Around the world in 80 clicks

It's taken the combined might of FOUR bloggers to get me off my arse and do this tag, so you guys can see what a ball I've been having (not!) here in sultry Singapore. 

The Mad Momma, Dipali, Gauri, and Kiran, have all invited me to join this virtual mommy globetrot  and the ticket is to tell you 5 things that I love about being a mom. Only 5? Easy peasy! Here goes:

1. I love that the simple things my children do can fill me with so much joy and enormous pride. A pink caterpillar drawn by a confident 3-year old hand that actually looks like a caterpillar. Tottering steps taken by still soft and tender 9-month old feet. An impromptu concert where the lead guitarist belts out Twinkle Twinkle at the top of her voice, and the drummer chews contemplatively on the drumstick.

2. I love that the simple things I do can be the cause of such happiness. A silly noise and a funny face is all it takes to get the boy to scream with laughter. An unexpected extra story at bedtime has the girl beaming fit to split, and earns me big, squeezy hugs. Never before has it been so easy to please, and, I suspect, never again.

3. I love that I get to be a kid again. (With the difference being that I can actually buy all the cool toys I want and not have to beg and whine and get turned down by evil parents.) The world is a much nicer place when viewed through my little ones' eyes.

4. I love that I am the centre of someone's universe. Ok, maybe not at 3 am, when nobody but Mama can hold and hug a wakeful little girl back to sleep. But most other times, it's a wonderful feeling.  

5. I love how I can sometimes see a shade of me or the husband or one of our parents in a sudden tilt of my daughter's head, a fleeting expression, or an oddly familiar gesture.  (The boy, at the moment, looks and acts like a badly behaved puppy, so I'm certainly not looking for any family resemblances there....)

And now the hard part - finding enough bloggers around the world who haven't already done this tag. I'm pretty sure they've all been tagged already, I'll just hope that they just haven't gotten round to it yet, and can add my tag to the pile :-)

Mummyjaan in Ireland

MayG in the UAE

Fuzzy in Canada

Just Like That in India

Orchid somewhere in the US

Silly Sunday Som-solts

(Or How Mama Got Her Groove Back :-)

Sunday evening was pleasant and breezy, and since both the kids were up and alert, all four of us went down to the little park in our building. The husband and I sat on a bench with Munch and watched Moppet show off for us.

'Mama, look! Papa, look!' she squealed as she clambered up the slide the wrong way, monkeyed her way up the frame of the swing set, and drove the toy train to 'Andabaad'. (And elaborated so that silly Mama wouldn't get the wrong idea: 'Onny aeroplane go to Andabaad. I driving choo-choo train to air-a-port.')

Her favourite thing in the park is the huge, net-enclosed trampoline that the pre-teen kids do amazing stunts on. With no one else in the park waiting their turn for the trampoline, she was able to jump as much as she wanted.

Which was a lot, and for a long time, and soon Munch began to get cranky. So the husband took him back home, while I waited for Moppet to get all bounced-out.

'Mama, come jump!' she ordered, 'Like that! Come jump!' I hadn't been on a trampoline in a long, long time, and it did look like a lot of fun, so I climbed up and joined her. She squealed with delight as we bounced together holding hands, then took turns sitting in the centre while the other jumped around and over the one in the middle.

'Mama, look! I do som-solt!' she said, tumbling head over heels three times in quick succession. 'Now Mama's turn!'

'No baby, I'm wearing a skirt. I can't do somersaults.'

She studied me for a moment and then asked 'Onny boys do som-solt?'

'What? No, of course not! Everyone can do somersaults.'

'Mama iss not to do som-solt?' Sad face and bambi eyes.

'No, no. I can do somersaults, ok? See!' I demonstrated.

She giggled, did a couple more herself, and sat up looking at me challengingly. What the heck, I thought, the park's empty anyway, and I did a few more. So we tumbled around on the trampoline, doing som-solts and giggling and squealing like the two silly girls we were.

Later, dizzy and exhausted, we lay flat on our backs on the trampoline, looking up at the sky and pointing out funny cloud shapes. A vague suspicion crept into my mind. Was it possible that my two year old had tricked me into doing those somersaults? She wasn't that smart, was she?

Naah!

Maybe.

Ah, who cares? It was the most fun I'd had in ages!

In this moment

There is a moment, every morning, when I look into my son's sleeping face and gently call his name. 'Good morning, pumpkin', I say, and watch his eyelids flutter and his face scrunch up at the sound of my voice. He stretches luxuriously and opens his eyes. A few seconds to focus, then his eyes light up and the most delicious smile of recognition spreads across his face.

It is a moment that obliterates the memory of the many sleepless hours that went before. That leaches away the tiredness from my bones. That fills the room with sunshine, no matter what the weather.

It is a moment that I savour, knowing that soon it will just be another fading memory of his babyhood.

But that is tomorrow - for today, this day, this moment is enough.

Back to school

Dropping Moppet off at school on Monday morning, I felt that familiar knot of worry, sadness and pride in my stomach. That will-she-be-okay feeling all mashed up with the happy-sad my-baby's-such-a-big-girl feeling.

Why now, you ask, when she's been going to school for a whole year now, and loving it? Well, Monday was her first day in the 'upstairs class' - new teachers, a different classroom environment, and a new routine.

There's so much going on in her life right now, I was worried that she wouldn't take well to the change. I told her that she would have a new teacher, and that she'd go upstairs to a new class, and that all her friends would be with her. She just shook her head and said, 'Teacher T (her old teacher) will be there.' 'No she won't', I said, 'it will be a new teacher'. 'NO, NO, NO!' she yelled. 'Iss Teacher T will be there!'

I sighed and prepared myself for a tantrum at the school door. As usual, she surprised me.

She looked a little uncertain when told to go upstairs, standing with her arms wrapped tightly around my leg, so the teacher invited me to go on up with her and show her around her new digs. So up we went, and checked out the huge pretend kitchen area, the craft corner, the bookshelf, the computer, and the enormous dollhouse. That's finally when she perked up - at the dollhouse. 'Look mama, boy doing potty!'

It was true, there was a little wooden doll seated on a little wooden potty. 'Let's give him a bath. Wash your bum-bum.' Suddenly, I wasn't there anymore - all her attention was focussed on washing the doll's wooden butt. 'Bye baby' I said, giving her a squeeze and a kiss. 'You have fun. I'll see you at lunchtime, okay?'

'Bye!' She waved me away, not even looking up at me. So summarily dismissed, I headed back home, first indulging in a quiet little cry in the car. And it struck me that in this last year, while she's grown up so much, I haven't at all. I dealt with the whole thing in the same teary-eyed, sentimental way I did last year - and here she was, my 2 year old, taking it all in her stride.

The school gave us a bunch of pictures of her taken during the last year and I can literally see the tiny, baby-faced toddler turning into a confident, happy little girl.


It's funny how despite knowing what's coming, I'm so unprepared for the strength of the emotions that hit me on occasions like this. The wonder doesn't fade. No doubt I'll be just the same old snivelling mess at her college graduation too. I guess when it comes to their children, some moms never do grow up.

Week 39

The ticker says 14 days to go, and I have to admit to mixed feelings about Munch's impending arrival.

On the one hand, there is happy anticipation and nervous excitement about getting to finally meet the little one, to hold him, and to see Moppet's reaction. But there is also a sense of sadness, that this will probably be the last few days I ever get to feel that heartwarming sensation of a little person moving inside me. To lie down and cuddle with Moppet and hear her giggle as she feels Munch moving against her - "Ooh, baby's moving! Wansome more baby moving!"

I know, I tell her, I wansome more baby moving too. I have discovered, much to my own surprise, that I actually like being pregnant! Although certainly not as much as this lady, who's currently expecting her 18th (!!!) child.

No, I think I'm done after this one and that knowledge has helped me slow down and savour every moment of this pregnancy. With Moppet there was an underlying impatience all through the pregnancy and her babyhood. It was all about 'what next and when' and before I realised it, I had a 2 year old little girl in my life and only fuzzy memories of what it was like when she was a baby.

With Munch I'm not in such a rush... if anything it's the opposite. I want to slow everything down, let things happen when they will, how they will, and feel every moment of it.

So yes, there are only 14 days to go. But unlike with Moppet, if Munch decides he wants 20 days before he's ready to meet us, I'm not going to begrudge him that extra time. And if he decides 6 days is all he needs, well then, welcome little fella!

The Ten Commandments of New Motherhood

To:
Maggie,
Sleep-deprived mother of two,
A Harried and Chaotic Moment, Manic Street,
The Near Future.

From:
Maggie,
Toddler-survivor and mother of one,
A Calm And Reflective Moment, Zen Street,
The Recent Past.

Dear Mags,

In just a few weeks time (hoping all goes well) you will be upto your ears in bawling babies and excited family members, and calm reflection on second time motherhood will be the last thing on your mind.

So I thought I'd go over those mad first few weeks with Moppet and make a list of what I'd like to do differently this time around.

In those early days, when you feel like everything is spinning out of control, take a 10 second time-out to consider these Commandments:

I. Thou shalt not assume that thou art the only one who can do things just the way they need to be done for the babe. Thou shalt give thy partner a real chance to be a hands-on parent.

II. Thou shalt be more sensitive to thine own needs. Thou shalt not put thy body through the wringer trying to do it all. Thou art not superwoman.

III. Thou shalt call down lightning bolts on anyone who approaches with the babe, saying 'it must be hunger' within 5 minutes of his last feed.

IV. Thou shalt be more flexible about the babe's routine and not let the rest of thy life come to a complete halt.

V. Thou shalt not shush the entire household and tiptoe around the baby while he sleeps. [Ignore this commandment at thine own peril. Dost thou really want TWO children who wake up at the sound of a mouse's sneeze?]

VI. Thou shalt be more relaxed. Babes are tougher than they appear to be.

VII. Thou shalt make time for thy partner. He needs thy love and attention as much as the babes.

VIII. Thou shalt not let random comments about the size, shape, looks, and behaviour of thy babes affect thy sense of worth as a mother.

IX. Thou shalt make time to exercise, even if it is only for 15 minutes a day. The reward of good health and spirit alone is worth it. [But if thou needest material inspiration, consider also the brand new wardrobe thou canst purchase.]

X. Thou shalt not burden thyself with the worries of a future unknown. Glory instead in the sorrows and joys of this moment now and share in it with thy loved ones.

Love,
Me

Because YOU'RE so nice...

Mother's Day conversation in our household:

Me: Did you know it's Mother's Day today? Huh?

The Husband: What? No, I didn't.

Long pause, pointed and laden with meaning on my part; completely peaceful, back-to-reading-online-comics on his.

End of conversation.

Sigh.

Some days I feel so taken for granted. Sure, it's a cushy life I lead - staying at home with the kid, full-time help, no money troubles - I know I'm luckier than most. But it's also a lonely life, and those jealous twinges that I get when I see batchmates and juniors update their professional profiles with fancy designations are painfully real.

The husband doesn't quite get it, I think. Because his life hasn't stopped. He still gets to travel, meet people, and apply his mind to something other than how to get a 2 year old to eat a decent meal, sleep on her own, and pee in the pot.

He's been really busy with work over the last month or so, and will continue to be till the end of this month. While I know it's because he wants to be as free as possible by the time Munch comes along, it also means that I've had to do a lot of the preparation for the new baby by myself. When I contrast it to how we did everything together with so much excitement when I was pregnant with Moppet, I feel terribly sorry for myself and Munch.

And though I'm looking forward to D-Day, somewhere in the back of my mind is the fear that it will somehow all fall to me to deal with both kids and that I just won't be upto it.

So anyway, for the last couple of weeks I've been chipping away at my to-do list, picking up all the small things, doing research on big items like car seats and prams, nagging the husband for feedback on my research, getting impatient 'don't panic, we'll do it next week' responses, making useless threats on the whole name situation, rubbing my aching back as far as I can reach on my own and wallowing in self-pity.

I have not, in short, been feeling very nice. So this 'Nice Matters Award'* from Sue, Lavs, and Null Pointer cheered me up tremendously. As did all the emails and comments from all of you asking what was up. Thanks again.

I swear if I hadn't found all of you I would've gone completely insane by now.

Passing it on to Sur, JLT, and Kiran.



*In the words of the originator of this award: This award will be awarded to those that are just nice people , good blog friends and those that inspire good feelings and inspiration! Those that care about others that are there to lend support or those that are just a positive influence in our blogging world!

Sunshine after the storm

Mother-daughter relations were at an all time low this past week.

The husband was off on a long (semi) work trip. Her Papa's absence left a big hole in Moppet's routine, particularly evenings and bed-time and she did not take it well. I'd countdown the days till his return every evening, but all she knew was that he was not there to brush her teeth and play aeroplane with her, and what does '6 more days till Papa comes back' really mean, anyway?

She responded by clinging even harder to me. Demanding to be carried everywhere, even within the house. Having meltdowns at the drop of a hat - the particular t-shirt she wanted to wear was in the wash, she must have popcorn RIGHT NOW, the cracker Mama gave her broke in two before she bit it, Mama must sit in the back seat of the car with her (and somehow drive the car, too!) - all these situations (and many, many more) provoked terrible kicking, screaming, raging tantrums.

I understood why she was acting out, but the understanding didn't translate into dealing with it as I should have. Physically, I'm not at my best. My back is in such bad shape that I have to wear a special lumbar support belt. Wrestling Moppet into her underpants when she's decided she'll wear orange ones or nothing, restraining her during one of her kicking rages, even just carrying her when she's actually being co-operative are tasks that are getting painfully harder every day.

Emotionally, I wasn't much better. The husband's long absence aggravated the loneliness that never quite leaves me. There was resentment that he was off having a good time in London and Paris, leaving me to deal with his monster child(ren) by myself. My reserves of patience were at an all-time low.

So I yelled back at Moppet when she screamed. I left her to her floor-smacking rages and curled up on my bed and cried. I turned up the music in the car to drown out her howling from the back seat. By bedtime every day, we didn't like each other very much. The hot, sticky, energy sapping weather did not help.

And then the storm came. Thunder, lightning, and driving rain. The wind whipped through the house, so strong it tore the netting off the balcony doors. A flash of light, a loud boom, and we lost power.

Our paths lit by the emergency light, mother and daughter met in the corridor as each came running to find the other. Moppet was a little frightened, and clung to me as I explained that the power had gone but there was nothing to be scared of and it would come back soon. She was only half reassured and sat close to me as we spent some quiet time reading a few books, drawing, colouring and doing puzzles by candlelight.

The storm died down, but the power was still out, so we moved out onto the balcony to enjoy the cool breeze and the refreshing smells of a city washed clean. Relief washed over me, like a fever had broken. It was the first time in many days that I felt truly at peace.

I began to sing softly and Moppet sat quietly on her little chair next to mine and listened. Occasionally, she piped up with a song request - Mama sing Jai Hind, Mama sing Ladki, Mama sing MashaAllah - and after a while, she said to me, "Now Moppet turn."

"Sure, baby, what are you going to sing?" I asked.

In reply she sang to me a song that I often sing for her:

"[...] Sunshine, ma onny sunshine
You make me happy, when skys gwey
You never know dear, how much I laab you
Peas don take ma sunshine away."*

It was such a perfect song for the moment. Tears poured down my cheeks as she sang in her clear baby voice. When she was done I gave her a great big hug, and she saw I was crying.

"No crying, Mama. Iss power gone. Come back soon. No scared, ok?'

*You are my sunshine, my only sunshine; You make me happy, when skies are grey; You'll never know dear, how much I love you; Please don't take my sunshine away"

Edit: Oh and the next day this happened. And then 2 days later the husband got home, so all's well in my world again :-)

A Blessed Virus

"Help! It's a virus!"

My first thought when I logged in to Google Reader yesterday and saw 15 unread posts, all with the strange title - Riddle-me-Ree, who can she be?

Without opening any of the posts, I went straight to my internet bible and googled 'riddle-me-ree blog virus'. I got plenty of results of course - you will always find an answer in the bible if you look hard enough - but nothing that suggested that this virus might be dangerous.

Still, as wife to a paranoid technogeek, who's only just managed to learn how to deal with all the firewalls and anti-spying technology he's installed on our PC, I didn't want to be the one who brought home a virus that would wipe out our hard drives with random riddles. So I hesitated and kept refreshing my reader and watched with increasing concern as more posts began to appear with the same title.

And then finally, something different showed up in my reader. Boo had come across the same strange phenomenon in her morning inspection of the momblogs, and had posted of her bafflement in her typical I-demand-to-know-what's-up-right-now style.

Obviously much smarter than I am, she had already partly figured it out, and begun what would end up being an almost 10 hour collaborative effort to solve the mystery. Addressed to the MTB's - Boo enlightened us that this meant Mothers-To-Be - this was an online treasure hunt that spanned blogs, continents, and time-zones and the prize was entry to a blog where an online baby shower was being thrown for us ( Boo, Poppins, Kodi’s Mom, Lavs, Desigirl, Planethalder, Random Vignettes, Rohini and me)

What fun! I headed right back to my reader and began the hunt. Fellow MTBs Poppins and Lavs had been doing some good work ahead of me, and they'd already figured out some tough ones. By the time Kodi's Mom joined in the action, I'd already put together an excel sheet and was getting enjoyably confused by it all.

I had had a long and tiring day and by 11 pm my time, I decided I had better get to bed. But my head was full of bits and pieces of rhymes and clues and I knew there was no point my trying to sleep. So I turned the PC back on and stayed up till we were almost done. At around 2 am, I finally decided the rest could wait till morning, especially since there were some missing clues that had still not been posted.

Rushed to the PC in the morning, teeth unbrushed, and crackeroo! Boo's done it! There were a few loose ends, which Kodi's Mom and I quickly tied up and WOW- we had found the most fabulous pot of gold at the end of our rainbow!

The fun of the hunt itself would have been worth it - but here was a most wonderful site, with love, good wishes, music, and counsel from so many of you. I was in tears when I saw how much time and effort you had all put in for a bunch of women most of you don't even know the real names of.

I am touched beyond words, and all I can say is thank you. Thank you for the thought, the love, the time, the effort, the fun, and the friendship. Much love and virtual hugs to you all.

Operation SoloNight

It is much harder than I thought it would be. On me, not her.

I really thought I wanted a toddler-free bedroom. No more tiptoeing around in the dark getting ready for bed, no more muffling coughs, sneezes, and curses, no more reading in bed by the woefully inadequate night light...I had thought I would be dying to get her into her own room.

Not so much, as it turns out.

I embarked on Operation SoloNight with much enthusiasm. The 2-week school break seemed like the perfect time to start - in the event of a few bad nights, neither she nor I needed to be up on time to be ready for school.

We tried to prepare Moppet by making the whole thing a fun adventure. I bought some nice, brightly coloured sheets for her bed which caused much excitement. "New-new bed!" She squealed, bouncing up and down on it. We moved the music system into her room, which brought on further paroxysms of delight ("Iss Moppet music!") and burned a CD with all her favourite songs on it to play in the evening before bed time.

We showed her how the new two-way baby monitor worked, and how I could talk to her from another room. She liked that too, and dashed between our room and hers, yelling out to me from her room, "Mama, hullo-hullo?"

The first night in her room, bedtime was one big circus. Both her Papa and I danced with her to her music, and did a little song and dance number with Barney and a few other stuffed toys - a complicated routine which involved hanging them upside down and singing 'LOOK OUT! here comes the PI-der-MAAAN', then throwing them off the bed. Anyway, by the time things wound down to lights off, it was already long past her regular bedtime, and all the excitement and jumping around of the evening had tired her out. I stayed with her until she fell asleep and then slipped out.

My newly toddler-free bedroom had lights blazing, and a grinning husband sprawled on the bed, trying to read 3 books at one go, so happy was he that he would finally get to read himself to sleep again, a lifelong habit that he'd had to give up cold turkey when the extremely light-sleeping Moppet took possession of our bedroom. I grinned back at him, opened and shut a few cupboard doors simply because I could, brushed my teeth with the bathroom door open and more light streaming into the bedroom, hummed loudly as I arranged my pillows, and finally stretched out contentedly on the bed.

It was late, and I was tired, but I found myself lying in bed staring at the little green light on the baby monitor. What was that sound I heard? Were all the settings on the monitor in Moppet's room correct? Was the temperature in her room ok? She would already have kicked her blanket off; she might be feeling cold. Maybe I should go check?

Over the next 3 hours I tossed and turned, convinced myself that the monitor was not working, and made 2 trips to her room, standing with an ear pressed to her door, listening for any sound that would give me an excuse to go in. So it was a perverse relief when she did wake up and her call came loud and clear over the monitor. I rushed into her room, and patted her back to sleep. It barely took a minute or two, but I knew I couldn't go back to my room.

And so it was that at 2 in morning, carrying my pillow and duvet, I tiptoed into her room, and spent the rest of night on the other twin bed there, muffling my sneezes and coughs and feeling my way to the bathroom in the pitch dark.

I slept like a baby, as did my baby.

*********
Moppet has now spent 3 nights in her own room, and seems to be doing well. She still gets up a couple of times in the night, and I usually end up sleeping on the twin bed next to hers for a few hours every night, but she does seem to be sleeping better overall. For one, she no longer gets up at the crack of dawn, but at the far more manageable time of 7.30 am. We have quite a way to go yet, but for 3 days, I think the progress is satisfactory. Mine, I mean.

*Anti-jinx sign courtesy Dotmom

Baby talk

We were at a loose end this morning since Moppet had no school, so we decided to go visiting. S and Moppet are in the same group at school and are friends (to the extent that 2-year olds can be friends). Also, S has a 4-month old baby brother, and I thought it would be nice for Moppet to see the baby and play with him a little.

It all started out very nicely. Having been repeatedly told to be on her best behaviour on the way over, Moppet's first words to S when we reached her house were, 'S, no fighting, ok?' It turned out that S's mom had been telling her much the same stuff, so S responded cordially with 'S share Moppet' and started to ply her with all her toys out of her toy trolley.

Things were going extremely well, meaning that we moms were actually able to have a conversation, interrupted only occasionally by an ear-splitting scream, a broken toy, a bumped head, and a disputed balloon.

Then Baby A woke up and joined the party. He is the happiest, cutest little fellow, and I couldn't resist picking him up and giving him a cuddle. Moppet, who had only given him a cursory glance when he was brought out, completely flipped out when I picked him up.

'MY MOPPET MAMA!' she wailed. 'MAMA NO CAWWY BABY! PUT BACK, PUT BACK, PUT BACK!'

I gave Baby A back to his mom in a hurry and Moppet climbed onto my lap and stayed there for about 5 minutes. But S and her toy trolley were hard to ignore for too long and she soon slid off to go back and play.

She did warm to the baby a little later on, when he was lying on the bed, looking around at all of us with bright-eyed curiosity and waving his little fists in the air. Seeing me gently pinch his cheek and call him a cutiepie, Moppet climbed onto the bed to do the same.

'Be gentle, Moppet' I warned, and she was. 'Keetipie' she said, and was rewarded with a gurgle and a smile. I showed her how he would wrap his hand around her finger and she was thrilled. 'Baby hol hand!' she said, with a big grin.

S was watching the proceedings with disapproval and the holding hands bit was more than she could bear. She bounced onto the bed, grabbed Baby A's other hand, and generally indicated that Moppet should refrain from looking at or touching HER baby, or else.

Moppet responded by yanking my t-shirt up, patting my belly and saying, 'This one Moppet baby.' I was floored. I hadn't realised that she understood that much. 'Yes, this one is your baby, Moppet', I said, giving her a happy hug.

But in the taxi on our way home, Moppet sat facing me in my lap with a hand on my tummy and said, 'Baby bwother inside. No baby bwother ouside, ok?'

Oh dear.

6 things you probably don't want to know about me

Another tag, this time from Sue, that I'm twisting for my own purposes.

The Rules:
- Post the rules on your blog.
- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
- Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website

I'm going to make this 6 random points about being pregnant. Just because, ok?

1. I'm big. HUGE. Like never before. At a little over 5 months pregnant, my belly button's already turned into an outie, something that didn't happen until the very last month of my first pregnancy. Could it be all the left over fat from the last time? Surely it's not because I'm stuffing my face all hours of the day and night? It's a mystery, I tell you ;-)

2. When I was pregnant with Moppet, I wanted to eat fish a lot. So the husband and I would go to this Konkan restaurant every weekend and I'd order 3 or 4 different types of fish and eat it happily, imagining all the lovely omega-3 oils filling my baby's brain and making her a super-genius. That they didn't take is another matter altogether, but I was happy that my craving coincided so nicely with what was supposed to be good for both the baby and me. This time, I have no specific cravings; it's anything goes. Except when we go out - I always feel like I want to have a banana choc-chip muffin from Starbucks. Don't ask me why!

3. I am sleep-deprived, and I cannot blame Moppet - more's the pity. Unlike the last time, when insomnia hit in the last couple of months and I could still snatch a few hours of sleep sitting in the recliner, this time there's no relief. I make 5 trips to the bathroom, and 2 to kitchen every night, simply to have something to do. I sit up in the dark and glare at my fast-asleep husband, only barely restraining myself from waking him up and saying, 'You're breathing too loudly!'

4. Munch apparently shares my insomnia. He's rarely quiet, and is way more active than I remember Moppet being at this stage. We always thought Moppet was a strong kicker - her Papa was most excited about it, and would keep encouraging her to practice kicking with the left foot in-utero, because 'every football team needs a player with a strong left foot'. Munch however, appears to have taken up Thai kickboxing as his favourite uterine sport. Sometimes, I feel jabs in 3 different places at once. How one little baby with only the normal human number of limbs can achieve that is beyond me, but there you go.

5. Everything makes me cry - a cheesy sad scene in a movie, an old song, a pretty picture, a nice view, Oprah (ok, well that's understandable!) - the waterworks just turn on, even as I'm aware of how ridiculous I'm being.

6. I'm relaxed and enjoying myself. Apart from the insomnia, I've been lucky to have had no other major discomforts so far (touchwood). The first time around I was reading, measuring, thinking, and worrying all the time. Taking ante-natal classes, scribbling notes in a little notebook, practising my lamaze breathing, lecturing the husband on all the things I thought he should know, making lists of all the things I would need... I never took the time to enjoy being pregnant. I'm doing that this time, and you know what? I'm lovin' it!

Tagging all the other pregnant bloggers out there. You can do the tag this way, or in its original format.

Moppet on Munch

Ok folks, so Munch it is. I'm still trying to think of something for me and hubs (he's retaining his damn veto power over his nickname, it seems. Gah!)

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, Moppet and I were sitting in my mom's rocking chair, and Moppet's insistence on sitting so close as to squish my belly uncomfortably, brought on this conversation.

Me: Moppet, there's a little baby in Mama's tummy. If you press so hard, the baby will get hurt. So you have to be gentle, ok?

Moppet: Baby inside?

Me: Yes, a small baby.

Moppet: (disbelievingly) Open baby?

Me: Not now. Now the baby is too small. We'll open baby when it's a little bigger, ok?

After that, every once in a while when she climbs onto my lap, she demands to see the baby and then traces out the baby's eyes, mouth, nose, head, body, and hat (!) on my belly.

Sometimes, without warning, she'll come up and hit my belly - not hard, but hard enough for it not to be a joke. Then she asks concernedly, "Baby hurt? Baby cwying?" I think it's simply because I've told her not to, and she wants to see how much I'll take before she gets into trouble.
This is not looking good for Munch once he's out and unprotected. He'll have to toughen up really quickly, the poor kid.

But there are other times when Baby must be given a goodnight kiss. And not just by her, but by Papa and Mama also. Since I am quite unable to perform the contortionist act required to kiss my own belly, she will usually give the baby another kiss on my behalf. And then she will ask, "Baby sleeping? Baby happy?" And when I say yes, she says, "Moppet happy!"

So I think she does understand to some extent, although of course, she has no clue what she's in for when Munch actually arrives to share centre-stage with her.

Moppet always was possessive about me, but recently it's become rather extreme. Mama has to carry her a lot, even from one room of the house to another. Only Mama can wash her bum, only Mama can put her to bed, only Mama must sit with her while she drinks her milk. This from a child who was quite happy to have Nanny or Papa do the honours a couple of months ago. Whether it is the result of our short break at home where she and I spent all our time together, or because she hasn't been too well since she got back, or because she understands that there's a new baby on way, I don't know.

In any case it's going to be an interesting ride for all of us.

What does Moppet say

- when she sees Papa sitting too close to Mama?
"MYYYYYY!" (in loud warning tone, complete with a proprietary hand on Mama's shoulder)

- when she almost falls off the sofa but manages not to at the last minute?
"Oh my gott!"

- before she leaves for her first day of school after Christmas break?
"Bye-bye Papa, be good!"

I am beginning to understand now why all parents think their children are geniuses. For me, all Moppet's milestones before this pale in comparison. Sure it was exciting to see her roll, sit, stand, walk, run, and climb, but this - the talking - it just takes my breath away.

When she marches up to me and gives my hand a little shake and says 'How ARE ya?', flashing a toothy grin and looking for all the world like a pint-sized politician canvassing for my vote.

When she runs up with her little doodle board and asks me to draw her a motoboat, sailboat, fishboat, tugboat, and fewwyboat, all from the memory of the pictures in one of her books.

When, desperate to get away from my tickling fingers, she yells "Mama foal hans!" copying a trick we use (fold your arms) when she gets too fidgety.

When she climbs into a taxi with me and instructs the driver in a firm little voice to 'Lee kwa' (liaw khwaa, meaning 'turn right' in Thai).

When she points out the sights as we drive along, "Mama look! Pink umbella. Billoo kaa. Chishmish tee. Ellow bus. Again bus. Big bus. Wheels wound and wound. Mama sing!"

Somewhere in the back of my head I am aware that it's really just a normal part of growing up. All kids do it. But watching it unfold right before my eyes, at a speed that I cannot believe is real - it's like watching one of those Nat Geo videos where you see a flower bloom right in front of you.

There's nothing quite like it. Despite 25 plus years of using the english language, I still can't find the words to describe it.

Lady of the Cake

One of the things that bothers me about not being able to work outside the home is that as a homemaker, my skills leave much to be desired. Without the the pressures of work as an excuse, I have nothing to explain away my utter lack of imagination when it comes to our home and meals.

It makes me feel incompetent. And I'm not used to feeling incompetent. Allow me a moment of immodesty here to say that I was a cute baby, a smart child, a happy and well-adjusted teenager, an above average student, and a top-rated employee. And my family and friends had better would agree that I'm a good person to have in their lives. So though I may not be particularly talented in any one thing, there are several things I can do without appearing like a total idiot.

Unfortunately, cooking is not one of those things. When I step into the kitchen to cook, the results are usually offensive to all 5 senses (If you're wondering how food can sound bad, it's not the food, it's me that sounds bad once the inevitably inedible dish is finally ready). It is as if my DNA is missing some crucial cooking gene. Up until now, this inability of mine wasn't something I felt particularly bad about it. So I can't cook. Big deal, was what I thought.

But then Moppet happened and I find myself wishing that I could make her something that she would love to eat. Something that 'nobody can make like mom does'. Something that when she's grown up and away from me, she will remember fondly as mom's special.

It is particularly ironic that I should feel this way. My Mil slaves away in the kitchen all day whenever we visit and is disappointed when we cannot eat more than a quarter of what she has prepared. I have gently told her several times that we know she loves us and that the making and consuming of vast quantities of food are not necessarily indicators of love and regard. And yet, here I am today, wanting to have my child eat and enjoy something I can make for her myself, wanting it to be another special something we share.

But here is the problem. My mom and Mil are as gifted in the matter of cooking as I am challenged. Which means that whether by miracle or dumb luck, I do manage to produce something edible, it will not hold a candle to anything either of the grandmas make. So what to do?

The answer came to me a couple of days ago. Baking! That's what I'm going to do! It has several advantages. I love all manner of baked stuff. Nothing I make will be compared to what Mom makes. And since they won't be everyday items, I won't be called upon to produce them too regularly. The perfect solution, don't you think? I'm already dreaming of the wonderful things I'm going to bake - cakes and cookies and brownies, maybe even bread! So this weekend, I am going to blow some cash on baking equipment and supplies and in a week, you should have a report on how my first ever cake turns out.

Maybe when you visit next, you will be treated to some homemade carrot cake or shortbread biscuits. Then again, with my natural gift for all things culinary, they may end up being store bought, and we may be eating them by candlelight because the oven blew out the power supply. But for now, just call me Lady of the Cake! :-)

Edit: Just realised after I posted that this was my 100th post. So even if my little baking project does go bust, at least I can do a small 'yay-me' on this blog project! :-D

It takes one to know one

This evening, Moppet and I were playing with her little doodle pad. I was drawing things on it and she would yell out what they were. I'm no artist, as is obvious from the recreation below (although I'm a bit better with a pencil than with the mouse) but Moppet was able to identify almost everything I drew.

It was great fun. Some of the things she liked so much that I'd have to draw them several times before she'd let me draw something new. We played in this fashion until I ran out of stuff that I could draw that she also knew the name of.

And then I had a brilliant idea. I drew me. Like this.
It's a decent likeness, really. I mean, just the curly hair is enough!

So I proudly show her my artwork, expecting her to say Mama. She takes one look at the picture and gets super excited. She does a little jig around the room and then comes back to jab her finger on my carefully done self-portrait and declare:

"Kaata!"

Cartoon.

Sigh. She's right, isn't she?

Mayil for me, baby

Rows and rows of little shops selling bits and pieces of hardware is probably very close to what my husband imagines heaven is like. Rarely have I seen such a gleam in his eye or such a smile on his face as when he was wandering through that crowded IT Mall, drooling over the latest and greatest in hardware, exclaiming over prices, and pointing out specs to me.

I was along for translation and deal-making services that were required only intermittently during the 3 hours that we were there. So while he pottered around happily in some little store, I plonked myself down on a bench outside to give my aching back a break.

That's when I saw them, a mom and daughter sitting in a hair salon. (Remember, this is Thailand, there are beauty salons everywhere - even in IT malls.) The little girl was about Moppet's age, and her mom was amusing her by throwing a small towel over a stuffed toy and then flicking it off to reveal the toy. The girl burst into loud laughter every time the towel came off and she saw the toy. It was a cute sight, and I watched them with a smile.

But it was a wistful smile, because it's been a long time since it was that easy to make Moppet laugh. A simple trick like the stuffed toy and the towel would earn me nothing more than an inquiring 'how-dumb-do-you-think-I-am' look from her. I remember when she was just a couple of months old, putting her hands together and clapping them would bring on the most gorgeous wide smiles. Peekaboo, funny faces, silly sounds - easy enough, but they only worked for a few more months.

It's not that she doesn't laugh, just that the things that make her laugh are far more elaborate. So when Ally the Aligator strolls along the bathroom platform, falls into Lake Washbasin and screams for help in a shrill falsetto, I get a giggle. And then when Wally the Walrus arrives to rescue Ally and falls in himself, I get another one. When the jug I'm balancing on my head falls off and I just barely manage to catch it, I'm rewarded with an appreciative laugh. And it's even louder if I don't manage to catch it and it bounces off my foot. More laughter when she slips out of my grasp while being lotioned up after her bath and streaks through the house in her birthday suit, with me in hot pursuit. Laughter when she pinches me and says 'AAARGH' herself.

Two days ago,she found these swim goggles and cracked up looking at herself in the mirror. It was just wonderful to watch, for me in particular because although she's taken after her more serious father, my secret (well, not so secret any more now!) wish is that if she could have just one of my traits, it would be the ability to laugh at oneself.

The world is not always a happy place, and life can be hard. Finding humour in every day life helps me stay positive, and I like to think that I'm confident enough in who I am to be able to laugh at myself on occasion. I hope I can give my daughter the same confidence in herself.

But for now I'll settle for another one of those delicious giggles. Time for the tickle monster, I think!

On religion

When we meet new people and I mention Moppet's name, something I often hear is 'Oh, but that's not a Hindu name, is it?' No, it's not, I reply and wait for the inevitable follow up question: So you're Indian but not Hindu? What are you then?

For simplicity's sake I say we're Christian, and while it is factually correct, I often feel like a hypocrite saying it. Moppet's Papa and I are Christians simply because of the families we were born into but neither of us practice the religion. Sure, we got married in a church, and Moppet has been baptized, but that was more for our extended families than for us. Christmas and Easter are celebrated, but as social events, not religious ones.

I'm still finding my own way through this, but the clearest way in which I can explain my position is that I believe in God (or some sort of a higher power) and not in any religion. It never really worried me until Moppet arrived. Because I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Moppet. I would like her to understand the religion she is born into, but I want her to choose the religion she follows, if at all. And I don't want my own beliefs, or lack of them, to influence her choice.

But is that possible? Parents are such enormous influences on their children. And aren't we really, at some level, bringing up our children to be stronger, faster, smarter, more successful versions of ourselves?

In my own family, my father is agnostic and my mother, a believer. My dad ensured that I went to Sunday school and got religious instruction, but he also encouraged me to question, think for myself and make my own choices. While this has been his guiding parenting principle across all things in life, in the matter of religion in particular, I think his own beliefs have influenced mine greatly. I remember the long discussions we have had on religion, some when I was just 10 or 11 years old. I remember his honest explanation of his agnostic position, and today I wonder if my experience of religion and spirituality as a child might have been different if it hadn't been seen through my dad's agnostic lens.

As an adult, I have no regrets about that. But as a mother, I wonder if I can be involved in my daughter's understanding and experience of religion without colouring it with my own.

I wish I knew.

Edited to add: I realise that the post does not quite explain why I want Moppet to experience and understand religion, if I don't believe myself.

One, as Kiran mentioned in the comments, religion does bring a sense of identity. There is a sense of community and belonging that I do not want to deprive Moppet of. Growing up, we went to church as a family every Sunday, my dad included. He believed his obligation to our church community was a social one, and fulfilled it religiously [sorry, just couldn't resist ;-)] I owe Moppet the opportunity to belong, and should she later choose not to, that is her decision to make, not mine.

Two, faith also brings hope, strength, and a sense of purpose. Especially as a child, when life can be so confusing and overwhelming, I think it is nice to be able to believe in a guardian angel, to know that miracles can happen. For all my feelings about religion being man-made, and rituals designed for an earlier time that have no relevance in today's world, there is certainly much human wisdom in religious texts that I would like Moppet to learn.

Thank you all for your comments. I know there are no easy answers, but your support and understanding gives me hope.

Moppet goes to playschool: Mama's version

I have felt for some time now that Moppet could do with a different, yet safe and stimulating environment in which to play and explore, other than just our home. Regular play dates with kids around her age would have been enough, but we don't have any friends with kids in her age group. So she gets to play with me and Nanny day in and day out and I thought playschool would be a welcome break from the monotony (for all three of us!).

Of course, the school itself was a big factor in the decision. It's not just the great infrastructure (although that's certainly important), but the overall philosophy of the place that I like. Even the name: Purple Elephant. With a name like that, you can be sure that these folks aren't going to tell kids that mangoes can't be blue!

There is no structured curriculum - it really is just a 'play' school, especially for the kids in Moppet's age group. The teachers let the kids do their own thing, watching for a chance to occasionally explain a concept or show them something new, just as we would do at home. But there are also some activities that the kids are encouraged to do together, like music and water play.

The teachers are well-trained and full of energy, and they obviously love their little charges. I like that they understand that each child is different, and are willing to try different approaches with each child.

The first couple of days, I stayed with Moppet for the whole 3 hours. For Moppet this meant that she felt secure enough to explore the whole school and find her bearings in the new environment. For me, I got to watch how the teachers interacted with the children and how they dealt with children whose parents could not stay and were having a hard time. But most importantly, I got to see what a blast Moppet was having and I realised how much I had underestimated her.

I was shell shocked that she was the first one to volunteer when a teacher brought out a big bouncy ball and asked who wanted to be bounced on it. I did a double take when she went up and asked for water, then drank from the little paper cup all by herself. And I watched with disbelief as she sat at the table with the other kids and polished off her snack like she hadn't eaten for months.

So on day 3, when her teacher suggested that I try leaving for an hour, I was ready to give it a shot. I knew she would cry. Going off to sleep in her own bed with trusted ol' Nanny by her side is one thing, but having me hand her over to a person she barely knew and wave goodbye was too much for her. Although I had told her repeatedly that I would come back to pick her up soon, she just couldn't bear to see me go.

It was heartbreaking, walking away from my baby, hearing her calling out for me. By the time I reached the end of the lane, I was a sniffling, snivelling mess. Moppet's teacher had promised that she would call me if she felt that Moppet was getting too stressed, so I decided to walk around near the school. There was no call, but despite my best efforts to stay away for an hour, I ended up back at the school in under 40 minutes. (Ok, it was more like 25 minutes)

I waited nervously on the verandah until she was brought out, looking terribly woebegone in her teacher's arms . She burst into tears when she saw me and literally jumped onto me.She pointed to the row of kids' shoes arranged on the verandah and said chooz, meaning let's get my shoes and get the hell outta here! But as soon as we found her shoes and put them on she was smiling again, and even stopped to wave bye to her teacher.

I was told that she had cried for pretty much the entire time that I had been gone, stopping for five minutes to look at a picture or listen to a song before starting off again. But they did find that she preferred to stay in the music room, and that if one of the teachers sang to her, she would quiet down and listen.

I had thought that she might not want to go back to playschool the next day (today) but she was raring to go, hefting her precious kaakpa (her backpack containing a change of clothes and a spare diaper), and singing rhymes with me in the cab on the way over. Today, for the hour that I left her, she cried hard for a while, but when the music started, her teacher said that she actually clapped along and smiled. Phew!

As I write this, she has just come looking for me in the study, dragging her kaakpa behind her and demanding her chooz. I tell her that school's over for today, that we'll go again tomorrow, but she wants to go now.

Oh no, tantrum alert! Gotta go!

This freedom I don't want. Yet.

I was nervous. This was the first time I was leaving Moppet alone with her nanny in the evening. It was just for a few hours, and I was only going to a neighbour's house, but I was still worried. Moppet's Papa was travelling, so I was going by myself.

Nanny has been with us for over 6 months, and knows Moppet's routine inside out, but that didn't stop me from repeating my instructions to her a dozen times over. I left all phone numbers - mine, the neighbour's landline, cell, and intercom - written on a postit and stuck on the phone.

Let her watch Barney if she wants, I said. If she doesn't sleep by 9, call me. If she cries for me, call me. If she doesn't drink her milk, call me. I'm in the next building. I can be back in 2 minutes.

At the party, I made my apologies in advance almost as soon as I walked in the door. It's the first time I've left Moppet with her nanny at night, I explained. She doesn't sleep without me, so I'll probably get called back around 9.00 pm. I hope that's ok.

Of course, my gracious hosts assured me. But don't worry about it, she'll be fine.

All through the evening, I waited for the call, sneaking looks at my phone, checking to make sure it was working, the network signal strong, and the ringer volume on max.

8.30...9.00...9.15...9.25... No call.

Finally at around 9.30, I cracked. I withdrew to the balcony and called home expecting to hear chaos in the background, only to be cheerfully informed by Nanny that Moppet had watched Barney, drunk her milk and gone to sleep by 9 without even asking for me.

Oh.

I returned to the living room, telling myself that I could finally relax and enjoy the party, but despite the excellent company and delicious food, my heart just wasn't in it.

At around 11 pm, as I was leaving, my host asked about Moppet - was she doing ok? More than ok, I said, a touch ruefully. She didn't ask for me at all.

A father of 2 strapping teens himself, he nodded in understanding. None of us is as indispensable as we think we are, he said. And then, seeing the expression on my face, he added kindly- that's not such a bad thing, you know.

Probably not. But when I got back home, I sat by my baby's bed for a long time watching her sleep, bathed in the pale blue light of the night. Watching this little being, so long a part of me, now her own person, separate, unique. Watching, my head trying to comprehend how my heart could feel so fiercely proud and intensely sad at the same time.

This freedom I don't want. Yet.

I got in and lay down next to her, pulling her warm little body close. She stirred and murmered something I couldn't quite catch, then turned and snuggled into me.

Sshh sshh, I whispered. Mama's here, baby.

Mama's here.