There are the ‘uh-oh’ moments when you accidentally leave an opened milk carton on the table and forget about it for oh lets say, a fraction of a millisecond, and long enough for a pair of inquisitive hands to get hold of it.

There are the FML moments when you put one kid to sleep and you hear the whine of the other one waking up in the adjoining room. (Yes I did mean ‘F$$$ My Life’, because believe it or not mothers are a very frustrated set of human beings)

There are the ‘Why oh why?’ (aka WOW) moments when you go to a party and one of the kids starts acting up right away with a tell tale tremble of his lips. And you know this party is going to be a great deal of fun.

At the home front, I have been dealing with all bad moments with Stevie by singing to him the ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ song. We’re talking about repeat telecasts every time there’s a meltdown or a ‘just this last spoonful’ battle.

Last week, he started verbally asking for the song. “Sta Sta” followed by the twinkling action with his tiny fingers. There was this feeling of déjà vu when he did that. My breath caught. And I was taken back to 2 years ago. Singing the same song to Ryan. Another time, another couch, but the same feeling of wonder as your child starts to mimic your actions. In fact, later I realised I had even blogged about my experience with Ryan here.

“Sta Sta”, Stevie says

“No Stevie its STARRRRR! “,Ryan says. “Amma, Stevie doesn’t know how to say Star.”

I listen to this exchange. I smile a silly half smile.

Because in between the bleak moments of uh-ohs, FML, and WOW we also have these precious Twinkle Twinkle Little Star moments. Which keep us going. And loving. And loving some more.

Happy Mother’s Day, you frustrated lot.

My 3 year old just narrated a story to my 1 year old. It’s a tale of epic proportions. A story like no other. I am left spell bound by the simplicity of the plot and the magnificence of the characters.

Story as narrated by Ryan:

“One day, there eeees a Father elephant, Mother elephant and-a Baby elephant.
And then the Crow was not thirsty anymore. Story finished!”

End of Story.

I did tell you this was ‘HUGE’. Didn’t I?

Oh yes wait, there are a few things I’d change.

I’d hold you a while longer while you drifted off to sleep.

I’d laugh more with you instead of hurrying off to another chore.

I’d store up your baby breath under my pillow. And anoint my dreams with it at night.

You’re already one. All tufty hair and shaky steps and bye-bye waving and pointing at objects…

You’re hurrying behind your brother, trying to catch up. Wanting to ride the cycle, trying to colour with crayons, trying to pile on the Lego blocks. In such a hurry to grow up, and you have no idea that a person here is wishing she could slow down the time.

Happy birthday, lil Steve. For the child who gives me a second shot at pulling off this ‘parenting’ act. For a child who is the quintessential ‘Amma’s boy’. For a perfect lil sibling for Ryan. For a toothless grin on a Bad day which lifts up my spirits like nothing else.

Note: It’s a kind of an annual tradition to ensure I write one birthday post for Ryan and Steve every year.

Click here if you want to read the previous birthday’s blog entries:

Ryan’s first birthday post

Ryan’s second birthday post

On the day Steve was born

Ryan’s third birthday post

It’s a myth you know. You don’t actually grow older on your birthday. You and I are ageing as you read this. Age is just a number. And birthdays. Well birthdays are overrated.

December 8, 2012 started and ended like any other day in our family. We woke you up and wished you. We brushed your teeth, bathed and fed you . Then we did birthday-ey things together as a family. We went to the park, to the beach, and had dinner outside. You huffed and puffed at the 3 candles on your birthday cake and I secretly blew them, so that your face beamed at the tiny victory over the flames. Upon your request, the candles were lit thrice and thrice I blew them secretly so that we could see you smile. We put you to bed, kissed you goodnight and the day ended.

I watched my little boy that day. You were just the same as the day before. You still hated milk. You were still jealous of your lil brother. You still couldn’t aim quite well when you peed.

3 birthdays so far, but the days I will remember are those ‘normal’ days in between when something you do or say makes me realise you’re growing up. Too soon.

There’s been a few such moments so far:

- You were about 6 months old, and playing with a bunch of keys, and Daddy took them away. You burst into tears. Big fat sad tears rolling down your cheeks. I remember that day as the day you encountered loss for the first time. I prayed you would have the strength to deal with it in your life.

- You were almost 10 months old when you took your first steps . I had blogged about it here. In all the diaper commercials the babies always walk towards the mother. But you toddled away from me. .. I think that signalled your need to be independent . And I began my slow journey of letting go.

- You were about 2.5 years old and had bit of a potty accident one day. I remember being so furious. Words I wish I hadn’t said were spoken. I remember my anguish, frustration and my sense of failure. You see, we mothers must blame ourselves. You appeared unperturbed by my outburst and I walked you to school in stony silence.
Then something happened as we reached the entrance of the school. You looked at me and burst into tears. Like your heart would break. Mine broke right there. A thousand shattered pieces marked with regret, shame and guilt.
That day I realised. You’re listening. Always. That my words would become your inner voice. I vowed to watch what I say to you.

Turning 3 years old is in actuality no biggie. It’s just another day. It’s the other little moments which matter.

You’ll someday learn that X and Y are not just alphabets in your Alphabet Song , but they are big players of a puzzle called Algebra.
Someday you’ll realise that when Amma smiles at some people, it doesn’t quite reach up to her eyes.

You’ll get there. These scary, worldly dimensions we all take on. The process of growing up. It has begun. And I don’t need no cake and candles to tell me that.

But I’ll be right here, hoarding up the little moments in between in my memory . Wider face, longer limbs, more questions, stronger reactions. A lifetime of birthdays, my son. And an eternity of memories for me.

Note: It’s a kind of an annual tradition to ensure I write one birthday post for Ryan and Steve every year.

Click here if you want to read the previous birthday’s blog entries:

Ryan’s first birthday post

Ryan’s second birthday post

On the day Steve was born

So anyway, here I am now lounging on a couch in our cosy lil hotel at Manila totally breaking that promise to myself.

‘A‘ had a business trip at Manila. Something do with projects and IT and other such assorted interesting stuff. I’ll spare you the gory details. So Manila = free hotel room, cheap food, possible shopping? and no dishes to do.

I said yes even before he asked.

Except this vacation is slightly different…

We left the DSLR Camera back home. Do we really wanna lug that and the stroller and assorted kid-gadgets around? No we don’t. Facebook, you won’t be getting any new albums this time round.

I packed light. That’s right. One pair of shoes. 2 pairs of clothes. No makeup (ok maybe a little makeup).

We didn’t make a beeline for those utterly useful (useless) maps of the city they have on display at every airport. Neither did we enquire at the hotel lobby at possible good tourist spots. I have been having a perfectly wonderful time, warming a special spot on the couch in our room. I also have carved a nice me-shaped depression in our hotel bed. Suits me fine!

I haven’t sworn to eat the Buffet Breakfast just because we’re at a hotel. Because that would mean waking the kids up early and making a beeline for the breakfast bar for a breakfast I will never even properly get to eat. Sure, I had to settle for in-room dining, and the choices were limited. But it doesn’t beat the feeling of getting up without an alarm clock and knowing your body is thanking you for that sleep.

I haven’t gone all paranoid about the hotel towels and wiping the children’s hands each time they touch something. I have let them be. Stevie has practically palm-swept the entire carpeted floor. And all of Ryan’s toys are on the floor 24×7. Sometimes under the bed, where I am sure they never vacuum. Ok I’ll stop here. Deep breath. They vacuum there once a week, right? RIGHT???

I am done for now. My advice, try vacationing (or stay-cationing) like this once if you haven’t already. It’s kinda cool.

Now if you’ll excuse me, let me crawl back into my me-shaped depression on the bed.

But anyway, I was secretly thrilled to know my kiddo was a name (to be reckoned with) in the mommy blogosphere circles. Again, probably a tad over-confidence from my end. But let’s ignore that and go on.

So the friend, moved on his attention to lil Steve and asked me. “I’m sorry. What’s his name again?”

I mumbled Steve. And it struck me, I haven’t written much about him, have I? How odd is that? Except for this one post. I went back to a few earlier posts about Ryan like this one . And realised he’s been the subject of my writerly thoughts since forever. Mommy guilt alert. Yikes!

So here’s a quick shout out to my lil Steve (Have to make this quick, cos Steve will be up from his nap any time soon.)

Stevie, fruit of my womb, loyal admirer of Ryan, cuddler extradonaire, you’re my second shot of getting together the Parenting Act. Thank you for being mine!

Long post to follow. Soon.

I generally hate stuff on my coffee table, except maybe the newspaper or preferably my feet. So it’s a wonder why I haven’t prised out this little intruder.

Today evening, after the kids went to bed, I went through the clean-up ritual of the day. Picking up toys from the ground, going down on all fours and peering under the sofa to see if any crayons have disappeared there again and so on. I told myself today I need to take out that sticker. It doesn’t belong there.

But its still there. I am typing this post with my feet on the coffee table and the strawberry right beside my left pinkie toe. And I realise the strawberry won’t be going anywhere. Not anytime soon.

Ryan had stuck it there 2 days ago. He opened his sticker book and randomly chose three stickers to peel. A red strawberry, a brown tractor which now adorns the wall, and a yellow car which has disappeared since.

The three of us had sat on the floor in the living room. I had spread out Ryan’s sticker book on the coffee table. I placed Steve on the table and he gurgled, trying to grab for the book with his chubby fists. Ryan made me peel the stickers off the page, “tha -one”, “tha -one”and “tha-one”, he said.

I made him kiss me for each sticker I peeled and I got a hug too for the strawberry. Steve stuck his fist in his mouth and sucked contently. I smiled. A silly, giddy-with-in-the-moment-happiness smile.

So its decided the sticker stays on for now. A strawberry adorning my table, in the colour of deep red. Which apparently is also the colour of a heart symbol in Ryan’s book.

To many more afternoons of adventures around the coffee table.

Nothing, she replied.

“But there must be something. Everyone has a favourite”, I persisted.

“Nothing, you silly child”, she replied. Mummy in her usual no-nonsense way had dismissed an important question about herself.

But her answer just caused more questions to pop up. I thought about what she said over and over again at dinner time. She served fried fish, eggplant curry and rice for dinner. The fish was fried crisp, that you could hear it crack as someone bit into it. Daddy liked his fish crisp. The eggplant was one of my favourite vegetables. And rice was a staple. So what was her favourite part of the meal?

I went to bed that night with the words playing in my head. My dreams were troubled. It must have been early morning 4 a.m. when I finally slept. When I woke up, it was already bright outside. I went downstairs and found my mother as usual in the kitchen.

She placed before me a cup of coffee. Made the way I liked it. Steaming hot. Sweet, thick and frothy on top. Mummy knew everything about my tastes. She knew I could empty an entire bowl of ‘kadala’ dish with my ‘puttu’ for breakfast. She knew her daughter never went anywhere near a bitter gourd and that the last egg puff in the box was always mine. Unwritten rule in the family book.

I knew only one thing about my mother’s preference in food. That she liked her tea cold. But all of a sudden I wasn’t sure if that had been a preference all along. Or was it because she never had the time to sip it when it was hot?

She stood by the stove as I watched, flipping dosas, urging me to eat while the dosa was still warm off the griddle. I had watched her, beside the stove for so many years now – flipping dosas, chapathis or pancakes, frying French toast or stirring curries. Never sitting down with the rest of us.

In all my 28 years, never before did I pause to ask, Mummy what is your favourite dish? Do you like beans? What about beef? Gravy or dry?

She had rearranged her spice preference according to us. Rearranged her appetite according to us. Rearranged her life around ours.

I looked at the spatula in her hand and I pushed my plate back.

“Why don’t you sit down and eat? I’ll make the dosas”, I said.

I knew the answer before she said it. Not now. Not hungry. Dishes in the sink. The potatoes must go into the pressure cooker first. A list of to-do’s before she rests.

She refused to give up the spatula and I am ordered to sit back and ‘enjoy the dosas while they are warm’.

Mummy, today I have a ‘home-sickness’ feeling creeping up on me. Missing you and my kitchen table feasts back home.

And I swear to God, one day I WILL find out that Favourite Dish.

There was this one instance in my life when I accidentally ‘forgot’ Ryan. At the vegetable section of the supermarket. Amidst a lively display of butterhead and romaine lettuce.

I am not proud of the moment. I think I may have mentally face-palmed myself a zillion times for it. I break out into a cold sweat even now when I think about it.

He was one at the time, having his afternoon nap in his stroller. I was window-shopping at the organic produce section of the supermarket. Baking imaginary casseroles in my mind and feeling giddy from the self-inflicted domestic goddess-ness I was feeling.

‘A’ had gone to withdraw some cash from the ATM, and I pushed the stroller along the aisles idly, smiling to myself, nodding at rows of colourful vegetables. Food does wonderful things to our mood, doesn’t it?

At some horrific moment during the walk, my hands slipped off the stroller handle. I must have been distracted by a rather appealing display of strawberries …I don’t remember. But I left the stroller parked beside the lettuce and moved on to the bread aisle.

I spent a good ten minutes there, feeling all baker-ly, touching the rye breads and the pumpkin seed breads. Finally I chose a loaf of white bread. Yes, let’s not judge folks.

I was already paying for the bread when ‘A’ came back. Something in his face set off an alarm in my head. I was missing something, I knew. Something crucial, but I couldn’t get it. He looked around, and then walked fast towards me.

“Where’s Ryan?”

You know the feeling when you could have all the oxygen in the world, but your lungs forget to breathe? Well I did then. We ran past shoppers, me stuttering an apology. To ‘A’. To Ryan. Horrible, horrible mother!

And we found him. The stroller still parked at the same spot. Ryan still asleep inside. Not aware that his parent’s hearts had stopped for an instant.

And sounds and sights returned to me in a single whoosh. Ears buzzing with static of people around me, eyes tearing up with relief, the world came back to me.

‘A’ looked at me. He licked his lips. They had gone very dry. There was a brief moment where we just looked at each other. This could go two ways. He could bite my head off then and there. Or he could give me the silent treatment and let me stew in my own guilt. Which would it be?

But I never found out. Because there was a stir in the stroller and Ryan was waking up. Small hands and legs stretching. Small mouth yawning. His face crumpled into a ‘I am going to cry, can someone pick me up?’ expression. Post-nap crankiness. ‘A’ bent over and picked him up. Before I could. Ryan slumped on his shoulder. Safe. And loved. Loved so very much.

‘A’ rubbed his back trying to soothe him.

“It’s ok”, he murmured kissing his crankiness away. He bent his head and nuzzled his nose against Ryan’s ear.

“It’s ok” he said again. This time he raised his head and looked at me. And this time, I knew the message was for both of us.

“What’s your Not Proud of It moment?”

This post is featured on BlogHer too!

]]> http://wannabauthor.wordpress.com/2012/06/29/not-proud-of-it-moment/feed/ 12 wannabauthor IMG_1031 edbadge_Featured http://wannabauthor.wordpress.com/2012/06/17/dear-blog/ http://wannabauthor.wordpress.com/2012/06/17/dear-blog/#comments Sun, 17 Jun 2012 14:08:33 +0000 wannabauthor https://wannabauthor.wordpress.com/?p=1999 Read more]]> My Mom left today. She had stayed on 3 months to take care of baby and me, and now there’s a vacuum in the apartment.

I stood by the doorway as she left for the airport holding baby Steve in my arms and sobbing softly. Even though I was a mother of two, I behaved like a scared 2-year old.

I picked at dinner. Me, the woman who rewards herself with food every other minute. I rocked an unusually cranky Steve to sleep. I felt that Ryan climbing on the stool was particularly irksome. The program on the TV disgusted me.

Then I remembered you, a loyal friend, a silent confidante. Forgotten.

Patiently waiting for me to write. Something. Anything.

So I did.

Sorry we lost touch for a while. But I’m back now.

Note: Drafted this piece in April. And in true wannabauthor fashion, it got lost in the Drafts section until I read through it again today.