On Privilege

Privilege is a word that’s bandied around a lot these days. White privilege. Male privilege. The privilege that comes from being rich. The list is endless. Each of us enjoys a different sort of privilege and some of it depends on one’s perspective as well. For example, some of my friends in India think I’m privileged because I live outside the country and hence enjoy a lifestyle that’s coveted by many. Some other friends wouldn’t dream of being in my position, because their lives in India are perfectly comfortable, and they enjoy the proximity to family and affordable full-time help that’s nonexistent outside of the country.

But what I want to talk about today is teaching kids about privilege. My son is five now and he has a very comfortable existence. The other day, we were having a conversation, and he said: “All the kids can watch what they want on TV Amma because everyone has a TV at home.” I started to explain to him how that’s not true and he just couldn’t fathom it and wouldn’t listen. In his version of the world, every kid has a TV at home. I can’t blame him either, because every home we have been to has one, if not more, televisions and a myriad of other gadgets. And that got me thinking on how to explain privilege to my son.

I didn’t grow up wealthy. My parents were middle-class Indian parents and like any middle-class family, we scrimped and saved for the stuff we wanted. We were expected to finish the food on our plates without complaint. We got new clothes for birthdays and special occasions. We had exactly two pairs of shoes- one for school and one for everything else. Chocolates and toys were an occasional treat. TV time was regulated and we were told we simply had to do well in school. Every single thing we had, we were expected to be thankful for, and we were. Both my parents had their ancestral homes in small villages and every holiday, the sibling and I would be packed off to our grandparents. There, we would see the kids in the neighborhood, their homes, and their struggles and that would reinforce what our parents told us, that we were indeed privileged. Our parents also always made sure that we were cognizant of the world around us, the struggles of everyone around us. They also made sure we shared with those less fortunate.

When my son was born, I wasn’t worried about his upbringing. I was going to raise him the way my parents raised us. What I didn’t factor in then was the fact that while I grew up in India, my son has already lived in four different countries in the short five years of his existence. He barely remembers India. He started his schooling in one of the most developed nations in the world. He went to a preschool were his friends’ parents were already shortlisting private schools and prep schools for their kids. We have two cars. His friends have lavish parties for birthdays. They get multiple presents for Christmas. And to an extent, as a parent, I have had to comply as well. He hasn’t had a lavish party to date. And I always try to limit the number and value of the presents he gets. And for every present he gets, he has to donate a toy he already owns. I try to strike a balance, and often when I feel he is taking things for granted, I sit him down and tell him how privileged he is to have all this.

I don’t know how much of it he understands, but so far, he complies with whatever it is I ask of him. He gives away his toys willingly. When he gets money as a gift, he donates half of it to charity. He tries not to waste food. He does chores around the house to earn money and donates part of that too. But he is only five, and I worry that as he grows older, and becomes more exposed to the place and the culture that surrounds him, he will forget his privilege and start taking things for granted. I know I will be prepared, but I don’t know if it will be enough.

But for now, I’m doing what my parents did- I’m trying to teach by example. And I’m exposing him to stories and issues from different parts of the world, showing him kids who don’t enjoy the same privileges he does. I teach him to be thankful for everything he has. To be thankful for the people who help him- be it the server at the restaurant or the cashier at the supermarket. To be thankful for the things he has every day. And I try to find stories, incidents, and books that we can discuss that talk about privilege. And I’m hoping that for now, this is enough. And that once he’s grown up and we have the more complex discussion about what it means to be privileged, he will understand and choose to use his privilege wisely.

Year Out and Year In

The end of a year demands a mandatory year recap post right? Not that I have been active on this space for any length of time this year. I meant to, but as always, life got in the way. No. That’s an excuse. I just didn’t think this space was a priority for me and I neglected it. I’ve tried to scribble elsewhere like my journals and my notebooks but I haven’t been too successful on that front either. It has been due to a combination of factors. For the first half of the year, I was gainfully employed and finding the time to write was hard. The husband was working almost seven days a week and taking care of the home and the son fell to me. I was also pursuing an ambitious reading goal of 52 books for the year, a book a week, and each by an author from a different country. So whatever time I could spare went to reading.

Halfway through the year, we had to move. I had to quit my job, pack up the house, say goodbye to some amazing friends and colleagues and move to a whole other country. Settling in a new place, finding a school, a bank, grocery stores, doctors, dentists and what not took me months. Then came the adjustment for the son. It wasn’t easy for him. Not that I blame him. In the five years of his existence, this is the fourth country he’s living in. That’s crazy enough for adults leave alone for someone who doesn’t even understand why we have to move!

I had set some goals at the beginning of the year apart from my reading goals (which I accomplished in style). One was to not shop for myself, which I managed to quite an extent. Apart from books, which I had excluded from the list and essential winter clothes, I didn’t get anything for myself. I wanted to write twice a week but that didn’t happen. I’m planning to attempt it again next year. I wanted to save more which I did. I wanted to eat healthier which I managed to an extent as well. I wanted to restart yoga which I did although my practice is still spotty. I wanted to declutter. I had accumulated so much junk and I felt it was getting out of bounds and I managed that as well. I’m planning to make that a yearly thing. I feel I have too many material possessions and most only give me a fleeting sense of joy except for books. So I’ve decided to be careful about the things I acquire.

This year was a tumultuous year for me with yet another move and having to quit my job again. I don’t regret the move though. The husband was under extreme pressure and as a result, we were barely spending time as a family. The son had even begun to not listen to him anymore. I was holding down the fort all by myself and I could feel my patience fraying. It was definitely one of the most trying times in our marriage but we got through it. He’s much better now. He keeps better hours and he’s under less pressure. The son and he finally have time to bond and I feel less like a single mom.

I made some amazing new friends at my work, met some amazing women- both colleagues and clients who have inspired me. Their stories will always stay with me. I’ve worked with a company I never thought I’d work with and in a building that was over 200 years old and felt more like a ballroom than a workplace. I also lost friends, but I have no regrets there either. When someone takes advantage of you and then tries to weasel out of commitments with inane excuses, it is better to let it go. I’m not bitter. Some things have their shelf life and this was due to expire. But my time with them made me a better person. They were also there for me in some terrible times and for that, I will be thankful.

I have also introspected a lot this year. Reviewed and revised my long-term goals and ambitions. I’ve realized what is limiting me and I have decided to take charge and make things happen.

So my resolutions for 2019 are:

1. Be less likable- I’ve always been someone who has been nice to people. But I realized this year that this niceness has come at a cost. I had repressed so much of who I was, to be perceived as nice, that I had begun to lose sight of who I really was. I only found patches of the person I was a few years back and I was shocked. So I’ve decided that in 2019, I am going to be my own self. Speak my mind. Share my thoughts. Call people out. And not worry about the consequences. Because, like my sister says, if someone is meant to be in my life, they will be.
2. Write more- I had set a goal of twice per week for this year but I’m revising it down to once a week for 2019. Hopefully, that will be doable.
3. Explore new things- I realized this year that I had become a little rigid in my nature. I had a comfort zone, and I was finding it extremely hard to break out of it. It took the sibling a few sessions of yelling at me for me to realize that. I was becoming a recluse, and I was shutting myself off from experiencing new things out of some weird fear, and I was becoming a shell of the person I was. I plan to change that in 2019.
4. Expand my social circle- I have a small circle of people whom I call friends. But most of them are so far away that catching up with them is a pain. But I love them and treasure them and the things they’ve brought into my life. But since I’m constantly on the move, I am forced to make new friends. Although I enjoy meeting new people, making friends is hard for me. It could have to do with the fact that I’m very introverted. I scribble better than I speak, to be honest, but I’ve realized the son has started to take after me and not make too many friends as well. I don’t want my nature to affect him so I am going to attempt to broaden my social circle.
5. Prioritize my health- Physical, emotional, spiritual. I’ve been neglecting myself for a while and although I made a start this year, I still have a long way to go.

I have many other smaller goals but these are my big 5. And I intend to make these happen. Have you made your resolutions for 2019? What are they? Did you manage to stick to your resolutions this year?

Raising a boy

Parenting is hard. It is demanding, exhausting and mostly thankless. And as primary caregivers, it is often harder on mothers than fathers. You are responsible for your child’s well being- physical, emotional, mental and in most cases spiritual as well. You are constantly worrying about what your child eats, what he drinks, what he reads, what media he is exposed to, what sport he plays- the list is endless. But then, parenting has always been difficult. “It takes a village”, they say and they’re right. Only in today’s global society, you are the village.

When I was pregnant, I had this quiet conviction that I was going to have a boy. Once D was born, I was at a complete loss on how to raise him. I only had experience around little girls and I was completely flabbergasted on how to go about bringing up a boy. The initial months were easy- you just had to feed him and make sure he wasn’t too warm or too cold. As he grew, so did my disquiet. As a woman, I felt, I was more comfortable connecting with a girl than a boy. After all, all I had to do was teach her from my own personal experiences and those of my friends. I just had to teach her to keep struggling and fighting against the injustices meted out to her, in the same way I had been doing since I was old enough to understand being a girl put me at a disadvantage. I just had to teach her to not conform to society’s expectations from a girl, to fight against patriarchy, to tell her that being a girl did not make her any less of a human being. With a boy, I wasn’t sure where to start.

That was the time the MeToo movement started taking center stage and as I went about reading and doing research and wondering how to start parenting my boy, it hit me. Boys have never had to face any of the disadvantages that girls did. They were never told they weren’t good enough. Ergo, the challenges they faced were different. And they were complementary to the ones girls faced. I realized then that raising a boy wasn’t all that different from raising a girl. It is just that the issues they had to face were different.

The first order of business was trying to raise my son to be as gender neutral as possible. Which meant not conforming to the “blue-pink” madness when he was little to choosing his toys, the books he read and the messages he was exposed to. I’ve always let D pick out his own toys. I’ve never made a conscious effort to direct him to more “masculine” toys like trucks and cars. Granted he loves them but he also loves to cook and play house and I’ve never stopped him from doing those. I’ve never asked my son to “toughen up” and not cry. I’ve taught him in turn that everyone cries and it is yet another way to express emotion. The one time he told me that only girls wear pink, I told him no- colors are a personal choice and it’s not just for girls. He’s dressed up in skirts and tiaras and in superhero costumes. He’s sensitive and frequently needs to be held and cuddled and kissed and I’ve told him that’s a healthy way of expressing affection. He helps out with household chores- cooking, cleaning, folding the laundry, taking out the trash- all traditionally considered to be the forte of girls. I also make sure he sees his dad doing the same things so he understands that household chores aren’t divided based on gender. I’m doing this to make him self-sufficient and also to instill in him this belief that gender doesn’t define what one does or becomes. Hopefully, when he’s older and is bombarded with the kind of sexist messaging and imagery that is so prevalent in today’s world, he will remember these lessons he learned as a child and be strong enough to stand up against them.

This is a world of angry men and angry women. Women’s anger is righteous and stems from centuries of being oppressed, controlled and relegated to the sidelines in all walks of life. Men’s anger stems from a lack of control. It tries to silence the voices of others including women. For ages, men have been taught that they are in control of everything- from their destinies to politics, economics, society, and women. Why else would we still have men making decisions on women’s bodies? Every single mistake they ever made was justified with the nonsensical argument of “Boys will be boys”. They’ve had the world handed to them on a platter and have constantly been told that they could be anyone and have anything they wanted. The whole world was full of successful “men” for them to look up to.

But today, women’s voices are louder than before and it has led to a fundamental shift in the definition of what being a man entails. Today, being a man has come to mean being an ally to women. At least, that’s the way I prefer to think of it. And this means, instead of sticking to the age-old ways of raising boys, we need to raise them more like we raised our girls- to be sensitive, to be compassionate, to be helpful, and most of all to fight against the established world and social order that treats girls differently from boys.

Mind you, I want my son to be tough. I want him to be tough in the sense that he’ll stand up for what is right. I want him to be tough when he stands up against racism, bullying, patriarchy. I want him to be tough in the face of pressure from peers and from a society that will try to fit him into the stereotype of being a man. I want him to be tough when it comes to standing up for his beliefs and convictions. I want him to be tough enough to go against centuries of beliefs that make him the favored sex. I want him to be tough enough to fight eons of deeply entrenched patriarchal systems. I want him to be tough enough to shrug off the venom that will unfailingly be directed at him by a lot of his own gender when he chooses to be an ally for women. But beyond all this, I want my son also to have that innate toughness to choose the kind of person he wants to become- the courage to be his own person not shackled by anyone’s expectations including mine. That’s the toughness that I will welcome and strive to foster in my son.

I am constantly trying to raise my son to not be defined by his gender. And I know there are millions of mother’s like me around the globe trying to raise their son’s to be allies to their daughter and to girls around the globe. Hopefully, these little boys won’t be corrupted by the toxic world environment we see and read about every day and when their time comes, will be, along with the girls,  harbingers of the kind of change the world so desperately needs.

PS: After reading this some of you might feel that a lot of what I’ve written has been generalized. Like the fact that all men have it easy or that all women are angry about their lot in life. Well, there are men who have had tough lives and women who are perfectly happy in patriarchal societies but for the most part, what I’ve mentioned here it true. My writing might also seem very straightforward but as we all know, there are no blacks and whites to anything in life. I’ve just tried to articulate to the best of my ability what I feel and what I’m trying to do. 

Competitive Motherhood

We had a PTA meeting at my son’s school the other day. And by school, I mean preschool. And I don’t know if I should be ashamed to say this, but I had no clue preschools had PTA meetings. Anyway, this being the offspring’s first official meeting and my first “school event” after D’s official entry into the hallowed portals of an educational institution, I was excited about going. I thought I would meet some lovely parents and I would finally have people to maybe go out with for a cup of coffee or crib about our kids.

But, within minutes of arriving at the school and meeting my first parent, I was disabused of that notion. I had conveniently forgotten something I had first experienced while I was pregnant- competition. Well, I was acquainted with competition much before, but the fact that the notion could be attached to something like pregnancy was news to me till I was carrying D. There was competition in everything- from getting the best doctors to putting on the least amount of weight, to having the least or worst morning sickness and to even the sort of childbirth you had. Natural birth with a midwife out of the confines of the hospital scored you most points, while cesareans were the lowest on the rung. (I should clarify here that I am in no way against natural childbirth. In fact, one of my closest friends did just that with both her babies. She found an atmosphere without the beeping of machines and the “hospital smell” perfect for her. I, on the other hand, cannot imagine having a child in a place other than a hospital.)Then came everything from breastfeeding to child-led weaning to hitting all the milestones. While I was shielded from most of that because I was with my parents, and I followed their example in raising my child, I was subject to all kinds of unwanted advice on how to raise my child (which I considered or rejected depending on the person who offered it or based on its merit).

(Image Courtesy: someecards.com)

But I digress. The comparison started when I mentioned whose mother I was. The minute D’s name left my mouth, the lady went, “Oh! The really tall boy”. While I might qualify as a midget, my son seems to have taken after his father and is pretty tall for his age but I’ve never had someone address him as the “really tall boy”. She then went on to tell me how her son was small and didn’t seem to be putting on weight or height no matter what she did. I tried to change the topic saying I was the same way and so was my sister and we both turned out ok and that each kid had his own stage and time and pace of growth but she didn’t seem satisfied. She went on to say how me and my sister were girls and how shortness in boys wasn’t a desirable quality. I didn’t want to tell her how misogynistic that was. Anyway, the said lady’s friend arrived and I was again introduced as the mother of the really tall boy. I resigned myself to the moniker and waited for the meeting to begin so people would finally stop the comparison. The meeting started and the school started talking about their teaching methodology. I was pretty impressed with what they were doing and in any case, my primary aim in enrolling the offspring was to get him to socialize and make friends and get him out of my hair for a while so I could get reacquainted with my brain and sanity.

But evidently, I was wrong in being impressed. When the teachers mentioned that they often had activities and studies for kids where they were grouped together based on interest and not age, some mothers took offense. Their major concern was that while younger children might benefit from interacting with older kids, the grouping was unfair to the older ones. They might not pick up things as fast, and might be late in meeting their milestones of reading, writing etc. The questions and arguments went on for so long, that after a while I zoned out. I’m sure I might have come off as an uncaring parent or a zombie masquerading as a mother, but I was at the point of not caring anymore. I don’t disagree with the school for one. My sister is five years younger than me, and she’s definitely the more accomplished of the two of us and I’m constantly learning new things from her. I also believe interacting with younger kids teach the older ones virtues like patience, sharing, compassion, and adaptability- qualities I believe will serve them well in life. When one of the teachers mentioned a much younger kid who was a whiz at math, I swear I could almost see some mothers turning green with envy.

(Image Courtesy: cartoonstock.com)

Competition is good, I agree, and in today’s world, it is pretty much unavoidable. But my parents always taught me to compete with myself. It was always, “We know you can do better than this. You’re capable of so much more”, and never, “You can do better than him. You have to.” There was never any comparison between me and the sister. We would compare often, but never our parents. We compare even now, but we’ve both come to realize we have our strong suits and are perfectly happy with the way we turned out. And I try to impart the same philosophy to my son. When he talks about a classmate who read them a story I ask who it was, and what story it was, and if he also shared something with the class. I don’t attempt to grab the nearest book and get him also to read. I know my kid is smart. He is curious and sensitive and tells silly stories and likes only happy endings to any story he reads; so much so that we often rework stories with somewhat sad endings to make them happy. He cares for trees and animals and those smaller than him. He is shy but I can see him slowly coming out of his shell since he’s started school and started being with other kids. And for me, those are accomplishments enough. I don’t want my child to have a Mensa-level IQ, or participate in all sorts of extracurricular activities the school offers, or read Wordsworth and Kafka when he’s 6. I just want a happy, well-adjusted child. The rest will come when he feels its time. If I’m branded a bad mother for this, then so be it. I’d rather be a bad mother than have a child who’s scarred for life because his mother was busy training him to be the best at everything that she forgot to let him be a kid.

And I try to impart the same philosophy to my son. When he talks about a classmate who read them a story I ask who it was, and what story it was, and if he also shared something with the class. I don’t attempt to grab the nearest book and get him also to read. I know my kid is smart. He is curious and sensitive and tells silly stories and likes only happy endings to any story he reads; so much so that we often rework stories with somewhat sad endings to make them happy. He cares for trees, and animals, and those smaller than him. He is shy, but I can see him slowly coming out of his shell since he’s started school and started being with other kids. And for me, those are accomplishments enough. I don’t want my child to have a Mensa-level IQ, or participate in all sorts of extracurricular activities the school offers, or read Wordsworth and Kafka when he’s 6. I just want a happy, well-adjusted child. The rest will come in time. If I’m branded a bad mother for this, then so be it. I’d rather be a bad mother, than have a child who’s scarred for life because his mother was busy training him to be the best at everything, that she forgot to let him be a kid.

Ergo, dejection.

Some days, you wake up fully charged and ready to take on the world. Some days, you need a little nudge in the form of a message from a friend, or a kiss from your little one. Some days, you feel like you need a dozen shots of espresso to get you through the day. Some days, you need a swift kick up your posterior. And then, there are those days when you wake up, and halfway through the day, you wonder what prompted you to crawl out of bed in the first place. Although not belonging to this last category I could do with a few espresso shots right about now. Pfft!

Waking up after a long night in which the offspring, who I’m thinking of renaming as the “Karate Kid”, practiced his moves on me, and getting through an early morning breakfast fiasco (the idli batter seemed to have a mind of its own), I somehow managed to hustle my boys out the door on time. I went out on the patio to water my plants and realized that some of them were afflicted by some kind of bug. I’d already gotten rid of one and now I have another one to contend with (cue dramatic eye roll). After that disappointment and some research into ways of getting rid of it, I managed to sit down and restart my job hunt.

With the son at school, I can finally entertain the idea of being a paid member of society. He’s been at school for a little more than a month now, in which time I managed to finish a course I had to leave halfway through because I couldn’t juggle the son and my studies, and brush up my resume and draft a cover letter and send them out to every single company in the country. I had to put that on hold last week because the son came home with a bug, and I was busy nursing him back to health (read trying to get him to sit still for ten seconds so I could shove medicine down his throat). Today, I’m finally back to my schedule and after spending five hours hunched over the laptop and reading through a gazillion job descriptions that the job board thought “matched” my profile, I managed to apply to a measly five. And when I really started to feel that crick in my neck and my eyes started to water from staring at the screen too long, and my brain started to feel woozy from the long hours, is when I started craving those espresso shots.

Dejection is easy to get and difficult to get rid of. I know it isn’t easy to find a job when you have very little experience, and when you’ve been away from the workforce for well over three years. None of the companies I’ve worked for are big names and that makes it harder to convince any recruiter to pick my resume out of all the others they receive daily. Ergo, dejection. And I don’t handle dejection well. I get frustrated and angry and unsure about myself and my skills. And since I don’t have a large sweet tooth, and I don’t consume copious amounts of alcohol, I try to drown my dejection in coffee. The catch now is that it’s been almost a year since I quit coffee. In an effort to reduce caffeine intake I’ve switched to black tea in the mornings and green tea in the evenings. And the house has been pretty much cleansed of all forms of coffee.

So now, I’m sitting with a crappy cup of green tea while my brain is yelling obscenities at me for having given up coffee, and feeling all mopey and sad. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better, or maybe I’ll break down and head to the nearest Starbucks to get me a double shot espresso. God knows I need it today!

Of Shapes in the Clouds and other things..

The other day, me, S and lil D were on a drive, and since it was a long drive, and D was being uncharacteristically quiet, and it being a glorious day, I was staring at the sky. Azure blue with clouds floating by languidly, it looked like a beautiful canvas to me; and then, my brain started to find patterns in the clouds and I was transported back to my childhood.

It was the time before mobile phones and gadgets, before even cars had the mandatory “entertainment consoles”, back before automobiles had air conditioning in India. Our family had a zippy little blue Maruti 800. I was around seven and the sister two. We were stationed in Kozhikode back then, but for every vacation or long weekend, without fail, we’d head to either Achan’s or Amma’s ancestral home. It was quite a long drive- almost 7 hours if I remember correctly. And making the journey with two kids without many avenues to keep them occupied was even harder. These days, with D only being two, I still have to pack a myriad of things to keep him from getting bored on even the usual grocery shopping expedition.

But my parents made the journey back then, without anything to keep us kids occupied other than their wits. We’d sleep for a while, then wake up, roll the windows down, feel the wind in our hair and face and then the incessant questions would begin. When would we reach? Where had we reached now? How many more places to go before we reached? We’d play with each other for a while and then boredom would set in. And then Amma and Achan would come up with fun games for us to play. We’d sing songs. We’d spot things along the road and talk about them. And then sometimes Achan would casually look up at the sky and say, I see a rabbit in the clouds, can you? And then me and the sister would me mesmerised by the sky and thus would begin a competition to see who could spot the most outrageous shapes on the horizon.

 

 

The sheer joy of doing something so inane, and trying to outdo each other doing i,t is something I find hard to describe now. We’d scream with laughter and giggle at each other’s descriptions. During the monsoons we’d look up in awe at the grey black clouds and watch in wonder as it poured. We’d trace the water drops that trailed down the glass. We’d make bets on which water droplet would make it down first. And the smell that wafted in when you rolled down the windows after the downpour, was sheer heaven. Or if it was only drizzling, we’d roll the windows down and lift our faces up to the spray. And in all these little shenanigans, we wouldn’t even notice when we got to our destination.

These days, with the advent of technology and air conditioned cars and mobile devices, all this is lost.  The inside of the car is always at the perfect temperature. There are too many things to keep you occupied- music, movies, your mobile phone, your kindle- you name it. And in the midst of all this who has the time to look up at the clouds or the trees or the rain? I’m guilty of the same as well. But the other day made me more aware of the fact that I need to get my son more interested in these. We do sing songs, and spot our favourite colour cars and big trucks, and watch for trees and rivers and what not when we go out, but his pleasure in it is all fleeting. Probably it is because of his age. Or probably it is because he’s already used to technology. I’m also guilty of using technology to keep D from acting out when we are out. So maybe I’m to blame as well. And I guess to an extent, society has also become less tolerant of kids acting out in public? Anyway that’s matter for another post.

As of now, I’m going to try and teach him to spot rabbits in the clouds and play with the raindrops.

(Image Courtesy: Your’s truly, taken on my iPhone) 

Motherhood Woes

“Motherhood is a choice you make everyday, to put someone else’s happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing even when you’re not sure what the right thing is…and to forgive yourself, over and over again, for doing everything wrong.”- Donna Ball, “At Home on Ladybug Farm”

You assume motherhood to be something that comes to you naturally. That you’ll know exactly what  needs to be done, when it needs to be done. That you’ll hear your baby crying, and know if its because he is hungry, or sleepy or what not. Believe me when I tell you reality is far from that. Right after I became a mother, I had a nasty case of what people call “the baby blues”. I was lost, confused, crying. I couldn’t bond well with D. And I was left wondering if there was something wrong with me, and if I had made the biggest mistake of my life by bringing him into this world, when I didn’t have the smallest clue on what to do. Thanks to amazing parents and a wonderful spouse, I pulled through. I started bonding well with D, I started to understand when he was hungry and when he was sleepy. I started to realise what set him off, and what calmed him down. Things were starting to look good. 

But then, the thing about motherhood is that nothing is constant. Just when you get comfortable with a certain routine, and you think you have your little one all figured out, they change. Routines change, likes and dislikes change, sleep patterns change. And being ready for all that is a challenge. I had returned to work after having D, when he was around six months old. He seemed to be happy with my parents, and he seemed to be coping well without me during the day. I was happy to be able to do my own thing and being independent. But that lasted all of four months. D started getting fussier. He wasn’t happy when I left in the mornings. It got to a point where I had to sneak out of the house without him spotting me, and then I realised I had to put him at the top of my list. So I quit. 

As D grew, so did the things I had to handle. His tantrums, his rough play. When he got too excited, I had to learn how to calm him down. When he got physical, I had to get him to stop without using force myself. When he wouldn’t eat, I had to learn how to coax him. I had to learn to pick my battles. I had to learn to manage by myself when S was travelling and wasn’t home. I had to learn when to put my foot down. And all the while, I had to battle self doubt. Wondering if I was doing the right thing and what the right thing was. 

Motherhood is the hardest thing I have done without a doubt. It is fulfilling, granted, and even the smallest of your child’s accomplishments make you swell with pride; but there’s a downside to it as well that no-one talks about much. It’s a journey of doubt. You question everything you say and do. You wonder if you’re teaching your child the right things; if you’re equipping him with the right tools to face the world. You wonder if you’re giving his self, time to develop and bloom. You wonder if you’re crushing his spirit, when you tell him “No” to something you feel is unacceptable. Some days you break down and yell, and the instant you see their face, you turn to self-flagellation. You hate yourself for what you’ve done. You try to say that its ok; after all you’re only human. You wonder if you’re a horrible mother, and if you’re messing up your child for life. 

Every time your child throws a tantrum, or makes a scene when you’re out, you cringe, you turn apologetic and you wonder what you’re doing wrong. Aren’t you following everything every single parenting book and article says you should? Then why is your child such a terror? You wonder, and you read more, and worry your child has behavioural issues, and you read some more, and you freak yourself out to the point of tears. Trust me, I’ve been there. I’ve done that and I’m still doing that. 

You talk to friends who try to reassure you they’re going through the same, or have been through the same. And you reassure them on their bad days. You compromise on whatever time you try to keep to yourself in a day, to spend even more time with the offspring so he behaves better. You try different things to hold or spark his interest. You need him to behave better. And you utilise every single resource you can, to make it happen. 

And then, one day, realisation strikes. You realise you’re dealing with a child. A child who knows nothing much of the world. Who’s still discovering the sky, and the grass, and the birds, and the flowers, and what not. Who’s discovering who he is every single day. Who’s understanding a little more about himself, and you, and the world around him as the days go by. Who’s being faced with so much information, from so many quarters, every single day, that he finds it difficult to process and file away everything. Who gets so excited about certain things on certain days, that even eating seems like a distraction. 

And then you feel, maybe all these routines and all the things you wanted to teach your child, or are expected to teach him don’t matter all that much. Maybe you should only ensure that your child is happy, whatever he is doing. Maybe there’s still time to teach him all the social niceties and acceptable behaviours. Maybe you’re not messing up completely. Maybe you should just cut yourself some slack, and not be so judgemental. Maybe you shouldn’t lose it when he’s being too energetic, or too difficult, or just too much. After all, he’s going to grow up in the blink of an eye, and you’re going to be with him every step of the way guiding him, as long as he needs. 

Like I read somewhere, “Behind every great kid is a mom who’s pretty sure she’s messing up.” I’m hoping all my messing up turns into something amazing. 🙂 

(Image Courtesy: Google Images)

What do I teach my child?

Terror attacks painting the globe red. Police shooting people. People shooting police. People shooting people. Kindergarten kids being taught to stand on toilet seats to escape shooters. Terror outfits kidnapping children and forcing them into sexual slavery. Politicians endorsing racist and extremist rhetoric. 

These are just some of the incidents that I read about in the past couple of months. And I’m exhausted. I’m tired of seeing the names of places attacks happened and people killed. The numbers simply make my heart go numb. These issues were there when I was a child and I hoped that as I grew up, things would get better. That the people in charge of nations all over the world would do the right thing, and make the right decisions. That we’d see an end to war, poverty, climate change, genocide, terrorism. That people across the globe would learn to live in peace. But the exact opposite seems to be happening. 

The world seems to be sprinting towards xenophobia, terrorism and more wars, with the death toll rising steadily. And my initial hopes of things getting better are almost non existent. As a mother, this scares me to no end. Growing up is a painful process. Its hard enough learning new things, making friends, going through love and heartbreak, losing your naiveté about the many things in the world, figuring out what you want to be in life and getting through the journey without losing sight of your inner child completely. Add to this the state the world is in right now, and we have a depressing scenario.

When I went to school, my biggest worries were about teachers asking me something in class that I didn’t know the answer to, or not scoring well on a test, or missing the school bus, or what I’d do if it rained during PE class, or how to avoid getting mud on my white uniform. Now that I’m getting closer to sending my son to school, the list of things I need to worry about seems endless and much more scarier. 

I need to worry about the bus driver. Will he or she hurt my child? Will he be safe with them? I need to worry about the security at school. What if someone gets in with a gun? Or a knife? What if my child is bullied? What if someone passes racist comments? What if someone bigger than him beats him up? What if the teachers don’t notice? What if they hurt him? Should I send him to a posh private school then? But will he be made fun of there as well? What if my child is caught in a shooting at school? Should I teach him how to get out alive in such a situation? Should I send him to self defence class? Will it do any good?

How do I explain all this to him? I recently lost my grandmother. D was close to her. He could recognise her in pictures and he would watch videos of him with her. So when she passed away, and a few days later he mentioned he wanted to see her, I had to tell him she wasn’t there anymore. He was confused and I had to tell him she had gone bye- bye to see God. Its hard enough explaining the concept of life and death to a child. Imagine having to explain why people kill other people, why wars happen, why people of a certain color are considered better than other, why his colour and his culture might make him the butt of jokes, why he might be persecuted for his beliefs or his choices in life or his sexual orientation, why he could be shot dead in his school or his home or any other place where he should be safe, why he shouldn’t trust anyone completely, why he should always be careful, why he shouldn’t be confrontational, why he should just put his head down and walk. Imagine having to teach him what to do if he’s caught in a shooting, or if someone is picking on him, or if someone thinks its ok to make fun of his color, or if someone is using racial slurs against him. Can you imagine the sheer list of things that a child needs to be made aware of at a tender age? And can you imagine how much that would affect their young minds? 

At an age when they should be climbing trees and laughing till they’re out of breath and singing nursery rhymes, we are teaching them to look at everyone and everything around them with fear and suspicion. We are not just fighting against monsters under the bed now, we are fighting against real monsters and real issues. We are bringing up a generation of children who will soon forget what diversity is like, what peace is like, what a happy world is like. We already have a generation like this in many parts of the world; who’ve never known a day without war. We are leaving a legacy of terror and war and prejudice and discrimination for the next generation. Unless we start to make a difference right now, the world is going to be a bleak place to exist for our children and the generations to come. It pains me to think that I’ll be sending my child out into a world like this; where he will have to learn to navigate such choppy waters. It pains me that I’ll have to see him lose his innocence and hope bit by small bit and stand by helplessly. I can only hope that things get better, and teach him to hope for the same as well.

Like Pope said, Hope springs eternal.. 

Image Courtesy: Google Images 

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?

The other day, me and lil D were talking about the moon and stars and I decided to take him out to the balcony to show him some. I opened the door, lifted him up and pointed to the sky, and paused… I was waiting to find a star so I could show it to him. I finally managed to find one that I’m sure was a planet, and pointed it out to him saying it was a star. Lil D looked in the direction vaguely and then went back inside to his toys. I finally had to show him pictures and videos on the laptop to show him the “lots of stars”, that he wanted to see. 

I was extremely sad. One of my best childhood memories involve me and Achan walking around the courtyard of his ancestral home during the quintessential power cuts that plague Kerala, and looking up at the night sky trying to find constellations. Thats how I first learnt to locate The Big Dipper and Orion and find the North Star. Back then, looking at the night sky was magic. You could see millions of stars spread out across the blue black sky. Just a glance made you feel inconsequential. Those short walks and talks with Achan triggered an interest in astronomy that survives to this day. I did entertain hopes of becoming an astronaut at some point during my school years, but considering my relationship with Mathematics, that dream quickly fizzled out. But the awe that the sight of the sky generated in me, still remains. 

Alas, the sky is no longer the same anymore. If I take a walk in the same courtyard today, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to spot any star. Maybe a stray firefly, but even they have become rare now. I think I might have to take D to some remote village or the top of a mountain for him to see the magnificent night skies of my childhood. We have polluted the world so much, that my child and his future generations might never be able to see the skies of my childhood. Excepts for pockets of the world that are still isolated from “development”, it would be impossible to see the masses of stars that I did in my childhood with our naked eye. 

Lil D already has an interest in the stars and the moon and rockets and spacecrafts. I want him to fall in love with the sky like I did. I want him to get his hands on books and read up about stars and how they were born and how they die. I want him to learn about galaxies and the cosmos and feel the same sense of awe that I felt when I realised how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things. I want him to see the Northern Lights and maybe hear them talk. I want him to think of his place in the world. I want him to have a better understanding of how our universe works and I want him to work towards taking care of whatever is left of it. 

But the way the world is; the way we have made the world in our mad dash for progress, I just might have to take him miles away to some small field in a country for that to come true. Or buy a telescope. Makes me sad; thinking about the legacy we are leaving our little ones- a planet where you look up and cannot even see stars…

Image Courtesy: National Geographic

Misogyny from the cradle?

Its the year 2016 and yet misogyny seems to be rampant around the globe. From campuses shrugging off sexual assault like its no big deal, to actors and politicians who have no qualms about stating their misogynistic views, and the number of people supporting them, we live in a scary world. And as mother to a two year old son, I try every day in whatever small way I can to make sure he doesn’t grow up feeling entitled because of his gender. And I hold on to some hope that, if not in my lifetime, then maybe in his we’ll see a world free of misogyny in all its forms.

But that hope took a severe beating the other day when I was shopping online for some clothes for myself. The store is a big name retailer that makes clothes mainly targeted at women in their teens and twenties; I saw that they had clothes for kids as well. Now, since I love shopping for D as well, I decided to check out their kids section. Unfortunately they had clothes only for five years and up but as I was randomly scrolling down, my eyes fell on a t- shirt with a message that read, “Sorry ladies, I only date models”. 

I was shocked at first. And then I was mad. Really, really mad. This is a t -shirt meant for boys from ages 5 to 14. As a mother, I wouldn’t even dream of putting my kid in something like this. And neither would a lot of mothers I know. But I cannot imagine how the people who made this, thought that a t- shirt like this was OK for kids as young as 5. I don’t think D would even know who or what a model is at that age. And personally, I don’t like t-shirts with messages on them. I find the messages on kids t- shirts reinforce gender roles at a very young age. I always find messages like “boys will be boys” and “little princess”; and I hate them. Kids are born with no idea about gender roles you know? And these messages just start sending messages to kids that they shouldn’t be seeing or hearing. We are trying to confine them to the gender roles set down by society and severely limiting their creativity, originality and personality.

What scares me more is, what if there are people who think its ok for their kids to wear something like this t- shirt? What if sometime down the line, D meets someone who is wearing this and comes home to ask me who a model is? How do I explain it to him? And when I explain who a model is, what is the message he takes away from it? Will he feel that in spite of the way he looks (not that looks are important) or the kind of person he is, he’s entitled to a female who looks like a model? How much harder will it be for me and the husband to teach him otherwise? As he gets older his peer groups and kids his age will influence him more than us. Imagine him being around children who are sporting these kind of clothes. 

To those of you thinking I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, and its just a message on a t-shirt and its all in good humour; it is not. We live in a world that is increasingly glorifying the male and putting down the female. Sexual assaults and commonplace and are often punished with mere months in prison. Acid attacks are met with nonchalance. Women are stalked and hacked to death in broad daylight. Male celebrities are making rape comments and sexist statements and getting away with it. Women celebrities are being attacked and questioned for simply stating their political views. In a world where women are consistently being portrayed as commodities and second class citizens, I simply DO NOT want my child to be exposed to more of such nonsense at an age when he’s not even old enough make decisions regarding his own food or sleep. 

When parents like me and S are trying our damnedest to ensure that our son doesn’t grow up with preconceived notions about gender roles. When we are trying to teach him that his love for trucks and his love of cooking are equally ok with us. When we are trying to show him that its not just Amma who’s comfortable in the kitchen but Acha as well. When women I know are teaching their daughters that they can be warriors and pirates and Kings, we do not need this nonsense; this utterly disgusting portrayal of male entitlement and reduction of women to chattel. Shame on people like these. And oh, I’m no longer shopping from them anymore.