She has finished a year of school already. It seems like just yesterday that we were busying ourselves for N’s first day. She was all of 2 years and 4 months....
The entire household is a bundle of nerves. The husband has taken half a day off to participate in this momentous occasion, his longest break since an over-zealous attempt to connect with the younger lot at an inter-office cricket match went wrong 5 years ago. The only connection made on said occasion was with the orthopaedic surgeon at the friendly neighbourhood hospital.
Today is a much more traumatic day. Everything little N may need for her 2 ½ hours away from home is packed and ready – finger food, spoon food, health food, junk food, favourite toy, neighbour’s kids favourite toy, first aid kit (like a school with 200 kids would not have considered getting one!), our only family photograph in which all of us are smiling (lest she forget what her parents look like in those 2 ½ hours), and change of clothes that may be considered rather excessive even for a child stranded on a deserted island.
Had N been a little older or wiser she would have suspected us of packing her out of our lives for good!
Despite months of planning and rehearsing this day in our heads, we are running 20 minutes late and accusing fingers are pointing in all directions. With two MBAs and proven organisational capabilities and time management skills between the three of us, the only who appears anywhere close to capable or skilled is the one without the degree or track record. She watches her animated parents in action with the same rapt attention she pays a Tom and Jerry show.
All attempts at creating the impression of responsible and respectable parents are defeated, crushed and thrown out of the proverbial window when we eventually walk into school, 35 minutes late, all nerves and still arguing. To top it, we scrutinise the teachers, staff, other kids, their parents, their hair, their toe nails, spoken language and body language with the same paranoia that one might display when trapped in a roomful of convicted felons.
While we were in the midst of being reassured on the high standards of hygiene and the capabilities of the staff for the 77th time, N has decided to make herself comfortable in a corner of the classroom and was already experimenting with the play-way method of learning : she was studying the combined effect of glue and poster colours on her taste buds. My own taste buds were going into spasms right then. I think I will need to give home-schooling serious consideration.
We are told to leave and to be back two hours later. We don’t. We lurk, first outside the classroom, then outside the corridor and finally outside the gates, till the security guard, not the friendliest I have seen, forcibly removes us from the vicinity. We are left with little choice but to circle the school block in our car. We are lucky no suspicious neighbour had alerted the cops by this time.
Two hours and a empty fuel tank later, we return to pick up what we imagine would be a distraught and crying N. But out walks little Ms Sunshine, after planting a kiss here and a hug there, in no seeming hurry to rush into the arms of the nervous wreck her parents are.
Well, I don’t know what troubled me more – the extent of my separation pangs from the child or the child’s lack of the same!
I had a lot to learn about my kids, but am not sure if I am ready yet.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Hospital Horror
It is my third visit to the friendly neighbourhood hospital in as many weeks. It is becoming a habit of sorts these days. N has managed it again - the proverbial molehill has morphed into Mt. Everest -an innocuous insect bite has turned maliciously grave. We press the panic button, and faithful driver D who knows the grind by now, weaves past construction rubble, nonchalant workmen and stray animals that have become permanent fixtures en route to the hospital to reach us there in record time. I can’t be blamed if Schumi and his ilk appear like boy scouts to me right now.
Lesson no. 1 : Whether you storm into a hospital unannounced (like we did this time) or with an appointment secured after getting past 2 IVRs with 5 submenus each, 3 operators asking you the same set of 4 questions each, and 10 minutes of instrumental music along the way (like we usually do) – the waiting time is the same. The doctor will see you only when he will see you.
Warning no 1 for potential visitors : if you were not sick before securing the appointment, you most certainly will be in need of critical care by the time you hang up the phone – your BP will soar, your brow will sweat and muscles will be ready to go into spasms (learnt from multiple previous experiences with operators and IVRs).
We wait. We observe while we wait. Doctors in white coats shuffle purposefully in and out of consulting rooms; nurses without white coats shuffle even more purposefully than the doctors. A flat screen television repeatedly plays images of the hospital’s 5star facilities and imported equipment and a voice over tells you why this should be the preferred choice for all your healthcare needs. Those FMCG marketers could take a tip or two from these business savvy doctors.
Well, there is good news and bad news for us. The good news is that Mt Everest would after all be sorted with a course of antibiotics and a preventive TT shot. The bad news is that N doesn't take to injections well. She usually brings the roof down even before the injection is unwrapped. Today was no exception. A small crowd has already gathered outside the treatment room and diminutive, edgy Dr. D, having experienced the wrath of this phobic child in the past was praying for an emergency in the labour room or even a phone call that would take him away from situation at hand.
When gentle pleas, authority and good old fashioned humour failed to cut ice with the insurgent child, the seasoned mother in me recommends the use of brawn power. It takes four healthy nurses 25 harrowing minutes to pin down one limb each, before the deed is done.
I’m surprised that the doctor hadn’t collapsed in a heap yet. Now, if there is one person who deserves a wellness holiday in the Himalayas, it is Dr D from the friendly neighbourhood hospital.
The doctor checks our vaccination calendar and heaves a sigh of relief that there isn’t one scheduled for another three years. He has enough time to think about his course of action for that day in the distant future. Maybe one of us would have relocated by then or a well-timed flu or a well-planned holiday would keep him away.
Till then, peace and quiet reigns.
Lesson no. 1 : Whether you storm into a hospital unannounced (like we did this time) or with an appointment secured after getting past 2 IVRs with 5 submenus each, 3 operators asking you the same set of 4 questions each, and 10 minutes of instrumental music along the way (like we usually do) – the waiting time is the same. The doctor will see you only when he will see you.
Warning no 1 for potential visitors : if you were not sick before securing the appointment, you most certainly will be in need of critical care by the time you hang up the phone – your BP will soar, your brow will sweat and muscles will be ready to go into spasms (learnt from multiple previous experiences with operators and IVRs).
We wait. We observe while we wait. Doctors in white coats shuffle purposefully in and out of consulting rooms; nurses without white coats shuffle even more purposefully than the doctors. A flat screen television repeatedly plays images of the hospital’s 5star facilities and imported equipment and a voice over tells you why this should be the preferred choice for all your healthcare needs. Those FMCG marketers could take a tip or two from these business savvy doctors.
Well, there is good news and bad news for us. The good news is that Mt Everest would after all be sorted with a course of antibiotics and a preventive TT shot. The bad news is that N doesn't take to injections well. She usually brings the roof down even before the injection is unwrapped. Today was no exception. A small crowd has already gathered outside the treatment room and diminutive, edgy Dr. D, having experienced the wrath of this phobic child in the past was praying for an emergency in the labour room or even a phone call that would take him away from situation at hand.
When gentle pleas, authority and good old fashioned humour failed to cut ice with the insurgent child, the seasoned mother in me recommends the use of brawn power. It takes four healthy nurses 25 harrowing minutes to pin down one limb each, before the deed is done.
I’m surprised that the doctor hadn’t collapsed in a heap yet. Now, if there is one person who deserves a wellness holiday in the Himalayas, it is Dr D from the friendly neighbourhood hospital.
The doctor checks our vaccination calendar and heaves a sigh of relief that there isn’t one scheduled for another three years. He has enough time to think about his course of action for that day in the distant future. Maybe one of us would have relocated by then or a well-timed flu or a well-planned holiday would keep him away.
Till then, peace and quiet reigns.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Right and Wrong
Right from childhood you are taught the difference between good and bad; between right and wrong; how important it is to make the correct choices, not necessarily the easy choices in life. You diligently teach your kids the same values.
You are a darn good preacher. Are you a good practitioner?
Commandment no 1 : ‘Do not use bad words’
It is a Monday morning (not the best part of the day or week for you) and your under five is already running late for school. Just when you think you are going to make it past that last signal and through the school gates in time, a wretched #%*#*$ auto rickshaw springs out of nowhere bringing you and a strings of vehicles behind you to a screeching halt. About the same time, the signal turns red. The first commandment is broken, and how! Years of carefully controlled emotions and words that have never gotten past the tip of your lip gush forth with unstoppable speed and clarity. 5 year old gets a first-hand experience of the choicest expletives, straight from the perfect-until- this-moment parent’s mouth.
Someone sure had a lot of answering to do to a certain 5 year that night.
Commandment no 2 : ‘Do not lie’
It’s that time of the day when you are just about to hang up your boots for the day and go in for some well deserved me-time. The phone rings. Oh no! it’s that 9 pm caller who is certain to stretch the call until midnight; taking a hint has never been this caller’s strong point .What choice do you have but bring out unsuspecting 5 year old to the rescue.
‘Tell her I am not at home’ you instruct, standing right in front of the phone, in full flesh and blood.
‘My mom tells me to tell you that she is not home’ the bewildered kid parrots, in all sincerity.
Later that night, an anxious parent will be heard frantically explaining the concept of white lies to an already confused 5 year old.
Commandment no 3 : ‘It is the participation and not winning that matters’
This works well for normal everyday events...but don’t anybody dare remind you of that on sports day when you are screaming out from the stands to your first born on the field, ‘Kill him! Cream her! Faster! Faster!’.
Next to you in the stand is your second born, who has had no trouble understanding the third commandment, but is suddenly struggling to understand who this new monster sitting next to her is.
Commandment no 4 : ‘Share your things’
But all hell breaks loose at home the day child puts this to practice by generously distributing her lunch to friends and enemies alike in school; caveats and clauses are added – thou shalt not share lunch; thou shalt not share school books...
Commandment no 5 : ‘Do not cheat’
If greasing palms, fudging forms, deflating income, evading tax, buying pirated software, watching pirated CDs, breaking traffic rules when cops aren’t looking, binging on chocolate cake when family isn’t looking etc. can be excluded from the list, then you are doing fine on this commandment.
Point to ponder
You wonder why that 5 year old looks confused, distraught and world-weary most of the time? And you think it is because of the faulty education system, corrupt political system or perhaps the inescapable peer pressure (seriously? at 5?)
Maybe it’s time you added a new name to that list. No prizes though for guessing who!
You are a darn good preacher. Are you a good practitioner?
Commandment no 1 : ‘Do not use bad words’
It is a Monday morning (not the best part of the day or week for you) and your under five is already running late for school. Just when you think you are going to make it past that last signal and through the school gates in time, a wretched #%*#*$ auto rickshaw springs out of nowhere bringing you and a strings of vehicles behind you to a screeching halt. About the same time, the signal turns red. The first commandment is broken, and how! Years of carefully controlled emotions and words that have never gotten past the tip of your lip gush forth with unstoppable speed and clarity. 5 year old gets a first-hand experience of the choicest expletives, straight from the perfect-until- this-moment parent’s mouth.
Someone sure had a lot of answering to do to a certain 5 year that night.
Commandment no 2 : ‘Do not lie’
It’s that time of the day when you are just about to hang up your boots for the day and go in for some well deserved me-time. The phone rings. Oh no! it’s that 9 pm caller who is certain to stretch the call until midnight; taking a hint has never been this caller’s strong point .What choice do you have but bring out unsuspecting 5 year old to the rescue.
‘Tell her I am not at home’ you instruct, standing right in front of the phone, in full flesh and blood.
‘My mom tells me to tell you that she is not home’ the bewildered kid parrots, in all sincerity.
Later that night, an anxious parent will be heard frantically explaining the concept of white lies to an already confused 5 year old.
Commandment no 3 : ‘It is the participation and not winning that matters’
This works well for normal everyday events...but don’t anybody dare remind you of that on sports day when you are screaming out from the stands to your first born on the field, ‘Kill him! Cream her! Faster! Faster!’.
Next to you in the stand is your second born, who has had no trouble understanding the third commandment, but is suddenly struggling to understand who this new monster sitting next to her is.
Commandment no 4 : ‘Share your things’
But all hell breaks loose at home the day child puts this to practice by generously distributing her lunch to friends and enemies alike in school; caveats and clauses are added – thou shalt not share lunch; thou shalt not share school books...
Commandment no 5 : ‘Do not cheat’
If greasing palms, fudging forms, deflating income, evading tax, buying pirated software, watching pirated CDs, breaking traffic rules when cops aren’t looking, binging on chocolate cake when family isn’t looking etc. can be excluded from the list, then you are doing fine on this commandment.
Point to ponder
You wonder why that 5 year old looks confused, distraught and world-weary most of the time? And you think it is because of the faulty education system, corrupt political system or perhaps the inescapable peer pressure (seriously? at 5?)
Maybe it’s time you added a new name to that list. No prizes though for guessing who!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The little ironies of life
This morning’s newspaper sparked off the idea for this piece. The city’s leading divorce lawyer has given a two page interview on how to keep a marriage together. Seriously, how ironical is that? The day I have to take marriage tips from a person who has made her name and money getting people separated, I will have seen it all.
Life is full of such ironies. Here are some I encounter fairly often, like..
Food, Fitness, Shopping
When I am sitting at Mcdonalds with a happy meal and a crying kid for company;
When I am sitting at a fancy restaurant and discussing diets with fat friend, thin friend and a full plate of French fries for company
When I am told to run a mile a day on the treadmill to get fit; and realise that I need to first get fit to be able to run a mile on that treadmill.
When I read an article that says shopping is therapeutic; and learn the hard way that what fits me makes me look 15 years older and what I think will make me look young and sexy never fits me. My conclusion – shopping is depressing. I need therapy post shopping.
When my own research tells me that the best remedy for post shopping blues is a box of chocolates (the gooeier the better); while being fully aware that the more of those I have, the lesser my chances of finding something I can fit into on my next shopping trip.
Life in the city
When I am sitting in the comfort of my Mumbai home, cursing IPL and its inventors and hysterically supporting Chennai Super Kings in their match against Mumbai Indians.
When I am caught in a traffic pile up on the 6 lane high speed Mumbai-Pune expressway;
When I see an under 12 who has never set foot inside a school selling children’s books at a traffic signal.
When I see that billboard painter suspended precariously 100 ft above the ground, creating magic with his brush, but will never be able to read or understand a word of it himself.
And finally the biggest irony of them all :
When it dawns on me that I slogged my entire student life to make a decent life for myself; and that life today is to slog twice as hard so that my kids can make a life for themselves.
Would love to hear about the little ironies in your lives too, people.
Life is full of such ironies. Here are some I encounter fairly often, like..
Food, Fitness, Shopping
When I am sitting at Mcdonalds with a happy meal and a crying kid for company;
When I am sitting at a fancy restaurant and discussing diets with fat friend, thin friend and a full plate of French fries for company
When I am told to run a mile a day on the treadmill to get fit; and realise that I need to first get fit to be able to run a mile on that treadmill.
When I read an article that says shopping is therapeutic; and learn the hard way that what fits me makes me look 15 years older and what I think will make me look young and sexy never fits me. My conclusion – shopping is depressing. I need therapy post shopping.
When my own research tells me that the best remedy for post shopping blues is a box of chocolates (the gooeier the better); while being fully aware that the more of those I have, the lesser my chances of finding something I can fit into on my next shopping trip.
Life in the city
When I am sitting in the comfort of my Mumbai home, cursing IPL and its inventors and hysterically supporting Chennai Super Kings in their match against Mumbai Indians.
When I am caught in a traffic pile up on the 6 lane high speed Mumbai-Pune expressway;
When I see an under 12 who has never set foot inside a school selling children’s books at a traffic signal.
When I see that billboard painter suspended precariously 100 ft above the ground, creating magic with his brush, but will never be able to read or understand a word of it himself.
And finally the biggest irony of them all :
When it dawns on me that I slogged my entire student life to make a decent life for myself; and that life today is to slog twice as hard so that my kids can make a life for themselves.
Would love to hear about the little ironies in your lives too, people.
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