The Perfect Holiday

Every summer, when the heat reaches insane proportions, when the kids are school-less and agenda-less for what seems like an eternity, when newspaper supplements and magazines are overflowing with ads for holidays to distant and exotic locations, our family, like every other urban family that is readying to escape the hectic pace and daily challenges of city dwelling, religiously packs up and leaves for a good two weeks, with hopes and dreams, of new adventures, new experiences, quality family time and most of all, change.

This time we choose an exotic country with rolling hills, lush meadows, balmy weather, a lot of history, culture and food that promised to be nothing short of sensational.

Despite how alluring all this sounded, I knew I was being ambitious. The itinerary looked challenging. We were four - a three year old who doesn’t understand instructions, a 9 year old who doesn’t care much for instructions, a 37 year old who doesn’t stop giving instructions and a 38 year old who usually doesn’t pay attention, instructions or otherwise.

But, we each resolved to overcome our faults and make this the perfect holiday.

The first problem of a long holiday – being cooped up 24x7 in the company of the family, sharing living, sleeping, brushing and bathing quarters, can get to you after a few days, even if yours is a lovey-dovey family such as ours!

The second problem – the proverb ‘no more than 5 hours sleepeth the traveller’ does not apply to travellers such as us. The husband is happiest when reclining in bed till the sun is directly overhead, preferably with a blackberry in hand , the kids are happiest when there is a functioning TV within a 500m radius, and as holiday planner and executer I am happiest when I get to live my ‘Discovery Travel and Living’ fantasy. With such diverse demands from a holiday, the immediate future looks rather bleak. Still, we have to complete what we have embarked upon.

Ruins : The first few days are spent in a city with a glorious past that is steeped in culture and heritage. My heart begins to race, not at the thought of walking the very grounds where chariots once raced and where valiant gladiators once tore lions to shreds with their bare arms, but from trying to keep a certain 3 year old from reducing the carefully preserved ruins of centuries past to rubble by alternately climbing, stomping and poking the fragile structures with bare limbs. I feel the urge to flee the eternal city if it is to stay that way for posterity.

Museums are not free from risk of damnation from us too. The details and imperfections of the human body, masterly recreated by renaissance artists and sculptors are sniggered at and mocked at without discretion. Reason – “Mom! Why are all these people nangu? Why did the artists forget to put clothes on them?” We are left with no option but to flee scene, lest the entire Indian race be seen as philistine.

Forts are dismissed as drab, churches are branded as garish, monuments are written off as repetitive and identical by know-it-all 9 year old. By now my heart has begun to bleed at the hours of research and planning gone to naught, and the pointlessness of the funds sunk into this holiday already.

Ruined limbs :
Museums and ruins are not for us. It has to be the glorious outdoors then. We hike, we bike, we walk, we jog just as the fit anchor on the travel channel does, without messing her make-up or even a strand of hair on her head and after a hard day even has the time and energy to change for dinner. I hold her entirely responsible for the state of ruin we find our delicate limbs in. We city slickers are better off watching the travel channel, exercising our thumbs on the remote and leaving the hiking and trekking to those anchors. They atleast get paid for it.

By now we are whining with nostalgia about home, the comforts of separate rooms for adults and kids, the friendly neighbourhood masseuse, the driver who ferries us all over and above all the din and bustle, smells and sounds of home. Did I say we wanted change? Nay!

Holiday Resolutions
Every year we end the holiday by making a new resolution each.

Husband : Will never do a family holiday again (he finds board meetings more relaxing!)

9 year old S : Will never do a holiday with N again

3 year old N : Will never stop rebelling, mostly without a cause

Me : Will continue planning family holidays...A day will come when holidays will be filled with fun, relaxation, enjoyable family times, picture perfect family photos...till then I shall persist!

Happy Mothers Day

I remember reading Oscar Wilde saying ‘All women end up becoming like their mothers – it is their tragedy; and no man does – that is his’. I can’t comment on the man part, but if someone told me during my growing years that I would end up like my mother, I would have scoffed.

I grew up wanting to be as unlike my mother as possible .Those days I felt everything about my mother was either too much or too little – too much love, too much control, too little freedom, and so on. The onset of adulthood left little time to think about mom – grappling with career choices, managing the widening circle of friends, and the ponderous thoughts of choosing a life partner. But mom continued her relentless micro management of my life – ‘your hair was better when I did the washing’ or ‘your clothes are not appropriate for this occasion or that’ or ‘if you eat like this, you will not be strong enough to bear kids and raise them’.

Marriage happened and with marriage came new relationships and new responsibilities. Yes! This could be the turning point, I thought, where mom lets go of her iron grip. I was after all in safe hands now as she herself admitted – (It baffled me, how she’d rather trust new son-in-law than old daughter).

But habits die hard – my marital status didn’t deter her! She was now constantly coaching me on how handle to each new relationship, especially the ‘other woman’, also known as mother in law. To be honest, I found it easier to handle new mother in law than the old mother.

Was it just my mom or was there some underlying behavioural pattern to all mothers? I simply had to find out, so over a quickly put together crib session cum lunch with gal pals, I discovered that it was indeed a universal phenomenon – moms had to control and daughters had to rebel against control, and they keep getting drawn towards each other for more of the same.

Time took me to the next stage in my life cycle - motherhood. Please note, no amount of reading up or pre-natal classes prepares one enough for the first mind numbing wails of the new born, the first hiccup, the first signs of colic, the first vaccination....the list is endless. I noticed my wall of strength who vowed in the presence of god almighty to stay by my side in sickness and in health and in good times and in bad, was fainting and crumbling outside the delivery room when I most needed him; he refused to hold the baby for the first three months for fear of hurting her.

Suddenly I needed mom. I could think of no one better to turn to but her. Mom’s word is gospel now. I follow her instructions to the t, however archaic they may seem in comparison to the numerous fancy books on childcare I have read in the past 9 months. I bathe, feed, medicate, and even eat as she instructs, all in the interest of the baby’s well being. I exchange notes with her on how she handled my own infant days, what thoughts and emotions went through her then, what dreams she had for me and so many other things that I hadn’t bothered finding out all these years.

As my child grows, I find my dependence on mom only increasing. I start looking forward to her visits more than ever, venting my anxieties, frustrations and fears within minutes of her arrival. The husband points out gently that I have become everything I have always accused my mother of being - hyperactive, paranoid, worrisome and controlling. I shrugged – what would someone without a uterus know about how to raise a child.

Pondering later, I take what husband says as a compliment - if I turn out to be half the mother to my daughter as my mother was to me, I will have achieved something. I feel (with all due respect to Oscar Wilde) it is every woman’s tragedy if, in fact, she DOES NOT end up becoming like her mother.

Happy mother’s day to all the mothers I know.

Separation Pangs

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.