The Life of the Over-Anxious Types

Some people get ‘too worried’ about too many things. The list of things which gets such over-anxious folks, well, over-anxious, seems endless to others. Even if there are just 957 items (and counting) on the ‘List of Worries’, those around such palpitating folks prefer saying ‘you have to worry about EVERYTHING?’ It isn’t everything we worry about, but truth be told we do worry about a lot!

We? Okay then. Time to own up, confess and also confide. I am the over-anxious kind, but because there is comfort in numbers, let me use ‘we’ instead.

We like the usualness of the everyday. We are low-maintenance that way. A routine sans ‘interruptions’ is good for our hearts’ health. Interruptions? They come in all sizes, and the XS ones are present even in the normal day-to-day. For instance, those to do with timing. Waking up 10 minutes after the alarm sends us into a tizzy. No, we are not sure we are late but we worry that we can be because 10 minutes of usual get-the-house-folk-ready time has been lost. We berate ourselves, beat the coffee harder, bathe like standing on live coals and generally go scurrying about the house like rats. Worrying rats! ‘We are all going to be late!’ While we do that, those around us go about, or certainly seem to go about, at a shamefully languid pace, staring at the rampaging monster frothing at the mouth. ‘Can’t you do your potty fast? You are late!’ Needless to mention, by the time the bye-byes happen, usually still at the O’clock, even the sweat droplets on the nose are fatigued from the work-out. They simply want to drip away. 

This worry to do with keeping time extends to bus depots, railway platforms and airport terminals too. On an average, we reach our places of departure an hour in advance; that is after spinning like a crazy top while preparing for the trips. All lists crossed out two times over. Our bags packed for WW III. Our pockets worried full of peanuts in case a dinosaur blocks our car en route. And anxiety tucked in the top pocket, with the tickets. By the time it’s departure time, we have moved ourselves so much we don’t even realize the train is moving. And then ‘Do you think it will be raining there? We haven’t kept an umbrella!’ That's a size M for the rest of the journey.   

Then there are the Size L interruptions. Like exams! As teenagers the gut takes the kick. As adults, Lomotil becomes your best buddy. Anxiety for scoring well makes your hands shake, your hand-writing drunk and your examiner impatient, and thus often plummeting your scores. (Not for me though. I was always above average!) Vicious circle. Invoke your favourite gods, chew your nails, wear your lucky shirt, do what you may. With eyes stuck on the clock and mind on the consequences, you lose all control on your nerves. And bladder, if it’s Physics, Class XII, Board. Similar to your wedding day, cold feet included!

But some of us have not felt The Anxiety till our kids fall ill. Sneezes to infections, flu to grazed knees, weird worst-case scenarios drawn from Google or Biology books make traumatic appearances in our over-anxious eyes. Perhaps, this is why I confide today …

My son got the tummy bug a week back and has been languishing at home, with no appetite for food or fun. His parents have been doing what is needed, but it is his mother who has been doing more than what is needed. Or in other words, what is generally considered 'not needed'. I have been poring over poop and pee, pressing his tummy to generate reactions, putting each morsel in his mouth with shaky hands (Will it stay? Why won’t it? WHEN WILL IT?), touching his forehead every 30 minutes and making lists of questions to ask the doctor on the next visit. Obviously, my over-anxious behavior is generating reactions. My son’s response to ‘How do you feel?’ has gone from ‘I feel fine’ to ‘Fine!!’ My husband with his well of patience has, as usual, asked me to not worry for ‘how will it help?’ about 899 times and is now metamorphosed into his quiet helpless presence around me, passing ORS, indulging the kid with Battle Ship, sending SMSes from office and generally  trying to be helpful.

But what helps an over-anxious person? Can something?  

If it is a man they call him a birch-rod ‘disciplinarian’ and if it’s a woman on the go she’s got to be a reactive ‘menopausal’! Our worrying and worried persons are seen as child-like, predictable and unreasonable and our often shed tears common and thus needing no one’s hankerchiefs. All our worries are either unfounded or balderdash. Our very presence itself is believed to add to the grim (to us!) situation rather than take away from it. Even the doctors must be whispering under their breaths ‘Here she comes again!’ readying their best placating methods for the child’s mother’s child-within.

We over-anxious kinds sound like awful people to be around. Don’t we?

But you know, it is equally awful to be this kind too. Pretty painfully awful. Taxing! That too to be punctual, or concerned! Oh, helplessness!! To not be able to control your disorderly heartbeat even if it’s about bringing the house to order in the mornings. To not be able to not sweat when the ticket screams a departure time. To keep the hands from shaking while entering the exam halls. To not be able to fully-freely enjoy your own weddings, parties, farewells and book launches because ‘what if…?’ To not panic when the kid pukes. To not cry when he does it again...Yes, EVERYTHING! GRR!   

What helps an over-anxious person not feed on worry? Can something? 

Hm. No one’s answered that satisfactorily yet. But of course, if you’ve read this and you worry for my BP, you’re welcome to gift me a weekend at the spa in the hills or fly me for a solo beach holiday. 

(Um, what time exactly does the flight leave and which Terminal, please? Just asking. I guess.)

Through the Green Lens; A Photo Story

When you say ‘Nature’ to me, no poetry born under a cherry tree comes to mind. No tune composed by the river or lyrics of a song the winds on the dunes sang. No quotable quotes either. When I hear ‘Nature’, all connections in my neurons go blank, except one. The one which zips me back to where I belong, and how. In the Doon valley, you grow up making tree houses and befriending squirrels-next-door. You play fetch with your dog in a kitchen garden which grows the family’s vegetables and you ride a scooter on roads so thickly lined with old Fir trees, the mountains on all 4 sides have to vie for a little attention. My home town where my memories with Nature converge is a picture every 5-year-old draws in the name of ‘Scenery’.

Mountains big and small standing arm in arm, drawn in crayons. A sun with glorious rays peeping from between the two in the middle. Smiling. Two birds like the letter V flying randomly and a river flowing down the tallest peak. A small hut, driveway, tree to one side and bush to the other. Maybe a pond with a few ducks. And three stick figures – father, mother and child – with arms upraised, as if saying Hurrah to the delightful surroundings. When you say ‘Nature’ to me, this comes to mind. 

A picture of Friendship with Nature. A bond that develops over time and is unlike any other. No strings attached here, no self-interest. No obligation or customary to-dos. None. A symbiotic coexistence in its purest form. In its most real form. One hundred percent.

I was inspired to befriend Nature as a girl, then introduced to the marvels of the wild as a married woman and today, encouraged as a mother to egg my own child into this friendship. Three phases, and I let my picture collection tell you about them.

Phase 1

Friends of the Doon Society, and me

I had barely learnt to differentiate between a moth and a butterfly in school when I was asked by my parents to ‘start contributing’ to an NGO they had been a part of. FODS was founded nearly three decades ago by 5 concerned citizens of the Doon valley towards the protection of this ecologically fragile belt. It was this NGO which played a pivotal role in shutting down the lime quarries in the Uttarakhand hills. I was initially enrolled in ‘NEAP’ – Nature and Environment Awareness Programme, which meant I was to visit schools and conduct informal sessions on environmental topics I myself knew enough about. And that was just the beginning, with no looking back to doing my tiny bit. While work made me relocate out of the city, FODS, with my parents as its core members, continues strong and committed. Nature trails and quizzes are organized in schools across the valley, as are bird-watching and nature camps. Under ‘Trees for Doon’, FODS asks citizens for land to plant trees on, providing free saplings and seeds for whoever volunteers a patch to be greened. A Citizen Action Group has been formed in collusion with other NGOs in order to deal with the civic problems of the city, in coordination with the government machinery.

FODS in the city

But the largest project running successfully remains ‘The Elephant Family’, with its primary aim of protecting the Asiatic Elephant. In order to reduce the dependence of humans on Rajaji National park, its natural habitat, FODS adopted a village, Rasulpur, to keep the locals self-sufficient and aware through alternative livelihood options and workshops, respectively.

Activities in the village include promoting new farmer techniques like poly-tunnels through workshops, creating compost pits, adult education classes, free health camps, computer education centres, looms for women, distributing solar lamps, cycles for girls to reach far flung schools, artificial insemination in cattle, etc. 

      Needless to say, this is how I was inspired to become Nature's friend, as a "friend-in-need". When I was shown not just how beautiful and fascinating it was, but also how vulnerable and how fragile. And how it needed us humans to intervene for its well-being and ours. Yes, even a youngling like me!

Phase 2

Into the Wild - Me and my husband

I did not marry a cave man, but I did find one who believed in wild honeymoons. Before your mind races like a cheetah, look at the picture. In the first year of our marriage, we left no stone unturned to traverse National Parks and safari across Wildlife Sanctuaries. Enjoy Forest Reserves and live on a boat to visit mangrove forests. From tuned-n-tamed nature before marriage, I was swept into nature growing wild, and in the wild. These were no resorts with manicured lawns and imported palm trees. Here, nothing stood between you and an angry animal except a man-in-khaki. Where wild boars were wild, not animated creatures out of ‘Madagascar’. Where mosquitoes bit like bees, and bees if upset could kill. Wild tuskers could chase you like toys and crocodiles snap your anchor into half. And where a beautiful bird song could be one asking you to step out of the way, for the tiger-in-stripes was walking that way. 

Some of the sanctuaries and reserves we visited - Buxa Tiger Reserve, Ranganathittu Bird Sanctuary, Sunderbans Tiger Reserve, Gorumara National Park, Chilla Forest Reserve, Jaldapara Wildlife Sanctuary  

It was through many such honeymoons scattered over a year that I discovered the ‘wild’ side of the lover in me. The lover to Nature, of course, growing free far away from what I had come to call 'home' but as marvellous as creation can be!

Phase 3
Paying it Forward - Us and our child

Life happened. Out went the wild and in walked the domestic every day. The green side of our hearts had to make do with a few pots of plants and a handful of sunshine, as we earned the other kind of green to survive. It is now that I became an addict, of Facebook’s Farmville. Sowed and reaped pumpkins. Put an alarm to wake-up at odd hours to collect the harvest. The phone bill came, we were left bankrupt and I was detoxified. I bought myself an extra pot for a bitter gourd vine and forgot all about reliving and recreating an expanse of green in my apartment-life, like the green times I had left behind. Little did I know then that all I needed was a child to take me back to being my Nature’s friend again.

And my son arrived. 

How the first introduction to Nature is in the form of cuddly toys, and expanses of greens and blues and browns which make no sense, but still invite their tiny minds. From Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary to Bangkok's Siam Ocean World, from Bhimbetka caves to a Mughal window in the Red Fort, my son was saying his first hellos to Nature even before I taught him how to.

And when his feet allowed him to walk, it was time to go a step further in this friendship. Run and fly pigeons in Jaipur's Albert Hall, or take orange sweet-peas for a ride in Lodhi gardens. Show us how flowers bloom or talk to fake peacocks in Surajkund. And stand mesmerised babbling with beautiful white ducks. No surprise then that the first book he chose to buy was called 'My First Hundred Animals'.

But when language is learnt, Curiosity learns to ask questions. Why is the feather so soft? How come these leaves are so thin? You hug a tree reliving 'Chipko Movement', whispering an I love you. Run amok on the green with stranger children. Stare intently at pieces of natural history in a museum or even talk to a twig the grass was hiding. Why, you even start imagining you are Atlas, shrugged! And you ask, on and on and on and on, the why what how where how come. 
About Nature.

He's a 3-year-old boy now. I always tell him – when life gives you lemons, go look for the lemon tree. There may be pretty white flowers you may get to see. Something new, entirely! Or something wondrous and miraculous, waiting to make you gasp. And he understands, already. Feeling one with nature takes nothing and gives so much in return. Calm on a stressful day or something new to discover in the mundane. Sowing a seed in a pot and enjoying the sapling grow as if a fairy waved a wand or soaking in the sun and making mansions out of imagination. Admiring the tree and understanding growth, or the waves and thinking of change and flux. And what better way to teach my child the important idea of Respect – not just about touching elders’ feet but also letting the tiny ant crossing his path be. Safe and free, just like he likes to be. 

And gradually, through nurture and nature, our Friendship with Nature evolves, grows and gets sealed. For a lifetime, at least! Just like ours, as a family!

To Nature We Turn

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. But why? How about going looking for a lemon tree instead? Maybe it is in full bloom, and shows you those pretty white flowers too?

There is much that nature has to offer a child. Or even a grown up mind. More so, because in our everyday lives there is just no time. No time to appreciate it and feel grateful for it, or even to simply realize its beautiful presence around us.

I write this as a woman who had to leave her mango and litchi trees behind in her home town to make a living out of life. And I speak as a mother to a 3-year-old being brought up in a typical big town flat, sans a garden to weed or trees to climb. Maybe a few potted plants to adorn the balcony, add some green to the concrete. But, that’s about all. It is this that makes me wallow in nostalgia the colour of flowers, but also makes me go that extra step to open nature’s treasure chest for my son to enjoy.

What is it, big or very little, that nature holds within its whorls?

[To read more, please click here]

Pre-school Picture(s)peak

A short while back, Let’s Play, School! was born. A still shorter while later, I sit here, forgotten as a mom. As my son warmed up to the newness of a routine in school and new play mates to use his abundant creative and naughty energies with, his mother was relegated to a singular role - that of dropper to-picker from school, hanging the bag and bottle behind her ageing back. And turning away a little disappointed every morn. Why? Well, the ta-tas to her were said as cheerfully as the good morning to the teachers. Sometimes, while running excitedly to enter his school, he even forgot to turn back as he waved adieu. While I wallow in this disappointment trying to gain a saucer full of sympathy from fellow parents, I also reveal how happy it makes me to think that not a single time did he say – ‘Mumma, no school today.’  

However, to be curious is human; but to be killed by curiosity simply stupid. Curiosity, the cat had its paws around my throat and was knocking on my heart’s door saying – Are you not eager to know what your child does 3 hours away from you every day? Don’t you want to see what happens within those beautifully coloured and welcoming walls – between him and his friends, his teachers and his didis? The devil ruled away all thoughts of appropriateness, and off I went to consult the principal if I could spend a few minutes in their school, hidden from my little imp’s view but with a camera to capture what it could. 

Here it is then, a sneak-peak into my pre-schooler’s life, where I will let the pictures speak. Well, almost. 

[To see further, please click here]

Christmas in the Heart

If only it was Christmas day when my first school held my orientation, I would not have cried and refused to go inside the exam room. It would have saved my mother the bribe of an orange Amul chocolate and I would have still got my 3-year-old self admitted into that school but without so much drama sitting on the steps outside.

The sights and sounds of Christmas would have helped. The reds, greens and golden would have warmed me up to the newness around. A Santa standing right behind the demure nun and her white habit, waving me inside along with her, would have quickened things. And an Xmas tree with all its goodies surely tempted me enough to speak out the correct answers like a really good girl.

But a good girl I have hardly been. Christmas is to blame. Really.

You name it and I can tick that sin off the list of popular 7 that Christmas made me commit. I have greedily made lists for Santa Claus, asking for everything which my parents could under no circumstances afford (Yes, helicopter variety!). I have proudly displayed my class notice boards to fellow-sections as the best decorated one, yet secretly coveted another’s buntings. Year after year, I have lusted for the plum cake and puddings soon as the winter set in. Why, have even stolen my own kid brother’s stocking gifts (That my parents always knew what Santa had dropped for him, and that I had been naughty even before they had woken up did not deter me!) 

I have done it all. And after all these years, I continue to do it even better now. 

The tiny tree is always dressed. The stocking (or a clean sock) is in place every 24th December, and the husband is reminded of the important date and its significance well in time. The weekend before Christmas is reserved for family. Just us, and everything that we like to do together. Because the image that all those years in two Christian schools have made me associate with Christmas is – Family.

And not just the one I have at home, but the one that we were born into at the time of creation itself – the Human family, sans all man made labels and shadow lines of difference.  

The greatest reminder of this beautiful thought came when I sat with my husband and son, listening to a carol singing competition at Sacred Heart Cathedral, Delhi, in 2012.

We stood in the queue, wondering if our son will maintain decorum during the show, already humming snippets of Noel and Silent Night and remembering our ventures with our school choir. Doing a little jig for Santa Claus is Coming to Town and waiting our turn to enter the hall. A few moments of being seated and the music, the singing and the audience singing along made us throw all other thoughts to the wind. Everyone suddenly seemed to know everyone, either from before or simply because they were singing the same song. Like us. There was merry clapping and happy foot tapping. Some got up to dance a little as my son stood on his chair, cheering every group of carollers as if it was his own team.

Not a word did he understand, but the festive spirit he imbibed.

I do not remember the last time I felt a sense of such warm oneness of being with complete strangers. Of a happy existence, and co-existence. I have also never seen the songs being sung uninterrupted and with no drop in fervour even when the lights went out. The few candles near the dais shone even brighter to keep the merry making alive. And to make me sing on top of my voice, something that I have never done before. 

There were no strangers in that hall. Just many hearts warming up to each other, and wishing each other well. Is there anything else that can shine brighter than that?    

Even as I try to be nice, I continue to be naughty too each passing Christmas. My Santa will always exist. I have to keep the child in me alive, to keep my child happy. To stuff a pillow in my tummy and go ho-ho-ho, or to remind husband dearest that although the paper weight was lovely, the gift need not really fit inside the stocking. No such rule, unless it comes straight from a jewellery shop. 

I will continue to carry Christmas in my heart, not just to spread smiles but also to make everyone see what I can about a Faith that I was not born into but one that I have opened my mind to - to teach forward and be taught by, both. 

There is magic enough in Christmas to make the littlest of pleasures into grand occasions. Warmth enough to welcome those from far and wide. And brilliance enough to light up a hall full of darkness, or human hearts saddened by the reality outside. I believe in Christmas. 

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas. 

Games of Yore

I wrote about Games I Play some time back. That is, games I play with my family and friends, and which I consciously rescued from oblivion called cartons-in-store-ledges. Here, I sit and think back into my childhood. And when I do that, the reel that runs inside my head conjures up images of play-time, and more play-time (unless of course it was report card day and then the story is in a different tone altogether). Why? Since that is what being a child once upon a fun time was about. Playing … in gay abandon. 

Outdoors!

Remember hopscotch? Stapu, as was lovingly called in our house. One chalk one stone, make that a flat-ish stone, and a life-size game board drawn on the street or on the driveway. Even on top of the roofs, kindly lent to us for a few hours. You could practice those jumps-on-one-leg, alone. Better still, call the whole neighbourhood to take turns at hopping, reaching 8, then standing beyond it all and throwing the stone backwards, ‘No looking, please!’ 

[To read more, please click here]

We Two, Our One

So many are roaming around breathless just now. They just finished talking to me about the Merits of Having Two Children, or more. Truth be told, I am a little breathless myself. For looking for air space to explain my views. Got none, their enthusiasm for me to deliver another child far exceeding my own will to make another bundle. 

But, I am happy. 

Not just because I finally know I can make people breathless, but also because the arguments used for forwarding the idea of having more than one child are something I carry my own answers to. And that, our decision of ‘we two and our one’ is not taken merely because everyone says so or that’s-how-it-is, but because we are the parents who reasoned between ourselves and decided to keep it that way.

And when I look around I realize that in this we are not alone. 

An increasing number of couples are opting for a single child. Reasons are aplenty ...

[To read more, please click here]

Babe in the Air

Richa was the first person to drop a ‘keep writing so beautifully’ IndiMail, soon after my blog was born. Richa it was who sent me my first Liebster Badge too (and I celebrated, went out for dinner, did not cook). And over posts and comments and mails, one day, we grew to call each other ‘Soul Sisters’. Full of love and warmth to spread, and bubbling with energy that reaches me through my computer screen, she has been that constant ‘pat-on-the-back’ that I needed. And her 'well done' matters!

One look at The Philosopher’s Stone and you will know what I mean. She writes, of course. Writes wonderfully, always. But what inspires me the most is that she writes for the love of writing. ‘I write so I exist. I exist so I write’ is what she says. And it shows - prolific, talented, committed, writing-after-the-kitchen-is-wound-up and a long day at office done. I am yet to come across such consistently interesting and well-written short stories as I read on her blog. I am also yet to meet a person who merges her public journal with her personal life as elegantly as this woman here. 

So, when she tells me – I need a guest post, darling. You have 2 days, the topic is Travelling with Children and you cannot refuse - I do not take it as a threat. I take it as a compliment, for she adds, as usual in her ever-encouraging voice – I know you can. I trust you can. Just write!

And I write. About a baby in the air. A babe in the air, if you wish to call it that after you read the post. 

I do. I call it ‘Babe in the Air’ and for the rest, here is the link.

http://subzeroricha.blogspot.in/2013/11/babe-in-air.html

By the way, don't let the pictures down there mislead you. 

 

When the Daddy is away ...

… the mice are not out to play. Or are they?

Daddy has to go away sometimes. Travel for work as they call it. Boss says go for a 3 day conference, daddy goes for 5 – conference plus travel time plus reaching home in the middle of the night. 8 pm on the first day of his absence and you can see the child waiting for the bell to ring. Papa will come in a little while, you say. Dinner is had on the bed. Who will dip my roti in the daal, he asks a little perturbed. He senses that something is different. By bed-time, when the lights are dimmed, papa’s pillow rests unused. His eyes widen, sleep is knocking but curious questions abound. But I want to give good night 'kissy' to papa! What do you say? It’s not even one down, and there are 4 more days to go!

Between answering some and keeping quiet on others, the days pass. As the morning sun rises on the 4th day, daddy’s absence has become a given now, no matter how incomplete the picture at home may be. Children accept it I think, or do they? 

So, what do I do when my child’s father has to travel for work? Here’s a peep

[To read more, please click here.]

Guest Post - Schooling Choices and Related Considerations by Jairam Mohan

The author of this post, Jairam Mohan is somebody who pores over excel spreadsheets and power point presentations in his day job, but believes that his true calling lies in boring people to their deaths. That is the sole aim of him updating his blog Mahabore's Mumblings quite frequently. Between him and his wife, they nurture and bring up their two year old daughter as well as the blog.

Schooling Choices and Related Considerations

This post deals with one of the most critical but one of the most under-appreciated and technically difficult topic of choosing the right school for your children. I have dealt with this topic in a bulleted manner, ie, have jotted down my thoughts based on broad categories to be considered when selecting a school for children. Please note that these categories are not prioritized in any manner and are in a random order.

Location constraints

Apart from the fact that Bangalore was my home town, one of the main reasons that my wife and me moved back to the city for good in April this year was because we wanted little R to be admitted in a school which she would hopefully not have to change for the rest of her schooling days. As is the norm with most schools nowadays when you enrol your kids for Pre Kindergarten in a school, the kid continues there till he/she finishes her 12th standard, and believe me, that is a good 15 years in a single place.

Why Bangalore? Because this was the city where we didn’t have to worry about shifting residences as we had my parents’ house where we would stay and not in a rented house where our locality would be based on the whims and fancies of some temperamental owner. While staying with my parents has its own pros and cons, when it comes to the choice of a school, this clearly narrowed down our choices, which probably was a blessing in disguise.

Yes, almost all schools worth their salt have transport facilities in the form of buses or school vans. But I have always been more than a bit sceptical about how the drivers of these school vehicles actually drive on the roads. I have been witness to more than a few avoidable and questionable driving tactics of these school vans in Bangalore and am therefore not too open to making my daughter travel in one of these, if I had a choice.

This therefore meant that we restricted our search to schools which were within walking distance from home or those which were at most 15 mins away by our own vehicle. Yes, geographical location and distance from home may seem like trivial and stupid considerations, but in our opinion it doesn’t help if children have to travel 1+ hour a day two times a day and are stuck in a school vehicle when they could easily be doing something else that is more constructive. 

Curriculum constraints

When it comes to choice of curriculum in Bangalore, parents have to choose between CBSE, ICSE or the Karnataka State Govt syllabus. The decision to reject the State Board syllabus is a no brainer since I did all my education in that syllabus and I can safely vouch for the fact that it is probably the most useless syllabus in the State if not the country. 

However, the choice between CBSE and ICSE was not quite as easy as it looked. While the fact remains that CBSE is probably the most popular among Indian parents, most schools in Bangalore don’t seem to have the affiliation, let alone the ones close to my place. However, having heard from reliable sources that the ICSE syllabus is more depth when compared to CBSE which is more breadth, we decided to go ahead with CBSE as first choice with ICSE being a backup option, considering the schools close to home.

Infrastructure constraints

Given that both my wife and I studied in schools run by Christian Missionary Trusts of the 1980s, we had huge playgrounds in our schools as well as access to sports facilities in the form of sports equipment, coaches and instructors for outdoor as well as indoor sports. Given the cost of real estate nowadays and the fact that we don’t necessarily stay in a locality in Bangalore where moderate schools can actually afford to spend huge money on sports infrastructure, we had to settle down to keeping our choices limited as far as this particular aspect was concerned.

However, we did enquire about the overall infrastructure of the schools and also spoke to parents of children studying there to understand if at least all the basic infrastructure in the form of decent classrooms, labs, computer labs, etc were available at these schools. 

While we necessarily cannot control how much of time our little one will spend on the playground versus the classroom, we want a school which at least provides her with the choice of outdoor activities just in case she is interested in the same.

Financial constraints

This paragraph has to be read in conjunction with the above one relating to Infrastructure constraints as the quality of the infrastructure almost directly impacts the financial requirements from the parents. In this day and age of these so called ‘international schools’ blossoming around all over Bangalore, school fees in lakhs of rupees has become quite common. Parents discuss schooling expenditure only in 6 figures and anything less is considered quite a travesty of social status as well.

Our (read my wife’s and my) upwardly mobile middle class upbringing shocks us to the core when parents we know talk of paying more than Rs 1 lakh for school donations and around Rs 50,000 for annual fees for Pre Kindergarten for their kids. I mean, isn’t Pre KG just a glorified name for Play School? What do these schools teach them or provide them for half a lakh of rupees a year? 

I mean, my daughter is okay if the school doesn’t have an air conditioner, or fancy desks and chairs to sit on and doodle. She is fine as long as the rest rooms are clean and the school staff is courteous and gentle with her, and that should not cost that kind of money in our opinion.

We therefore didn’t even bother enquiring more about a couple of these international schools which are quite close to our place.

Summary and current state of affairs

At the end of this crazy decision making exercise my wife and me finally decided that we preferred a regular school where middle class children were enrolled, with decent sized grounds and where students were at least given opportunities to participate in extra curricular activities. While we outright rejected the crazy costly schools, we have no choice but to settle down for the relatively costlier schools which had the necessary basic infrastructure that I talked about earlier.

At this point the short-list is down to three of which two application forms have already been bought. One Parent-School interaction has been scheduled for the 6th of Nov when hopefully little R will find her second home for the next 15 odd years starting June 2014.

It is difficult not to nod in agreement with Jairam's views or not go 'tuch tuch' when he talks about the 'business' of schooling these days. I share his shock at the numbers which have made Play Schools a luxury item almost - unaffordable and very different from the cosy ones we went to, as children. I am sure most of my readers can relate to this wonderfully composed post on this father's ideas of picking the right school for his little R. Would love to know what your experience has been!   

My Santa Claus, real-ly!

I love Christmas! For 25 years now I have hung stockings, decorated trees, made wreaths from leaves, bells with Styrofoam cups, and had cakes upon cakes – since that’s what you eat when Christ is born, or so I want to believe for my gastric merriment sake. It’s a different matter that often socks in place of stockings and potted look-alikes (or those shimmery ones from China) rather than original Xmas trees were used. It’s also a different matter altogether that eating the cakes took precedence over getting the buntings up in time, maybe. Be that as it may, my Christmas has never lacked cheer or a stocking on Christmas eve. Because Santa Claus never forgets to drop by!

I am 30 years old and my son is a little over 2. Here is a picture of us from last Christmas, with both of us believing that Santa Claus is coming to town. I have decided to perpetuate this myth for as long as he starts to reason with me, and then reply to him ...

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Guest Post - Projecting Parental Expectations by Jairam Mohan

The author of this post, Jairam Mohan is somebody who pores over excel spreadsheets and power point presentations in his day job, but believes that his true calling lies in boring people to their deaths. That is the sole aim of him updating his blog Mahabore's Mumblings quite frequently. Between him and his wife, they nurture and bring up their two year old daughter as well as the blog.

That's what he has to say for himself. Now for what I think.

Jairam Mohan is a whirlwind-of-a-writer. Two posts on a good day and three on an even better day (God bless him!). The top bar in Mahabore's Mumblings says it all - Bhagvatham, Movies, Fiction, Parenting, Book review and of course 'winning posts'. Each post of Jairam's stands testimony to what he thinks and lives by - be it pieces of 'faction' where fact meets fiction through his fantastic imagination, or parenting ideas and anecdotes sans air-brushing. His writing is novel, honest and refreshing and his blog speaks to you like few others can. And I will keep wondering why he calls himself a 'mahabore'! 

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Projecting Parental Expectations

Jairam Mohan

I love my Michael Jackson songs, McDonald's French Fries and lounging around in my boxer shorts at home. I hate rap songs with explicit racy music videos, self help books and people who spit in public places. The above is a small subset of my likes and dislikes and how I perceive the world. But the question is should my little two year old daughter also share the same likes and dislikes?

I have had conversations with young kids who have informed me that Sachin Tendulkar was delaying his retirement and that was causing a lot of damage to Indian cricket, and that the Congress government is probably the worst thing that India could have ever wished for, at an age when the kid did not even know the difference between the business end of a bat and what a democracy really was. And when I was left wondering  as to how smart kids nowadays were, the realization dawned upon me that it was probably their parents who had projected their perceptions on them. 

Given that when they are young, kids are extremely receptive to their surroundings and the people they interact with on a regular basis, it is but natural that they pick up a few habits and traits from us. It therefore becomes imperative that as parents and caregivers to our children, we must all be extremely conscious of our words, actions and deeds, more so when the kids are watching us. If I am the kind of father that comes home from work, plonks myself on the sofa with my shoes on and starts munching potato chips straight out of a packet, my daughter will naturally believe that such behavior is quite Ok, and it won’t be too long before she comes home from school, plonks herself on the sofa with her school uniform and shoes on and starts munching whatever snack she wants from the fridge. If on the other hand, she sees her parents taking off their footwear outside the house, washing their hands and feet as soon as they enter the house, then these are the habits she will pick up, inculcate and make her own.

In fact I realized that kids are so receptive only when I saw my daughter pick up a few of these unconscious traits from me and my wife. While she has picked up on this wonderful reading habit from my wife, who tries to spend as much of her free time reading books, the funny thing that my daughter picked up from me is to put her hand on the backside of her neck and start scratching the same. It was only when I saw my daughter persistently doing this did I realize that this was something that I was unconsciously doing whenever she was on the “seat” downloading her “torrents” (if you know what I am referring to). It took more than quite a bit of correcting and flicking away of her hands whenever she did it going forward to make her get rid of that irritating habit and now I am that much more conscious of my body language whenever I am around her.

While my daughter is still a little one and probably picks up only on visual and verbal cues that we provide her, I am more than sure that children who are a little older, say around 10-15 yr olds will surely have their world views influenced by their parents. And that is something that I tend to think that I have a problem with. In my opinion, while parents are more than welcome (and it is probably their duty as well) to imbibe their kids with the right value systems, I think it is wrong of them to project their perceptions of the world on their kids. 

So what if I don’t enjoy Chinese cuisine very much, should I discourage my daughter from trying it out and having more of it if she actually likes it? I don’t think so. So what if I don’t think Salman Khan movies match my cinematic sensibilities, should I stop my daughter from watching and enjoying them? I don’t think so. So what if I think MMS is a stooge and just nods his head to whatever Madam says, should I stop my daughter from believing that he actually has a spine and can stand up for himself…well, that one I will have serious issues with.

Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that as parents while it is our duty to guide our children on the tough journey called life and equip them with all the right tools and techniques to assist them, we should not project our perceptions of the world on them. Let them experience things for themselves and develop a world view of their own. So what if it differs from our own view of things, after all, variety is the spice of life, isn’t it?

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I fully agree with this parenting idea. Even as we consciously guide our children through the everyday, we need to keep in mind if we are colouring their minds a certain way too. What was relevant in our yesterday may not be in their tomorrows. And coming to think of it, we could learn and unlearn a lot from our children's perspectives too. This way, every body in the house would be growing-up, and not just growing old, together!

What do you think?

The Flip-Flop Flop

He looked at my feet and was aghast. ‘What is this that you are wearing?’

‘Um, it’s just flip-flops, papa! What’s so shocking?’ I asked, knowing fully-well what he meant. Each toe was wiggling cozy inside a differently coloured toe in the rainbow socks. In white flip-flops. Just for Rs. 50 from Lajpat Nagar. I was a new student in New Delhi and back home on my first vacation. And it showed.

‘It looks very funny. And to think you are wearing this to the Masonic family dinner?’ this time the aghast was with a capital A. I was not planning to defile their ‘Temple’ or some such with my informality, but neither was I planning on further defending my dressy socks against his shocks. There was no point. Because I had been his little one growing up in the same house, once upon a time …

And for all 17 years that I was home, my parents made sure that the thin line between comfortable dressing and shabbiness was never crossed. Also, that we children looked as proper as the occasion demanded.

In class 5 I was taught how to ...

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Let's play, School!

The hunt was on. No, I don’t mean for the Kingfisher calendar girl. They are probably still looking for one who will model for nothing (no pun) even as they try to keep the planes afloat. I mean a different hunt altogether. I mean prey, oh pardon me, play school for my toddler.  Today was his first day, and even as he sits doing something away from his mother’s madly beating heart for the first time in 2 and half years, I write this. Hence, please excuse geysers of excessive melodrama and plunges of deep philosophy as I try to tell you how my journey of picking the most suitable play-school for my child has been.

Once upon a time I wrote ‘No play-doh without dough’ Today, I care to share how the final decision was reached. 

The how

How I went about looking for suggestions? Word-of-mouth, with all shapes of communication channels experienced, explored and exhausted (including Grapevine which is more complex than E=mc2). It did not mean I went around with a ‘Play-school suggestions needed’ tattooed on my forehead. I asked people I trusted ...

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The 3 Giraffes

All giraffes come from the same family, Giraffidae, in the real world. They enjoy similar grumpy old faces, flaunt tails that seem to serve no purpose and necks and legs for which the word ‘long’ falls short of length. These 3 giraffes you see lounging on my settee were adopted by us over the last year. They look different from each other – in colour, size, make, material, as they happen to come from different countries. The wooden one is from Nigeria, the yellow from the US and the green one is hand-made in India. But that’s about it. Essentially, they are all giraffes. G for Giraffes. 

Just like we from different countries and continents are all humans. H for Humans. 

Then, since we all belong to one big homo sapien family walking the planet, why not get together in a closer circle? Why not open the windows of our houses freely to see and perhaps welcome in cultures and ideas that we call ‘foreign’? Why not expose our children to traditions from parts of the world other than ours, which might just make their lives better informed, more interesting and certainly closer to unknown shores?

Look around. We live in a touchy and touch-me-not world. 

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Taming of the Poop

Till your child is toilet-trained, you feel no qualms about discussing chhee-chhee topics in public, without even bothering as to when your companions last saw the inside of a diaper. So that should explain the presence of this post on such a dignified forum. Kindly excuse me, please. But my obsession with social media tells me that toilet-training is indeed one of the most important concerns bothering parents everywhere. A friend recently messaged me asking me what I am doing to make my son go in the right place, with the exact aim and the perfect sense of time. Another is distressing over how her daughter’s potty seat had to be strategically covered with Goa’s beach sand to keep it from driving away the tourists, even as the little one insisted that here, and here alone, she will go potty (I don’t blame her. She has scenic taste, I say). And a few days back, when a friend from school shouted out to me for tips and tricks, I promised her this post.    

Basically, the moment the clock strikes the 2nd year, the cuckoo comes out to say – Hey you, start worrying about the poop, before it hits the roof. Here is what I did ...

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Home-Maid Lessons

The relationships we share with our house-helps are usually a potpourri of emotions. Maids know how to open our best most charitable corner of the heart, every passing Diwali or daughter’s school fee day, whichever occurs more often. They also bring out the longest faces our visages can manage, what with those undeclared leaves right after taking 2 month’s salary in advance. I have seen myself going from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other like a pendulum oscillating drunk, for reasons which are every home’s story. She comes (or not comes) for an hour every day and helps me with what she is supposed to, at least with 60 per cent of the job profile that was pre-decided when I kept her. She seems happy, especially since the other residences are Houses of Horrors for her and mine a halka ghar, whatever that means. 

Houses of Horrors? She tells me bizarre stories of how some ‘momsters’ have asked her to clean verandas with cold water in peak winters and bare-foot please, the child may catch infection from her slippers. How her colleagues have often been falsely accused of eating burfis by the Madam, gossiping about Sir, having an affair with the driver, and being married to a murderer lodged in a village jail – all untruths and only spread to fire them and even keep another from hiring them. Their character certificates are written and re-written at the drop of a mop, and the stories continue - not just of how they treat us but also of how we women mistreat our own helps. 

This post is about my maid, who comes and goes with a big smile on her face, so I am assuming she is happy with me...

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Our Father at Home, Holy Be Thy Name

In the world of poets, writers and even those poster shares which form the backbone of Facebook spamming, fathers are conspicuous by their absence. The mother is sung about, the father's never to be found in any song. Motherhood is a virtue, fatherhood ... is that a word? Well, maybe a mention here and there, to rhyme with rather, or lather, or just to portray fairness and equality in mommy bloggers’ blogposts about parenting. Other than that, no one seems to be writing about fathers and their -hood. Look at us, most of us know Mother's Day but we need a glittery message on our neighbourhood Archies Gallery door to remind us about Father's Day - with last year's unsold cards proudly displayed, hoping they will get sold at least this year around.  

Let's begin at the beginning, when millions swim and swim, looking for that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, fully knowing that only one will win. And what victory is his ...

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2 Separate Rule-Books

First a little experience to be shared.

Here I was with my weekly vegetables in a bag, standing in the queue of the supermarket cash counter, and there was my better half taking the little one for on-demand push-cart spins. I thought gleefully how, as usual, I had chosen the less strenuous task of the day, when a big belly of a 40-something pushed its way in front of where my belly, if I had one, should have been. I would have pinched him into his rightful place, but for his 12-something son by his side who was nearly my height and weight and seemed like a loyal one who would come to fisticuffs in order to “protect” his daddy from a wild looking woman’s attack. (Their similar mohawks almost suggested a cult!) So, I acted prim and asked him to get in the queue, and certainly behind me.

“This is a queue only, na!” he answered with a smattering of that accent my community loves to use at high decibels. “Sure is, but your place is behind me, not in front of me" I mustered.

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The Darned Things He Says

This epic post is all about what things my son can say,

Oh dear Gods forgive me, what darned words this may contain.

Parents too I will advice, throw not caution to the air,

Shut those eyes the moment you see what shouldn’t be here.

The first cry was just a mew, but that didn’t last a day,

“Ailaa Ailaa” is how he howled when he wanted to have his way.

Filmy and sweet is what you say, but lightening too once struck, 

When Miss Punjabi heard “Laila Laila” for herself, uttered.

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