...And we're back! (from a holiday, etc.)

Sorry for the long hiatus. Last Friday was hectic because I had to work late at the office and get everything done before we went off to the beach. And Saturday morning, we went to Munchkin's school to collect his final report card. He's got all A's, except in regularity of attendance - he missed a lot of days when he had the Coats Disease treated - and imagination (in art)! That confused me at first because the kid is anything but unimaginative. And then it hit me. If you ask him to draw something, nine times out of ten, he will draw either a car or an airplane. (see our collage on the side panel?) Oh well...but he had A's in everything else!! Well done, my son.

We also had to pick up his new textbooks for the first grade, have him measured for his new uniform and track suit, buy his regular shoes and sports shoes (and socks) and pay up a fat sum for miscellaneous expenses. Then DH wanted to buy shoes (long overdue) so we just about managed to catch our overnight bus. (I ran through the bus station, sandals in one hand, and my son's hand in the other. "Mamma, I've never seen you run so fast," he panted when we finally got to the bus. "That makes two of us, kid. I never knew I could run so fast." Not with the two-inch screw lodged below my left knee. Long story, that.)

We spent the next two days at a cozy little beach resort. Munchkin divided his time between the beach, the pool, the huge bathtub where he had umpteen bubble baths, watching TV, walking all over the resort, and eating yummy food. He doesn't want to go anywhere else for a holiday, ever. Money well spent.

He also started his art camp the morning we got back. The van service picking him up hasn't been going smoothly but we hope it will get settled by the weekend. He has classes on weekends, too! I don't mind. I can finally go and get my long overdue facial done in peace. :-P

Growing Pains: Discrimination

Munchkin's facing some discrimination with the kids in the apartment building. His best friend, who's 8, has begun keeping him out of games he plays with boys of his own age. And most kids my son's age are girls. And out of the blue one day, one of these girls told him: "You can't come to my house. My mother says boys aren't allowed."

What the...@%#*^!?

Munchkin is sensitive so he came away quietly. He hasn't figured out why this girl is behaving so differently now. It has to do with her mother, of course. I have a lot to say about the woman but this is a kids' blog, so I'll vent elsewhere. And from what I hear, people are just dead jealous that I have my mother in the same building so I can work. Well, hello, I worked from home for over 3 years before I decided to go back to work full-time. And my mum lived in the same building even then.

Mum is worried sick that this girl - who's going to be in the same school van as my son in the coming academic year - is going to be mean to him every day. I'm worried too, but I want to teach him how to deal with such senseless people with dignity. And not feel hurt.

DH thinks that most kids in our building are spoilt rotten. Well, I agree with him. I also rarely see them playing anything proper. They just seem to run around a lot and scream and shout a lot more. We're lucky our complex has a play area and a badminton court and plenty of place for kids to use their bicycles. But these children don't seem to know what to do with themselves in the evening.

I was thinking so hard on how to make sure my kid can hold his head high I even considered a full-day school from where he'd get back only by 5.30, a place that has sports teams and he gets to play with his classmates. That's probably not the way to go and I doubt we can afford a place like that, but as a mom, I just got thinking on how best to protect my child.

I realize this is a rambling post. But this thing is hurting me because it's hurting my son. :-(

"Dear God, please save the little girl"

Yesterday, another toddler fell into a 45-ft deep, uncovered borewell pit. This time in Agra, famous as the home of the Taj Mahal. The little fellow saw the story on a news bulletin and asked his grandmother a hundred questions. He was shocked to know that the girl - named Vandana - was even younger than his little friend next door, who is three. This was the third or fourth such case the past couple of years.

As the news channels continued airing updates about the Army's efforts to rescue the little girl, Poppet got all emotional. He went up to the shrine, folded his hands, closed his eyes and said: "Dear God, please save the little girl. She's so tiny. She must be afraid down there, all alone."

Then, as soon as he woke up from his afternoon nap, he asked Mum if she had been rescued. Sadly, she hadn't. So he put on the news channel again to get an update. When Mum brought him a glass of milk, she found him standing in front of the shrine, once again praying for her to be rescued.

When I came home, this was the first thing he told me. "She's so little. They've given her some oxygen too," he added.

It was 9.30 pm before Vandana was finally recovered. Mum called to let us know, because we hardly ever watch the news. (Long story, that.) As soon as he heard that, he ran off to the shrine in our house to say: "Thank you, God. Her mamma must be so happy she's okay."

I was touched and proud at the same time. He cared about what happened to her. He believes in a higher power. He is growing up to be a wonderful human being. Unpretentious and kind, sensitive and caring, despite the tantrums. Thank you, dear God.

Coats Update: All clear for now

On Tuesday, Poppet had an appointment with his eye doctor. It took longer than usual because we wanted to have his vision checked before his eyes were dilated. (We discovered that he has a power of 0.5.) But the real good news was the fact that there has been no fresh leakage since October. The exudates are still there, but the doctor still feels that this could be absorbed by the body over a period of time. No laser needed for now. Thank you, dear God.

His doctor doesn't talk much so we asked him a lot of questions. Could Munchkin go to the beach? Go swimming? Play whatever games he wants to? Not that he hasn't done that so far, but we just wanted a confirmation. And we got one. :-)

So we spent most of this evening trying to plan a beach holiday over the long weekend coming up on April 5. Naturally, tickets are almost impossible to get. Flights are too expensive. After many phone calls, web searches and frantic bookings and cancellations, it looks like we're going to Mangalore, on the west coast. The tiny resort - right on the beach - says rooms are available and we've gone ahead and booked the bus tickets. I'm only waiting for a confirmation from them tomorrow morning.

We haven't been on a vacation in over 18 months. In the meantime, the little rascal's friends have gone on cruises, treks and whatnot with their families. It's not that we couldn't afford a short holiday, but every time he had a break from school, there was an eye procedure or check-up scheduled. Hope everything goes well. Fingers crossed. :-)

Munchkin's next check-up is 5 months later, in late August.

"Where are you, Mamma?"

It was 10.30 am when my cellphone rang. My husband’s number flashed on the screen so I took the call. “Hello?”
“Mamma?” It was Munchkin.
“Hey, baby. Good morning.” I said. He’d been asleep when I left home this morning. He and his father had the day off – it’s Good Friday – but my office was working. I’d given the little brat a hug and a kiss before I left but he hadn’t woken up. I let him sleep.
“Mamma, where are you?” he said, sounding close to tears.
“I’m at the office, sweetie. What’s wrong?” I said as I ducked into an empty conference room to talk in private.
“At the office?” he sounded worse now. “Oh, mamma!”

*Cue for working mom guilt to stir below the surface.*

“What’s wrong, baby? Are you alright?”
“I woke up and searched for you and you weren’t anywhere in the house.”
“Aw…I’m sorry, baby. Where’s Daddy?”
“He’s still sleeping,” he wailed. Sleeping? At 10.30! “I’m all alone.”

*Cue for working mom guilt to break the surface and bubble over.*

“So you called me on your own? You can dial from Daddy’s phone?”
“Yes, I can. Can you come home, Mamma?”
“I wish I could,” I told him…and meant it.
Silence.
“Go wake up Daddy. He has plans for the two of you.”
“He’ll get mad. He doesn’t like to be woken up.”
“No, baby. It’s okay. Go wake him up.”
“But I want to see you, Mamma. I woke up and you weren’t there.”

*Cue for working mom guilt to flood and melt my insides.*

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry about that. But I gave you a big hug before I left. You have a holiday so I let you sleep late. Now go wake up Daddy…” I said.
“He’s just coming out of his room now,” said the little fellow. I breathed a sigh or relief.
“Give him the phone, baby.”
“When will you come, Mamma?”
“As soon as I can.” *sob*
Then the DH took the phone. “He’s upset,” I told him.
“He’ll be okay. I’ll distract him,” the DH croaked. I could hear Munchkin asking for the phone again.
“Mamma, will you try to come home early today?”
“I will, dear. I promise.”
“He’s okay,” said DH. “Don’t worry.”

I’ll try not to. That’s all I can do. T.R.Y. I normally don’t have working moms’ guilt for a variety of reasons. But every once in a while, it’s something you can’t avoid.

*Cue to banish the monster back to its subterranean lair.*

Until next time, that is…

*Cue to bawl my eyes out in the washroom.*

Photo from Freerangestock.com

Gramma has a 10-year catering contract

I was on my coffee break when the brat phoned. "Mamma, I ate up 11 cutlets and didn't give Gramma a single one!" he announced with mischievous glee.

Whoa! Eleven cutlets? I know the size of the cutlets (patties) my mother makes so my brain blew a fuse somewhere. "And I also had roti and ..... and curds too." he rattled off.

Okay...*breathe deeply, breathe deeply*

"You can move?" I asked him.

"I can now," he replied happily and handed the phone to my mother.

"I didn't want to disturb you at work but I was relieved he's talking and moving again," she said.
Turns out she'd set aside a few of those scrumptious cutlets for his dinner but he managed to eat those up as well and then...well...could barely move. So he sat back on the couch, propped up by two pillows. For a good ten minutes. Then he decided he had to let someone know. So he called me.

Reminded us of the time he was really young and we tried giving him formula because I wasn't well. He gulped it all down and then went very still, with a rather lost look on this face. We waited five minutes and then got worried. Finally, Mum propped him up a bit and he burped - louder than I've ever heard him burp. And then he began moving again. I can never forget that. Should have put it into my Childhood Scenes posts.

Incidentally, he's handed my mother a 10-year contract for his school lunches because he adores her cooking (who doesn't). He actually wanted it right through college, but my mother said one step at a time. According to the offspring, a 10-year contract is one step. I'm allowed to pack his lunch bag 'once in a while.' Probably because that's as often as he likes my cooking. Sigh!

Photo: Freerangestock.com

"Your Hair is nice, but..."

I got a new haircut...kinda like in the picture but I'm not as slim as the woman in the photograph. And my hair is black (well, mostly black...I try to blank out the gray.)

I liked the cut, it's like nothing I've ever had. The DH liked it (trust me, I did not ask for an opinion. I've been married almost 10 years so I know better than to ask for an opinion on personal fashion.) Then he asked the offspring: "Isn't Mamma's new haircut nice?"

The offspring lolled on the couch for a bit, observing silently. "Your hair looks very nice," he finally said, but the sentence was loaded. There was more to come. "But you don't look like Mamma."

Huh? Wait a minute, what does that mean? I raised an eyebrow and the little rascal grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You hair is nice. But you look very fashionable." That's the exact word he used: 'fashionable.'

"So is that good or bad?" I asked him.

"It's good for you. You'll look nice in the office. But you don't look like my Mamma." Direct, point-blank, no beating about the bush.

"Do you want me to change it?"

"No. You look nice, Mamma. But not like my Mamma," he repeated.

Ah, I see. I was looking non-Mommy-ish. Not bad, I thought. But then, mommy-guilt surfaced. Before it could overwhelm me, the little tyke scooted over and gave me a hug. "I still love you," he announced.

Thanks, Munchkin. I needed that. :-)

Photograph from Just Hairstyles.com