Nocturnal Musings

Nino's Dad has had a shift of working plans, and ends up working through the late evening and night since the past two weeks. It's taken a while for both Nino and me to get used to not having him around for our post-dinner fun, and it will take me longer knowing the right side of the bed is achingly empty.

As I tuck Nino into bed everynight, in my room, we lie with the windows open and the fan in all its whirring glory, the scant sweat of still-not-arrived summer sweetened by the fan's breeze. Somehow, that half-hour or 40 minutes that we spend together - once the books are done and the lights are out - has turned into a complete connection time between me and him, and we talk about school, the stories I did at work (his favourite one so far has been the RSS idea to make a cola out of cow's urine), his playmates in the evening. Sometimes he asks me to sing, and I sing much slower, knowing he's trying to understand the lyrics. Perhaps that's why he loves the R. Kelly number's chorus so much. Even though he insists I can't fly. In between every line, we make our own rap number. I say I believe I can fly, and he says I can't.

I've come to feel very satisfied, very elated with these noctuarnal musings, perhaps because I feel like my son is really talking to me. I've felt very guilty about not being there when he wants to talk about something, and trying to get him to speak about his day only when I arrive every evening. Maybe it gets easier in the dark for him to say stuff - maybe he's not afraid of my expressions/reactions, or maybe he's holding on to our conversation because he's still a little afraid of the dark.

As we watch the shadows of the car windows from the neighbouring compound that get reflected on our ceiling, I try to assuage his fear about the dark a bit. We talk about nocturnal beings, the owl and the panther, some snakes and his favourite, the bat. Sometimes when he says, 'I can't see you mama,' I widen my eyes and smile a toothy grin so he can see bits of the white reflected off the light that comes in from the window. Sometimes I forget to do this, when I'm lost in my own thoughts, and he'll prod me again, 'Say cheese, mama, I want to see you.'

The other day he told me a kid in the batch elder to him had a 'really bad day'. Was that why she was crying when I came to pick you up, I asked him. He was quiet for a bit. 'Can I tell you a secret mama,' he said. 'In your ear.' Apparently the kid had been having an emotional meltdown and ended up doing her big job while her clothes were on at school. Nino laughed once he said this. I was quiet for a bit, and then I told him I thought it was perfectly okay for such 'accidents' to happen, and that it was not funny to me. He thought over it a bit too, and then asked me, 'if everyone is laughing in class, should I laugh?'. It seared my heart to know that he went through peer pressure at such a young age, and that while I was quick to jump the gun and suggest that he must not always follow the heard (and honestly only because I've never followed it either), maybe suggesting otherwise would make things a little easier on him. He's not taken to school very well still, and I do know for a fact that a couple of elder kids are bullying him, ever so slightly.

These days he's very frightened of being bitten by a tiger or a lion as he's sleeping. So I went into a labourious explanation of what separates a jungle and a city, all the traffic manoeuvring the animals would have to do, the security guards they'd have to get past, and the ten floors they'd have to climb, because well, they don't know how to use the lift. He thought about it for a while and then said, ever so quietly, 'If they (the tiger and the lion) don't know how to cross the road, they will get hurt. And then what happened?'

Sometimes I do this whole mock-prayer pose, especially when I've had a not-so-great-day, and thank God with a big list of what-could-have-beens. Just makes the whole ritual a little less sacred, and I think he secretly enjoys it, though I've never forced him to be a part of it. The other day as I finished saying my prayer, and thanking God and telling Him he had fantastic taste in flowers, Nino muttered, 'also thank you for the teti.'

Nino's a budding-foodie, one who takes a lot of interest in the meals that are being fixed for him. He can roll out a perfectly round chapati and insists on standing right next to the gas till it becomes 'hot, round and puffy'. He remembers exactly what his classmates got for lunch and he makes sure he knows in advance what I'm giving him the next day. Their teacher has taught them about junk food, so the kids are very aware that the chips and colas are trouble. One of his classmates got 'wafers' this week, and even though they're 'junk food', he liked them very much. 'Can I have a little bit of junk food,' he said. 'I like the wafers A got.' I said okay, and he said, in his secret, hush-hush-give-me-your-ear tone, 'Good mama, I won't tell S (name of teacher).'

In our 'secret' time together, these few minutes of motherhood assuage so much of my pain and fatigue, making for so many memories that I cherish, that I hold on to, and that keeping me going, until the next night's conversation time.

Sign Language

You say and do so much with your eyes, Nino, you know?

Where should I put the plate? Two keen eyes that point out a barely-there space next to your book.

Hidden dad's Harry Potter? The widening and then the quick blinking of the eyes, followed by a smile that reaches the lips later.

Can I get you some more dinner? The easy-to-miss shake of the head with the eyes closed.

The mums at school tell me you've naughty and expressive eyes, that there's a glimmer of mischief there at all times.

At all times, except when you drop me off to work after school. Because then there's a thin film over them, and I take turns guessing if you're sad, hurt, lonely or just resigned to the fate of having a mum who's never around.

Breakfast Mahabharat

I dressed Nino this morning in a lovely cream Bengali cotton jhubba and red dhoti for a garba programme at his school. He was very excited about the dhoti and I loved the jhubba for its soft, transparent look and beautiful green ikkat border.

As we walked down to the dinning room, I told him to be extra careful with the jhubba while eating his breakfast. We managed through boiled egg and ketchup just fine, till the doorbell rang and I got up to answer it. There was a bite left, and I told him to take care that the ketchup doesn't stain his jhubba.

The man at the door was haggling for some unpaid bills, and just at that moment Nino ran to me saying something about ketchup, jhubba - I didn't pay attention, but when I finally turned, I saw two perfect oval stains on the cream fabric. I snapped, yanked him hard to the washbasin and screamed at how often I've told him to use a napkin instead of his clothes.

Nino looked at me, dazed for a second, till tears pooled in his eyes, and he began to cry in earnest. I was unable to stop yelling - but when I did finally calm down, he told me how he had reached for the water and the plate stained the jhubba and that he came running to tell me, but when I did not listen, he wiped it with his fingers.

As I walked him to the lift, I said sorry. He turned to me and said, very simply, 'It's okay mama, but I was trying to clean the jhubba.' I wanted to sink to my knees and cry, and apologise for transferring my irritation over unpaid bills to him. But I waited till he was gone and then locked myself in the bathroom and cried, unable to forget how betrayed he looked when I hurt him - with my words, and my touch.

You've always been gracious with forgiveness Nino - quick to say sorry, quicker to say 'It's okay'. It can't be easy saying sorry to this shrieking woman who towers over you, bellowing about something that you did not set out to do in the first place. And yet, you do, with more grace than me. I have more of what constitutes wisdom under my belt than you do - years, education, fat - but it is you who embrace me with my faults and uncompromising temper and quick-on-the-move hand. Even if I leave you smarting, hurt, unhappy and vulnerable.

I know when I come to pick you up at school today, you will run out into my arms, talking excitedly about school, pulling me towards the car. I know you will ask me as my office approaches, as you do everyday, 'Mama, are you going to office?' And I know your smile will falter and then pick up again when I say yes. You have already forgiven my trespass this morning, you forgive my abandonment of you everyday. And I know I will add this story to my guilt collection, promising to myself as I toss and turn in the night, never to yell at you again for a stained piece of cloth.

Sexed down

Ok, so it's not rocket science that the number of children you have can be indirectly proportional to the amount of nocturnal activities you engage in with your spouse. The rule still applies to those of us with a single child, mind you.

Needless to say, we have fallen prey to the parenting-leads-to-celibacy phase. Most days I'm too tired to even feign a headache. And it's not like we don't, you know, try. It's just that Nino has great timing. It's a grouse that Nino's Dad's been nursing a while now, he's even tried telling me it's a great way to burn calories!

Then I came upon this article about a couple that got so fed up with not having sex, that they entered a 365-day pact - a little bit of mojo, everyday! The pact was a gift from the wife to the husband, and surprisingly, he was a little hesitant - performance pressure, maybe?! So they had sex on almost all nights of the year (yes, even they missed a few!), even through a bout of vertigo! They also make all kinds of suggestions to help you pep up your night-life. But while they 'enjoyed it' and ended up writing a book about the pact, they don't recommend the experience to any one.

So I thought I'd send the link to Nino's Dad, maybe to make him relieved that other people go through what we are going through as well. Then, I hit paydirt.

Gather five random people in the English speaking world. Then ask them to name their hottest celebrity couple. Four times out five, the answer is bound to be, Brangelina. Yes, yes, the scrumptious Brad Pitt and the sultry Angelina Jolie. Needless to say, Nino's Dad is included in this electorate. Brangelina's fight-and-then-have-makeup-sex philosophy in Mr and Mrs Smith, made 'Come to Mama' a bedroom-drama favourite.

And now, it seems, after six kids, someone's suggesting that they could be, hold your breath, sexed-down as well. 'Your parents are having better sex than these two,' she says. 'Even if they're dead.' The tag of the 'Hottest couple in the world' is rendered pretty much meaningless.

Looks like the parent trap sprung Venus and Adonis after all. Where's the hope for us mere mortals?

Of Ganpati and Oedipus

A few weeks ago, in the process of trying to distract Nino from shoving his boiled egg below the high chair, I embarked upon telling him a story. Not just any story, but one from the Hindu mythology, about my favourite pot-bellied God, Ganesh/Ganpati. The story was originally about how Ganpati got his elephant-head, but as I relived the tale, I realised it was ghastly and gory - Two and a half year old Nino could not have expected to understand why Ganpati's dad (Lord Shiva) was so angry with him, that he cut his head off... so I just twisted the tale around to Ganpati standing guard as Goddess Parvati bathed and the happy reunion between the three of them, and Lord Shiva playfully pulling up Ganpati and asking him to be respectful to his father, and all elders. phew. I doubt if back then, in our childhood, grannies or mums worried about how violently we would veiw these stories. Even though I admire the Hindu philosophy for its ability to pull up and question everything and everyone, a lot of its moral tales revolve around skirmishes and violence. Not something I want my mixed heritage son to view as the overall image of my culture.

I was reminded of Ganpati's tale a few days back in an absolutely unexpected way. I rushed home, one hour early, gleefully like children playing traunt at school. Surprised Nino with a big hoop and then told him I'm taking him to the local snake park. Just that minute (isn't it always) I had to pee - and I just said, without thinking, baby, mama's gotta pee, don't let anyone enter the room. (we have a lot of workers at home currently, and I'd left the room door unlocked) - as I plonked down on the pot. 'I'm right here, mama,' he said. 'Standing guard, with my stick. I won't let anyone come in.' And right then I knew, he meant it. Even his dad would not have been able to get into the room.

I've always wondered, and so have multitudes of women before me, what exactly it is with men and their mothers. One of my boyfriends hated his mother so much - his choices in women were the antithesis of what she was. So many girlfriends bemoan how their mother-in-laws plot and connive to get the son's attention, to prove the metaphorical umbilical cord is still strong. The sons who always compare the wives cooking to their mothers. The mothers who still dote upon their sons, pushing their faults under layers of affection, each behaving like an emotional ostritch - if you can't see it, it did not happen. and I wondered about this even more becuase I come from a family of daughters - we have one cousin brother among nearly ten sisters. I remember asking my mother-in-law this, as her dearly-loved daughters ribbed her about loving her son the most. And she said, simply, 'You'll know when you have a son.'

Now that I have a son, do I know 'it'? I don' t know. I know that he loves me to bits, that he runs to me when he's happy/sad/hurt/hungry/sleepy/curious. I know it's not because I'm there all the time - my husband and I both work pretty much the same number of hours, so we get to see him each evening around the same time. But I do know that I've never had a bigger fan - or someone who adores me so much. And as he pets me, compliments me, hugs me and cries for me in his sleep, I can see how this need of his, can be a heady shot, brining a joy that can turn into a need by itself. I now understand how this need-begets-need can grow and take root, and refuse to let you grow and change - like all those mums who still find it difficult to realign their love for the kid with the man who is their son.

Sometimes, Nino's Dad feels a bit leftout from the showering of love that Nino gives me. As he playfully sulks, I rib him, 'You'll know when you have a daughter.'

Any thoughts? Mothers of sons, wives of sons - and fathers, even?

Who's gonna drive you home, tonight?

My high-tea ritual at work consists of rushing to the loo, at exactly 4:30pm and calling Nino at home.
Who, by the way, guards the phone as he does his toys, and rushes to it, everytime it rings, with a 'hellow, mama?'. No one is allowed to answer the phone, but him, even if it's hours away from Mama-time, that is 4:30pm.
The conversation is short - and always insightful. If he has fussed over having milk, he always says he gulped it down real fast. If he's had a great day, he's likely to say that he played, talked, ate, slept and played. If its been a bad one, he says 'Come back mama' - and it breaks my heart if this happens on days when I am unable to get work home. His last question is always 'what am I having for dinner' :)
Today, I got caught-up in work and ended up calling an hour late, worried that he might have left to go to the park with the caregiver. The phone rang for what seemed like forever, before the familiar voice wheezed through and said, 'hello, mama?'... Before I could ask him what he was doing, Nino said he was taking everybody at home to America and that he's checked that they're wearing seatbelts. I smiled and asked him how his day was, and he said 'I can't talk on the phone mama, I'm driving.'

If you read this when you grow up (if this is around till then, that is), Nino, you love to drive - ever since you were a year and a half, you would beg, plead, cry and then wham mama to let you drive - parked cars, cars in motion, anything on four wheels. I remember we did a trip to meet your aunt when you turned two and you would attack the steering wheel everytime the driver parked it for a transit stop. He would give you really dirty looks, and you would just give him a baleful stare, but not let go of his seat. Even today, though you've understood that you can't actually drive like an adult does, the parking lot, ah, that is another matter! We go to his freinds houses, my friends houses, his school, my office, Nairobi (Nino's Dad once went there on a trip, and the name's stuck), the grocers, the fruit shop, to his Nanan's place. It's always 'Sit, mama, I want to take you somewhere.' - you've already brought me to where I want to be, Nino - that floating island that is unmapable - happiness.

The story of choice

I apply the montessori philosophy of the power of choice to raising Nino, albeit in small ways. He's encouraged to choose his clothes, the books we read, or the crafts we do, for example. Usually its a simple choice - he preferrs some over the others. Sometimes, he likes to bring two choices into one decision. White tee and red night shorts.

I've been trying to achieve something like that in my life as well. I'm a working parent with long hours (eight to nine hours) and being prone to guilt as with most of my gender, I've been facing a very difficult situation: to work or to quit. I need the job to make ends meet, but I hate spending so much time away from Nino - who is well cared for in my absence by his caregiver and grand parents. He's not particularly scarred with my absence - my mother has worked all her life and I've turned out pretty secure. It's me. I don't want to be away for that long. Nino's Dad doesn't agree - he's looking at the fianances - and we've just had an awful fight during the drive to work. I've been thinking working part time will be like bringing two choices into one decision. Unfortunately for me, neither the husband nor the boss seem to like the idea. As I sobbed this morning, in a fleeting moment of self pity, it occured to me, that I've not really ever 'enjoyed' the power of choice when it comes to Nino. When I got pregnant, I did not want to be a mother. Now that I want to be one - a hands-on one, desperately, I can't afford to.

I wonder what my mother would say if she read this - she'd remind me of all the things I've to be grateful for - but you know, sometimes, choice becomes the opportunity cost of gratitude. I'm grateful, but am I happy? Or is happiness too an urban legend, something that we've conveniently labelled as a 'state of mind'. sure. whatever situation I'm in, it depends on me to be happy. something like that. so not only does the onus of happiness lie on you, the guilt of not finding it lies on you too. I used to think happiness is simple - in the old days it was a good warm meal and a good book. Does it mean the same things today? no. I'm a different person with different needs. It's in watching Nino laugh/play/create. And it's in watching him without guilt or without being grateful.

edited to add-
One of my favourite quotes ever is one by Albus Dumbledore, that fantastic, thought-provoking teacher and champion of the brave, who also happens to be gay, and by the way, fictional. Not that it matters when it comes to this kind of wisdom:
'It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.'

Just stumbled upon it again, after making the decision to stick to the job instead of opting out. Does it make it any easier? No.