In the words on Cinderella, “A dream is a wish your heart makes”.

I used to have a wonderful collection of animated movies, right from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs to The Little Mermaid, Aladdin and Cinderella. The stories contributed hugely to my day dreams about my future – meeting my Prince Charming, good conquering evil, living happily ever after in a palace (I was ready to settle for a mansion though.) Some years later, when I was still in school, I read a lot about how these traditional fairy tales were so politically incorrect. Why did the hero and heroine of the story have to be fair and good looking? Why was good and evil so contrasted? Why couldn’t there be grey characters with insecurities and bad habits, who we can relate to? I pondered on this too and tended to agree. We didn’t really need these stereotypes moulding our dreams, telling us what our ultimate aims and hopes must be. No wonder I always like the Beauty and the Beast story – I found it endearing that Beauty fell in love with the Beast despite what he looked like.

I always hated it when people discussed looks and complexion. It sounded petty and superficial. I vowed that when the time came to choose a husband (yes, I actually imagined there would be several suitors, each falling over themselves asking for my hand in marriage!), appearance would be secondary in the decision making process. What mattered was what lay in his heart. I’m convinced that my thoughts on the matter pleased the Lord so much, that He decided to reward me with what I didn’t even ask for, but probably what my childhood dreams were about – a handsome husband, with a heart of gold.

So I still kind of root for the politically incorrect fairy tales. And looks like they are back in fashion too. Check this out. Apparently it is now all good to believe in those lofty dreamy story tales we gre upon. And, here is the alternative. You decide what you want your kids to hear. And dream about. :)

B is for Blah Blah...

I have never been big on talking. My mother says I started talking very early and just wouldn’t stop. I would talk and talk and talk but only in the comfort of my family circle. In front of guests or outsiders, I would be one of those children who would speak only when spoken to.

The years rolled by and even though I would talk a lot among my friends and on the phone with them, I was not a confident talker. I was bad at telling stories and I usually didn’t know how to come to the point. More often than not, when I tried to debate with someone on a topic, the reasoning came out all wrong. Not the way it was in my mind.

Ironically, I loved participating in speech competitions. I used to work hard at preparing for them, practicing for hours in front of a mirror till I got every line and expression perfect. I have won a couple too, not because I’m a good speaker, but because I practiced so hard. It gave me a thrill to stand in front of a listening crowd and deliver my speech. I would be extremely nervous and feel faint even, thinking of what I’m going to do, but ultimately it was like getting a high. And I loved that.

Around this time I came across a prayer in the Holy Quran - Chapter 20 (Surah Taha), verses 25 to 28. The Almighty God commands the Prophet Moses to go the Pharoah to call him to the right path. It is believed that the Prophet had a problem with his speech, and hence before going to the Pharoah he prayed to God.

"O my Lord! Expand my breast; Ease my task for me; And remove the impediment from my speech, So they may understand what I say.”

This prayer touched a chord with me the moment I read it. Since that day I have recited this prayer every single day of my life, randomly and particularly, when I have something important to say, either to a crowd or to an individual.

I’m a listener. I love listening. I would remember my friends talking about how they get so bored in those boring dinner parties where their moms and the other aunties would just talk and talk. But I remember enjoying those times. I would happily sit at the periphery of such groups and hope that no one asks me anything. I would be content in just listening to them talk. It was fascinating to study the different people and the various personalities that society holds. I rarely took note of what they wore or how pretty they looked. I’m not a very good observer like that. But I would take note of the way they spoke and how they spoke it. I could make out honesty and the lack of it. I would notice subtle hints in their talk about what their lives were about. It was fascinating.

Today, I don’t attend such dinner parties because the social life I have after marriage is vastly different from that of my younger days. My best friends, the ones I would speak to for hours in my school days, now live far away. We’ve all gotten so busy with our lives that those long conversations have become few and far between, but thankfully are still alive. I’ve come to realise that I have no patience for chit chat anymore. I can manage a few minutes of polite conversation but mindless banter annoys me. I also have no patience for people who repeat things – again and again. It is such a huge waste of time. There are just too many people out there who painstakingly spell things out, things that are understood and don’t need to be put into words. I get so annoyed when that happens, I wish I could hurry the person up. The only people who are allowed to get away with spelling things out are kids.

When my daughter Zainab started to talk, I realised she was going to be very different from me. She also began early and started talking and talking. Her vocabulary grew in leaps and bounds and she spoke clear grammatically correct sentences in Hindi when other kids her age were still learning to say Mama. More than her vocabulary, her thought process amazed us. She was a keen observer and would use new words in her speech all the time. Even if she doesn’t know what some word means, I have found her trying to use the new word in almost every sentence, till it became a part of her speech. Sometimes she will be busy playing with her toys or watching television while her father and I will be having a conversation, and a little later she will mention something that we spoke about, even though we had no idea she was paying attention to us.

Zainab is turning 3 in May. Someone told me recently that Zainab has the vocabulary of a 10 year old. That might be an exaggeration but is it very close to the truth. Just a few weeks ago her playgroup teacher said the same thing about her though process and how bright she was. She also said that Zainab is quite a composed child because she often sees her ‘explaining’ things to the other children or helping them with their games. She is composed at home, at least not most of the time. She is like a regular boisterous little toddler who needs constant attention and entertaining. When she paints, she paints her face and hands more than she paints on the paper. When she’s making ‘towers’ with her building blocks, she is also throwing the blocks right across the room in order to make a big mess, just the way she likes it. When the ads appear on television she watches awe struck, and has now learnt to sing/speak along with almost all the ad jingles and brand tag lines. I’ve often heard her say which she is deep in play, “Dil jo chahe paas laye.” Or “I’m lovin it!”

She started speaking English a few months ago. We consciously chose for her to learn English as a second language because we wanted her to be fluent in her mother tongue first. That achieved, we began speaking to her in English. My husband and I speak to each other in English, so Zainab already understood the language. She loves speaking English. She tries to speak in English all the time. Even if she can’t find the right words she will say something to get her point across. It’s wonderful to see how she is learning the language, almost on her own.

Out of the blue, a few days ago, we found that she suddenly developed a speech problem. We are not sure if it is something to worry about or something that will solve on its own. We are going to speak to an expert about it and see how we can help her overcome it as soon as possible. It breaks my heart but I know we have to be strong about whatever it is. Until then, I find myself constantly reciting my favourite prayer.

A is for Ache...

When I became a mom for the first time, it was like opening the doors wide open for all types of aches and pain to set shop inside my body. I suddenly felt like I was in someone else’s body. It felt old, tired and abused. The C-section was traumatic because I never expected something of that sort. And apart from the surgery pain, which stayed for a loooooong time, my muscles were all weak and devoid of energy. And this blasted hip ache started that continues to plague me.

I went through the new-mom-depression phase for a while too. I wondered why people want to go through all this to have kids. Why do they want to kill their strong bodies by putting themselves though the crazy pregnancy-delivery process? Why do they want to completely change the lives they were leading and devote every moment to a screaming tiny newborn? Why do you want to forsake sleep and leisurely baths and other fun stuff to this human being that came out of your body? And to top it all, it is a thankless job. You are supposed to do it. Because you are a mom.

At the same time, I was horrified at myself for having these thoughts. Why didn’t I naturally love being a mom? Why didn’t my love just overflow from my heart and banish all these negative thoughts? Weren’t moms meant to be made of unconditional love? What was wrong with me??!!

Thankfully, that phase lasted for only a couple of weeks and I was converted when I finally fell in love with my baby. My beautiful baby girl Zainab. She slowly taught me what it meant to become a mom. She taught me unconditional love. She gave me all the answers to why people have children. And slowly everything became worth it. The sleepless nights, the constant crying, the fussy meal times, the physical exertion, the absence of a social life... it was all worth it. Because I was a mom.

Now apart from the physical aches that were present, I realised another ache. One that hurt much much more. The aches in my heart that I got when my darling little girl got hurt. Or when she struggled with something. Each time I would wish I could wish away her pain. Or physically remove the pain from her body and place it in mine. Her vaccination days made me weep long before and long after the pricks. Every tooth that sprouted through her gums made me instinctively place my hand on my own jaw wondering how bad it must be for her. When she was around 10 months she had a bad case of constipation. It broke my heart to see her body go rigid and her face all contorted as she cried out for me to do something to help her. It’s heart-wrenching to see your child suffer. And it’s amazing that parents suddenly become so vulnerable to aches when it comes to their child.

Every day is a test when you are a parent. Today I have another reason for my heart to get all knotted up with pain and fear. Another reason to have the tears spilling over my cheeks at the most inconvenient of times. I won’t get into the details in this post; I’ll save it for another time. But when Zainab is older, I want her to know that her mom is going to be there for her every step of the way. It’s all just part of the surprises life keeps throwing up. Like hurdles in a race. This too shall pass, sweetheart.

On Heat, Kids and Writing

Mumbai’s heat is getting to me. This year, instead of the climate slowly changing from not-so-hot to somewhat-hot to kinda-hot to really-hot, nature decided to scream ‘SURPRISE PEOPLE’ and overnight (literally) the weather changed from not-so-hot to really-truly-hot. And I can’t handle it! Living in Bangalore for over four years spoilt me and I forgot there were places on earth where heat ruled like a fire-fisted dictator. This heat is making me wish I were an ice-cube sitting squarely in the ice tray of my freezer. It is making me crave flimsy malmal clothing that will lovingly let the air in and stop this meltdown. I want to sit all day long in a bubbly bathtub with the fresh clean smell of lemon and mint around me. Sigh. As much as I love you, oh dear city, I cannot for the life of me figure out how to deal with your blazing, overwhelming, bheja-frying heat and the sticky-itchy-sweaty feeling you give me whenever I find myself in a non-air-conditioned environment . What to do?

Apart from the heat, something else is driving me up the wall the past couple of days. No time to write. Even when there is time, there is no concentration. Too many distractions. Mostly in the form of one toddler and one infant. Even when they are asleep I have no peace. Why is she so restless? Why doesn’t his cold go away already? Why has she lost her appetite? What should I pack in her lunch box tomorrow? Should I start him on Cerelac next month or some homemade concoction? I really need to buy them some new clothes. She needs a white T-shirt to go with those shorts. Things like these are on my mind all the time and it’s not helping that my kids have been unwell for quite some time now. I’ve been taking them to the paediatrician so often now that I’ve become the main contributor to the doctor’s income.

But writing is what I need to do to stay sane. Especially since I have this story for a novel bouncing around in my head. Not just bouncing, it actually feels like its throwing itself onto the inner walls of my mind and making a huge ruckus. Like a claustrophobic lunatic trying to find his way out of a small windowless room. I better let him out before he does some serious damage to himself.

This claustrophobic lunatic is, in reality, my muse. He’s a bit like me. As in, I’m claustrophobic and I’m a self-proclaimed lunatic. Occasionally, at least. But otherwise he is very different from who I am. When he gets his genius ideas, he can’t sit still. He will hop and jump and whoop loudly and sometimes shout eureka. I have to quieten him down when he gets this way. He can be very pushy. He usually wins arguments about the writing so I have learnt to just shut up when he’s dictating. But on some days he turns into another person altogether. He gets fat and lazy and absolutely refuses to get any work done. I have to beg and plead, and then when I’ve lost my patience I threaten him. It doesn’t always work. I call those the ‘dry days’, when I haven’t written anything at all. But on our good days, when the ink from are pens are flowing forth, we are able to work amicably and churn out something decent.

Writers really are a crazy bunch of people. There is a lot of interesting stuff going on inside our heads, so we decide to live in our own self-created parallel universes instead of living in the real world. This piece supports my theory. I wish I could explain to people how important it is to give me a little time to myself so I can write. But with one hand balancing the baby on my hip and the other holding onto the toddler’s chubby little hand, I hardly think my request will be taken seriously. Even my muse finds it amusing.

Super-Nanny Wanted

Disclaimer: No offence meant to anyone who has or has gone through a life-threatening disease. Nor to someone who has seen a loved one suffer. Offence is meant, however, to the loony ones like me who perpetually play tragedy queens in their boring lives.

You’ll have to get a sonography done.

That’s what my gynaecologist told me last week when I went to her about a persistent problem. I shrugged and said okay. It sounded a bit ominous, but I really wasn’t worried. In fact, I wondered what would happen if the report showed I had a life-threatening disease. Instead of the thought scaring me, it kind of... well... sounded pretty cool. Does that make me morbid? Or just a really weird person?

I caught myself day dreaming about how the doctor would study the report, frown and study it for a few minutes. Then she would look at me concerned and break the unfortunate news to me gently. I would look at her shocked, unable to think. The good doctor would press her lips together and give me her practiced sympathetic look.
Deciding to be strong about it, I would look at her and ask rationally, “What are my options?”

She would rattle off a list of tests, procedures and therapies that would have to be conducted immediately. “But you have to understand,” she would switch her tone from professional to sympathetic again, “there is no guarantee. We can only delay the inevitable.”

With this optimistic thought in my mind I would walk out in a daze and wonder what to tell my family. What would hubby say? More importantly, what would he think? Would he start making plans of marrying again once I’m out of the picture? Naturally, Wife Bina Life wouldn’t appeal to him much, considering there are two little issues (as they call them in matrimonial ads) to take care of.

But what about me? Do I want him to remarry? Hmmm... that’s a tricky one. My answer would have been an outright NO if we didn’t have kids. I mean, why should he when he can spend his free time praying that he joins me as soon as possible, in heaven or whichever place I’m enrolled for in ‘ever after land’. But the equation changes when there are kids to think about. They need parents, right? Not just a dad, who in all likelihood, will continue being at work 16 hours a day. And suddenly, just like that, I’m playing Kajol’s character in ‘We Are Family’. Or rather, Susan Sarandon’s role in ‘Stepmom’, which, by the way, is a movie that I looooooved.

I wondered who could fit the stepmom’s role in my kids’ lives. No one I know at least. What kind of person should she be? If I am going to kick the bucket soon, I would really like to recruit a person for the job well in advance.

This is the requirement:

1. Most definitely, NOT sexy and svelte. She must NOT be fat either but should have at least a slight problem maintaining her weight which tends to sit on her thighs more than other places.
2. She should be reasonably healthy otherwise and devoid of any life-threatening disease.
3. She must NOT have thick glossy hair. Her hair must be slightly rough, of medium length and she should have a bad hair day at least three times a week.
4. She should NOT be instantly endearing. My kids should dislike her slightly at first and then slowly warm up to her kind ways.
5. She has to be a super cook who insists on eating the healthiest food, made from scratch. None of that ready-made nonsense. Please refer to this post for more details on the same. She must bake.
6. She should have some experience working with little kids. Like a governess or sorts who has worked in one of these new age schools who know exactly how to deal with errant children. Just a firm and unflinching voice that reasons rather than scolds, and the kids will magically turn into angelic little cherubs.

In short, I want a not-so-attractive super nanny.

Come to think of it, my hubby needn’t remarry after all. Super-nanny can be just that – a nanny. A paid one. Brilliant. Stepmom can so kindly go take a hike. Of course, hubby will have to be convinced about there being no need to remarry, but he’ll give in eventually. One has to fulfil the wishes of a woman on her deathbed, right?

So then, point #7 will be.

7. She must be a widow in her fifties, religious, with absolutely no interest in younger men. Or any men for that matter.

On second thoughts, I would not even have to die for super-nanny to enter the household. Yay!

So when I actually went to the doctor’s office with the scan report, and she frowned when she looked at it, I got a little worried. I’m not ready to die yet, I wanted to tell her. Let me live a few more years in comfort since super-nanny will be taking care of the kids and home, while I relax with hubby on a beach in Maldives. But then I saw her smile and say, “It doesn’t look like anything is wrong. No need to worry at all.”

Okay, then. No problem. Then, why am I feeling slightly disappointed? Where’s the fun in telling everyone that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? I guess I was kind of getting used to the idea of being the tragic heroine in the movie of my daydreams.

Oh well, at least super-nanny’s awesome made-from-scratch chocolate chip cookies will cheer me up.

P.S.: Those of you who fit the description mentioned in the post, please send in your resumes.

Kitchen Banter

Today I made some pizzas. Actually, you can say I ‘assembled’ the pizzas and heated them in the oven. ‘Assembling’ consisted of buying ready pizza bases from Monginis, spreading Maggi Hot & Sweet Tomato Chilli Sauce, adding sliced chicken sausages that were lying in my freezer, putting in some chopped capsicum, shredded processed cheddar cheese (I had cheddar so didn’t bother buying mozzarella) and finally topping it all with sliced black olives – straight out of a jar. This master piece was then heated in the oven till it could pass off as respectable pizza.

I served it with a flourish at tea time being mighty pleased with myself, considering all the effort that when into ‘assembling’ it. My daughter immediately refused to eat it unless ALL the toppings were taken off. After much deliberation (read threatening) we reached a truce and only the sausages and capsicum came off.

The MIL, who was feeding the ungrateful little child, said “The bread is ready-made, na?” I smiled weakly and nodded. In our household ‘ready-made’ is a bad word. Ready-made. Ready-maid. Like when one talks about a person being ‘easy’. *wink, wink* And the use of these ‘easy’ items amounts to cheating in cooking. There was a time when I would make the pizza from scratch - knead the bread dough, cook up a luscious red tomato and oregano sauce and use freshly cooked chicken pieces. But those were the carefree days, when cooking was not a chore, it was an art form.

For some who grew up in Bahrain on a hugely unhealthy diet of frozen meat products, packaged munchies, school canteen sandwiches and weekly take-out dinners, I learnt that cooking needn’t be a big pain. You just need to know how to manipulate the original recipe by using the various products available in supermarkets. And voila! You can dish out scrumptious dishes with minimum time and effort expended. Though I loved cooking when I was younger, I quickly realised that I only enjoyed it when the recipes were super easy. I mean, why would anyone in their right mind spend hours in the kitchen when consuming the results only takes minutes?

So tomatoes got replaced by packaged tomato purée, real coconut got beaten down by its powdered and desiccated clones, lemon juice came out of a bottle, and everything got a dose of that wonderful magic ingredient – chicken stock that comes in a cute little packaged cube.

Well, as fate would have it, I got married into a family who doggedly believed that food must be as fresh as fresh can be. If the chicken was not walking around on its own an hour before it was served on the table, it is inedible. Frozen or packaged food were looked upon as the freaky, tattoo sporting punk distant cousins of ‘real’ food. Ready-to-cook food like instant noodles were eyed supiciously, as if they would instantly wreak havoc in unsuspecting bellies.

Right after my marriage when hubby and I were trying to settle into our new home in Bangalore and I was learning the ropes of managing a kitchen all by myself, I brought home a pack of tomato purée. I told him this would save me time in the morning before rushing to work – I don’t have to chop tomatoes or wait for them to soften before adding the other ingredients. He looked at me incredulously, like I was a mad woman talking and finally said, “You have got to be kidding me!” I tried reasoning with him and when that didn’t work, I turned the tables on him and looked at him like he was the crazy one, saying I used this all the time in Bahrain. He smiled and said as sweetly as possible, “That was in the freaking desert! This is Bangalore. You get fresh vegetables here, sweetheart.”

And that was that.

However, after five years of steady brain-washing I have succeeded in getting him to go easy on my ready-made cookery. Okay, actually we’ve met half somewhere halfway. I now try and use the ‘ready-maids’ sparingly and occasionally. Sometimes I do cheat and add them when no one’s watching, telling them to hush when they giggle and gurgle in the gravies.

After having kids I’ve realised how important it is to eat healthy and now I’ve started obsessing about them eating the freshest of the fresh. And when my daughter points to packet of munchies in the grocery store, I look at her and say, “You have got to be kidding me!”

Turning 30

One of the many reasons I love Facebook is that today it made me feel like a superstar.

I turned 30 today, which in itself is a depressing fact. It was difficult enough reconciling with the fact that I’m no longer a teenager. All of the sudden nature conspires against me by making me 30. Where did the last decade vanish? Oh yeah, I was busy graduating, getting married, learning to cook, finding a job, trying to get pregnant, having a miscarriage, finally having a baby, being terrorised by the baby, moving cities, and finally having a second baby. Whoa! No wonder my twenties whizzed by. I completely forgot to stop and smell the roses.

Coming back to Facebook, I am truly touched and humbled with the numerous wishes flooding my wall. More so because I am very very very bad at wishing people on their birthdays and anniversaries. Firstly, I’m bad at remembering dates. Other than my own birthday, that is. Secondly, I guess I am just plain lazy. I mean, the names are there staring at me every single day on Facebook and I choose to ignore them. Today, was an eye opener for me. Some of the people who wished me are on my friends list, but aren’t really my ‘friends’. You know how it is. I probably just added them because we went to the same school. Or because she is someone’s brother’s wife’s cousin who I once chatted with at a wedding. We added each to our respective friend lists, being happy in the knowledge that our number of supposed ‘friends’ is going up, but didn’t really bother to even say hi after responding to the friend request. Who can say that that’s wrong when the feeling is mutual?

But after receiving birthday wishes from almost everybody but Obama and Sanjeev Kapoor (yes, I admit it, the latter is on my list), I’m speechless. Thank you, everyone. Thank you for the wishes, love, regards, prayers, calls, messages, missed calls (sorry about that), everything that made an ordinary girl feel extraordinary. I now vow to stop being so damn selfish and take some time to bring a smile on my ‘friends’ faces when their big day comes up. I’m hoping these little gestures will help build some bridges and then we can finally stop being just another number in each other’s lists.

Terrible Tuesday

This morning has been quite a strain on my nerves. I woke up to find that the constant hip ache that has plagued me since the start of this pregnancy has decided to do some more damage. The pain is currently radiating to various connecting bones and stretching right down to my toes. Now my penguin walk (given the size of my ever growing belly) is even more pronounced and I feel like a penguin with crutches. At least that’s the pace I’m walking at.

The pregnancy has been weird for Z. As a toddler she finds it difficult to understand why her mamma is suddenly so tired all the time, why she can’t play wrestle and tickle games anymore, why she can’t sit on mamma’s tummy , why mamma won’t pick her up and carry her around (my heart breaks when she asks, so I do pick her up at times, only to be scolded by those around), among other things.

My lethargy has resulted in Z constantly running late for play school for about a week. The teachers at school usually take a few minutes of tardiness in their stride but today when we arrived a good 20 minutes late, the teacher-in-charge thought it best to bring it to my attention that being late is causing Z to miss out on the funnest part of school – nursery rhymes. I already knew this. But as I heard her gently and most politely give me a lesson on ‘Time and tide wait for no pre-schooler’, the blasted pain in my hips threatened to explode and my legs were ready to buckle. Not to be left behind, the little one growing in my womb decided to make a statement with a powerful kick. I struggled to be composed as I apologised for being late so often and assured her I would try my best to bring Z to school on time. I hope she didn’t notice the tears pricking my eyes, as she enquired about my health and commented on how weak I looked. Unable to handle the sudden concern about how I felt, I quickly ended the conversation and turned to walk back home, tears spilling over. The rain clouds gathered and decided to keep me company with their own tears and I wondered why oh why I was being so silly and full of self pity. The answer lies in this post – I hate messing up what I do and Z becoming a tardy child because of my problems is unforgivable.

Also it was just one of those days. The combination of physical discomfort and sleep deprivation was getting to me. Not to mention, the frustration of dealing with a tantrum-throwing toddler and the jitters of knowing that I’ll soon have to handle and be responsible for two children (not counting the hubby). Also, today is the day my feet have started to look a little swollen. I can only pray that I don’t end up with elephant feet like the last time I was pregnant. Lastly, I’ve been waiting all these months for the shiny and luscious head of hair that pregnant women can flaunt, but it just didn’t happen this time. *sigh* Okay, I’m done with wallowing in self pity.

Introspection is not always a good thing

The blasted nausea and dizzy spells have me lying in bed for more hours than I like, every evening. Apart from a break from work, and time to read, I have been able to think and introspect. A lot. Which is not always a good thing. One of my introspection sessions led me to compose a list of random things about myself. And I decided to put it up for everyone to see. *Gulp*

Please note that the points listed below are just random things about me that came to my mind. The list, in no way whatsoever, represents who I am. Okay, so with that important bit of information in mind, you may proceed.

10 random things about me

1. I adore cats. I don’t know why I have this of all things on the top of my list, but here is it. I really wish I could have a pet kitten, one that my kids and I could cuddle and take care of. But considering the rest of my family’s aversion to pets, I don’t see that happening. And I am not an okay-I-guess-a-gold-fish-will-do kind of pet lover.

2. I hate messing up what I do. I know nobody likes doing things wrong, but I obsess with things that don’t go my way. From failed culinary attempts, not-good-enough writing assignments, bad shopping choices, to the inability to handle certain conversations, I grandly obsess and obsess about how I could have done it better. And in the bargain I drive my hubby crazy. He happens to be the opposite of me. He not only spews lines like, ‘Let the past go; move on,’ but he actually can move on. Okay, why am I writing about my him? This is supposed to be a list of things of me. Which brings me to point number 3...

3. I have the attention span of a 5-year-old. Even in the middle of an important assignment, I need to go and read someone’s blog or check my email. After half-an-hour of procrastination, I need to slap myself and say the word FOCUS three times, aloud. I am generally a good listener, but when the person on the other end of the phone starts prattling endlessly about things I don’t really need to know, I will drift off to la-la land.

4. I don’t believe a lie has a colour. White, black, grey, they are all lies to me. And if there is one thing I can’t stand, it is dishonesty. I realise that this is in stark contrast to the way the world works. Everyone thinks a tiny little white lie to make someone feel better is okay, right? I don’t.

5. I believe in the goodness of people. Despite the weight of evil crushing everything good and right in the world, I desperately cling to the belief that there in a glimmer of hope, of light, of goodness in every heart. I will still teach my children to be careful of trusting too easily (we’ve burnt our fingers too many times with trust), but I will also teach them to give the good in people a chance. Once I figure out how to explain this delicate balance. *Sigh* Thinking about this reminds me of what a cruel, untrusting, difficult world we have built for ourselves.

6. I always wanted to have four kids. I love the idea of large families, siblings growing up together, a noisy household, filled with love and fun and games, a big pot of chicken stew bubbling in the kitchen (did I read that in a book somewhere?), homemade pizzas on weekends, the six of us stuffed into an SUV, picnicking in the park... okay, you get the picture. But after having one hurricane of a child, I decided I didn’t really need to add to India’s burgeoning population woes. I was happy with a one-child family. A few weeks ago that changed as well. Ho hum. I just can’t seem to stick to my own plans.

7. I hate travelling. Don’t get me wrong. I love seeing new places. I love going out. I love trying out new flavours, experiencing new cultures, and all that jazz. But what I don’t like is the process of getting there. The main reason being - I have motion sickness. I’m sure I would get sick travelling by Floo network (Harry Potter) too.

8. I can cry at the drop of a hat. I can see many people who know me nod their heads at this and smile as they recollect the countless times I have embarrassed myself. Happy, sad, hurt, angry, touched, sick, hopping mad, flustered, cranky, nostalgic, bored (?!!), you name the emotion, and I have the tears to go with it. I know. Tch tch.

9. I have no sense of direction. I am horrible with maps. I can’t remember routes to places, unless I’ve been there at least 10 times.

10. I think ephemeral is a beautiful word, even though it means fleeting, transient, momentary, brief. I recently learnt that change, however scary or intimidating, is actually a wonderful thing and it always happens for a reason. Be it a job change, a friend moving out of your life, a death, a birth, change in lifestyle, whatever. Life teaches you to grow with change.

My list has more negatives than positives. That doesn’t make me feel any better. So much for introspection. *sigh*