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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Ben10 Vs. Barbie
Men are from Mars and women are from Venus. The twain meet on earth to produce little alien boys and little alien girls, whom neither can understand. Right from the time they can walk and talk, these little boys and girls show clear signs that they are as different as chalk and cheese and when put together in the same room, contrary to the laws of physics, don’t attract, but try to repel each other back to where they originally came from.
So, when I get together a bunch of 3 year old boys and girls for an organised play-date at my girl dominated household, there are bound to be a few revelations. There is initial awkwardness and silence when the visiting boys realise the room is pink and filled with pastel coloured stuffed clones of every animal species imaginable and delicate Barbie dolls in a variety of avatars and colours. (There is even a brown toned Barbie in Indian bridal costume). There are no cars or guns, which is what I presume little boys play with.
But kids are resourceful creatures. Within 15 minutes, the Indian bride Aishwarya and the American Princess Elina are seen racing each other on the polished marble floor and engaging in revoltingly un-barbie- like acts such hand to hand combat, guerrilla attacks and somersaults, much to the horror of the girls present. Beauty and Jasmine, two other elegant Barbies have now mutated into Ben10 warriors with a mission to save planet earth from alien life forms in the guise of cuddly teddy bears, fluffy puppies and cute bunnies.
When the mission ends, Beauty has one arm less and Jasmine has exactly three strands of hair left on her head. Sarah the bear’s gut has been wrenched out and Esmerelda’s pink hair dryer wielding hand is now a mean machine gun toting one.
The girls manage to salvage the last of the surviving dolls, Belle and Rose, from the evil grip of the boys and have retreated to an imaginary kitchen to engage in tamer activities such as cake baking and dough kneading. Sarah’s gaping gut will be nursed back to health by my doctor daughter, while her hairdresser friend will make fervent attempts to restore Jasmine’s coiffures to its original glory.
Where did these stereotypes emerge from? Surely the cake baking wasn’t picked up from me as I haven’t as much as touched a baking dish in all my years of motherhood. (It is another story that even pre-mixed cakes turn out to be disasters at my touch!) As for those Ben10 warriors, I am certain their fathers had little to do with their sons' trigger happiness. One is an artist and the other a straight-laced banker, which is about as non-violent as professions get!
Maybe the answer lies buried somewhere deep in the craters of Mars and Venus or some unknown planet where little kids originally came from.
So, when I get together a bunch of 3 year old boys and girls for an organised play-date at my girl dominated household, there are bound to be a few revelations. There is initial awkwardness and silence when the visiting boys realise the room is pink and filled with pastel coloured stuffed clones of every animal species imaginable and delicate Barbie dolls in a variety of avatars and colours. (There is even a brown toned Barbie in Indian bridal costume). There are no cars or guns, which is what I presume little boys play with.
But kids are resourceful creatures. Within 15 minutes, the Indian bride Aishwarya and the American Princess Elina are seen racing each other on the polished marble floor and engaging in revoltingly un-barbie- like acts such hand to hand combat, guerrilla attacks and somersaults, much to the horror of the girls present. Beauty and Jasmine, two other elegant Barbies have now mutated into Ben10 warriors with a mission to save planet earth from alien life forms in the guise of cuddly teddy bears, fluffy puppies and cute bunnies.
When the mission ends, Beauty has one arm less and Jasmine has exactly three strands of hair left on her head. Sarah the bear’s gut has been wrenched out and Esmerelda’s pink hair dryer wielding hand is now a mean machine gun toting one.
The girls manage to salvage the last of the surviving dolls, Belle and Rose, from the evil grip of the boys and have retreated to an imaginary kitchen to engage in tamer activities such as cake baking and dough kneading. Sarah’s gaping gut will be nursed back to health by my doctor daughter, while her hairdresser friend will make fervent attempts to restore Jasmine’s coiffures to its original glory.
Where did these stereotypes emerge from? Surely the cake baking wasn’t picked up from me as I haven’t as much as touched a baking dish in all my years of motherhood. (It is another story that even pre-mixed cakes turn out to be disasters at my touch!) As for those Ben10 warriors, I am certain their fathers had little to do with their sons' trigger happiness. One is an artist and the other a straight-laced banker, which is about as non-violent as professions get!
Maybe the answer lies buried somewhere deep in the craters of Mars and Venus or some unknown planet where little kids originally came from.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Circle of Life
I wrote a post on the tension and drama that unfolds when my parents take a flight out of my house. I usually call them paranoid, over-cautious and needlessly edgy, among other things.
Now in order to complete the picture I need to put on record what usually happens when I take a flight with my family, i.e. husband and kids.
6 30 am:
Me - Wake up kids! We have a flight to catch!
Them - The flight is only at 9 30. The airport is only ½ hour away! Don't be paranoid! (rings an uneasily familiar bell)
6.45 : Another attempt to wake up kids
7.00 : The laborious process of rising and shining commences
7.30 : Debate on the merits and demerits of jacket A vs jacket B ensues between kid A and kid B. It doesn’t matter that we are going to a place where the heat makes jackets redundant.
8.00 : Books, toys, puzzles, travel games and numerous other things that have never seen the light of day in our house are packed in the hope of seeing the light of day in another city.
8.15 The last of the stuffed toys still remaining in the kids’ shelf is stuffed into the already overflowing suitcase.
Did I mention it is a 1 week holiday? Seeing their empty room and the size of their suitcase, one would never guess.
8.30 : Merits of drinking milk vs. threat of being left behind are weighed before milk is drunk
8.35 : All set to go. Door is finally shut. Oops, one large suitcase is still inside
8.40 : Suitcase is successfully retrieved, along with 1 kid, who we guiltily realized had also been left inside.
8.45 : We are ready to depart, finally!
Did I mention the flight was at 9.30 ?
Whether or not we made it to that flight is irrelevant. The obvious take-out from this story is that no flight in my life has ever been and will ever be uneventful.
The less obvious but more important take-out is my realisation that what goes around comes around this quickly.
I thought I had reached that 'know-it-all' stage in life which allows me to go around telling my parents what do and how to do it. But what I had no way of knowing is that my children would beat me at my own game, some 30 years too soon.
I need to take urgent lessons from my parents on the fine art of tolerating impetuous and reckless children. After all, they have had over 35 years of experience at it, haven't they?
Now in order to complete the picture I need to put on record what usually happens when I take a flight with my family, i.e. husband and kids.
6 30 am:
Me - Wake up kids! We have a flight to catch!
Them - The flight is only at 9 30. The airport is only ½ hour away! Don't be paranoid! (rings an uneasily familiar bell)
6.45 : Another attempt to wake up kids
7.00 : The laborious process of rising and shining commences
7.30 : Debate on the merits and demerits of jacket A vs jacket B ensues between kid A and kid B. It doesn’t matter that we are going to a place where the heat makes jackets redundant.
8.00 : Books, toys, puzzles, travel games and numerous other things that have never seen the light of day in our house are packed in the hope of seeing the light of day in another city.
Did I mention it is a 1 week holiday? Seeing their empty room and the size of their suitcase, one would never guess.
8.30 : Merits of drinking milk vs. threat of being left behind are weighed before milk is drunk
8.35 : All set to go. Door is finally shut. Oops, one large suitcase is still inside
8.40 : Suitcase is successfully retrieved, along with 1 kid, who we guiltily realized had also been left inside.
8.45 : We are ready to depart, finally!
Did I mention the flight was at 9.30 ?
Whether or not we made it to that flight is irrelevant. The obvious take-out from this story is that no flight in my life has ever been and will ever be uneventful.
The less obvious but more important take-out is my realisation that what goes around comes around this quickly.
I thought I had reached that 'know-it-all' stage in life which allows me to go around telling my parents what do and how to do it. But what I had no way of knowing is that my children would beat me at my own game, some 30 years too soon.
I need to take urgent lessons from my parents on the fine art of tolerating impetuous and reckless children. After all, they have had over 35 years of experience at it, haven't they?
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The kid who never learns
I have a disciplined, retired Government servant for a father who extends that discipline to all walks of life – be it drinking his morning cuppa at 6 am sharp everyday, maintaining a record of telephone bills paid for the last 15 years, or something as mundane as taking a flight.
I, on the other hand am a reckless being, and a particularly reckless traveller - mishaps and misadventures of every kind have a personal bonding with me. Talk of missed flights, wrong trains, wrong dates, expired passports – name it and I have been there, done that.
What happens when said disciplined father and his wife spend a few days at reckless daughter’s place? The tension in the air is palpable most of the time and reaches volcanic proportions as stay draws to a close.
The preparation for their departure usually starts two days before the actual journey, about the same time I think about booking tickets, if I am travelling. Clothes are packed. Clothes for the journey are set aside. Speculation on what food might be served on the flight and whether it will be palatable or not constitutes a substantial part of the day’s conversation.
The atmosphere on the morning of the journey is nothing short of a mini-event. The lights are on at 4 30 am. (It doesn’t matter that flight is only at 11am). Sooner or later, willy-nilly, the entire household is up. Endless cups of coffee have already been consumed by 6 am. Breakfast is consumed at 7 am, as there needs be a decent gap between this and the meal on board.
At 7 15 they are all set to leave
‘But the flight is only at 11 and the airport is ½ hour away’ I try to reason
‘We don’t mind being a tad early’ comes the firm reply
‘ You are not early. You are paranoid’ I bite
‘We are not like you. We don’t like missing flights’ comes the stinging response.
Oh! A raw nerve has been touched. Small fight ensues, but I should know that is not about to alter decision. The sequence of events that follow :
1. 6.30 - Bags are out of the room.
2. 6.45 - Bags reach the front door.
3. 7.00 - Disciplined government servant and his compliant wife reach the front door.
Between 7.00 and 7.15
4. Tickets that have been re-checked are re-re-checked.
5. Bags that are locked are unlocked and relocked for better safety.
6. Kids that have been kissed are rekissed.
7. Last minute advice that was previously doled out is re-doled out.
8. Finally, there is just enough time for a quick last minute fight.
Now they have to be let go, for everyone’s sanity.I shut the door after them, only to realise that the tickets after the nth recheck are left behind on the dining table, thanks to my last minute fight!
Sprinting skills (non-existent so far) are put to test before tickets are somehow reached to the over-cautious travellers. Whew!
Parents reach the airport as intended - 2 hours early.
Parents happy.
Me fuming : why do they prefer airport lounges to the comfort of my home?
Kid wondering (aloud ) :Why do you always fight with your parents when they are here? And then why do you cry after they leave? If you fight so much, shouldn’t you be happy when they leave?
Its because some relationships are beyond logic and reason...And some children, however grown up, will never learn...
I, on the other hand am a reckless being, and a particularly reckless traveller - mishaps and misadventures of every kind have a personal bonding with me. Talk of missed flights, wrong trains, wrong dates, expired passports – name it and I have been there, done that.
What happens when said disciplined father and his wife spend a few days at reckless daughter’s place? The tension in the air is palpable most of the time and reaches volcanic proportions as stay draws to a close.
The preparation for their departure usually starts two days before the actual journey, about the same time I think about booking tickets, if I am travelling. Clothes are packed. Clothes for the journey are set aside. Speculation on what food might be served on the flight and whether it will be palatable or not constitutes a substantial part of the day’s conversation.
The atmosphere on the morning of the journey is nothing short of a mini-event. The lights are on at 4 30 am. (It doesn’t matter that flight is only at 11am). Sooner or later, willy-nilly, the entire household is up. Endless cups of coffee have already been consumed by 6 am. Breakfast is consumed at 7 am, as there needs be a decent gap between this and the meal on board.
At 7 15 they are all set to leave
‘But the flight is only at 11 and the airport is ½ hour away’ I try to reason
‘We don’t mind being a tad early’ comes the firm reply
‘ You are not early. You are paranoid’ I bite
‘We are not like you. We don’t like missing flights’ comes the stinging response.
Oh! A raw nerve has been touched. Small fight ensues, but I should know that is not about to alter decision. The sequence of events that follow :
1. 6.30 - Bags are out of the room.
2. 6.45 - Bags reach the front door.
3. 7.00 - Disciplined government servant and his compliant wife reach the front door.
Between 7.00 and 7.15
4. Tickets that have been re-checked are re-re-checked.
5. Bags that are locked are unlocked and relocked for better safety.
6. Kids that have been kissed are rekissed.
7. Last minute advice that was previously doled out is re-doled out.
8. Finally, there is just enough time for a quick last minute fight.
Now they have to be let go, for everyone’s sanity.I shut the door after them, only to realise that the tickets after the nth recheck are left behind on the dining table, thanks to my last minute fight!
Sprinting skills (non-existent so far) are put to test before tickets are somehow reached to the over-cautious travellers. Whew!
Parents reach the airport as intended - 2 hours early.
Parents happy.
Me fuming : why do they prefer airport lounges to the comfort of my home?
Kid wondering (aloud ) :Why do you always fight with your parents when they are here? And then why do you cry after they leave? If you fight so much, shouldn’t you be happy when they leave?
Its because some relationships are beyond logic and reason...And some children, however grown up, will never learn...
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