Thursday, March 15, 2007

The Maharaja is a Monkey

The cop car was at our mailbox and he was walking up to our door. All Shiny cap and Shiny shoes (And so clean. What scrub do they use? My St.Ives so doesn’t measure up). "What speed were you at?" My G almost yells at me. Little explanation note here: My husband didn’t always suspect my driving. A few little episodes in Chicago which involved some car totals, some appearances in court and those horrid 8 hour classes and some money (not much) have left my reputation scarred for life. My husband cares not for scars but he does care for my life, so I have since been under strict supervision. He forgets my recent misdemeanor. A misdemeanor that has changed me for life. I am now as law-abiding as a congressman running for presidency 2 weeks from now. The misdemeanor involved money and money really speaks to me. It speaks more loudly when you have a baby, a mortgage and a healthy passion for clothes. (I still contend that if I was doing 80 at an exit with that curvature, I would be flying off the road. It’s all simple physics but they don’t teach physics in the judge degrees obviously)

OK see now I’m all up in the air and a hundred miles from the point I was trying to make. The cops, they were at our door. Well, it turns out the little monster can’t wipe his own ass but he can use his little fingers to dial 911 in the half second that he had the phone before we pulled it away. And so MrG had to prove his innocence by displaying his infant son and happy wife and wholesome loving family. The neighbors might still think he is a wife-beater or something and the wife's sneaky call was this cry for help and that is so killing him. You need to know MrG to understand the extent of his misery here. As fate would have it three of our neighbors were out and about at that very instant that Shiny walked up to us. They were close but not close enough to have heard our funny story. So now MrG will lurk longer and longer at the mailbox waiting for a chance to explain that we are a respectable family. He waits for spring like none of us do as then he is sure to catch them outdoors. I asked him to just call all the neighbors and explain it all, as it was about time he had a full night’s rest. But he thinks that will make him look desperate. And that he is not. LOL!


As I did the rock and the pat tonight
The rhythm broke away in the middle
And instead my forefinger tapped away swiftly
Just like yours used to, when I was little

And then later in the semi-darkness
He was clipping his toenails, bent over the rails
He muttered softly almost to himself
"How can a baby have such thick nails?"

Still at the table after a meal at home
A meal that ended in curd and pickle
As the hour ticks and the conversation flows
My brother’s hand dries out, little by little

With each day more comes to light
Some imperfections seem perfectly right
Because it means there’s still a bit of you to see
In them, in him, and in me.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Mushy Moment

You know you can never really have the old life back when....'re feeling hot lounging in a cool martini-bar on NYE, but you do the run-fingers-through-hair move and you suddenly feel dried baby food in a strand.

You know you really don't want the old life back when... tuck said strand behind ear, and recall that the food got there when he reached up with those grubby hands and stroked your hair. In the middle of the feed, in the middle of the screaming and grabbing. Making perfect eye contact, no pulling, just a stroke. And it's warm inside, warmer than any appletini could ever make it.

These things happen?

Middle of the week, middle of this crazy work week, I vent on gtalk...

Me: guess what, MrG was at a sports bar last night. till midnight. some game.
P: yeah?! you were ok? nanny stayed over kya?
Me: no she left. but i managed. bawling baby on hip and all.
P: good re.
Me: thanks re.
P: should have kept her tho. these things happen sometimes.
Me: these things? mrG ka bada side le rahi hai
P: no i'm just saying
Me: MrP was logged in till late yesterday
P: oh yeah, he was cooking and chatting it seems
Me: it seems?
P: i was playing poker with my office people. he went home, cooked dinner and then came to pick me up

Friday, December 22, 2006

It’s Come Home

Scene I – Happened some months ago. I’m nursing the baby. The living daylights are knocked out of me as my neck snaps up in pain, my face contorts and I have a sudden impulse to fling the baby into the center of the room. But instead? I ease him off gently, run downstairs yelling "MrG! Guess what? He’s teething!!!" And then we go out and buy half a dozen teething toys and rings for him to chew on. I carry the bite marks like an emblem, showing them off in private to MrG, till they fade away.

Scene II – He grabs my hair in his little fist and tugs away till I can feel the tears in my eyes. I open his tight fist and immediately proceed to remove all the hair from his hand lest he put it in his mouth. Much later, I rub the area near my temple, where it still hurts. Only a little.

Scene III – I’m putting the monster to sleep. It’s quiet and the lullaby CD promises to put me out before it does him. He kicks around and tosses and turns on the bed like a madcap (usual practice). It reaches a pinnacle which means anytime now, we’re done. My eyes begin to close. He flings himself toward me like a cannonball and his coconut-like hard little head knocks me on the mouth, my right incisor clamps down on my lip. I can taste the blood. I don’t move a centimeter. No point getting him excited, we are almost there. 5 mins later, when he is still and breathing steady I get up and check in the mirror. The lower lip is swollen like a plum. MrG walks in. I say "He’s out and it’s only 10:15. Good day, na?"

says "The Stockholm syndrome is a psychological response in which the hostage exhibits loyalty to the hostage-taker, in spite of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed."

Yes, that’s it. Stockholm has come home.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

A Baiter? Me? No Way.

We play a game with the Maharaja. It began when we were trying to get him to move. See, he doesn’t understand that lifting his ass will assist the whole crawling thing. So currently, we are stuck at the GI Joe type-of-crawl, where he uses his elbows and palms and sort of drags himself here and there. He is very adept at it now, but a month ago, he would stress and strain and then just get lazy, roll over and coo to the ceiling. So well anyway, I would wave, from a yard away, a remote control, shiny steel spoon, cell phone or sometimes a knife (no, that was just to make you sit up and take notice. And yes, we do buy toys for him. Tons of them in fact but he doesn’t give a s**t. Mommy-Daddy’s precious money dude! That is so coming out of your first pay-check) He would somehow reach the point of prize only to find out that I’ve moved it further out. Now that he has mastered this weird method, we just do this to get him really tired before bedtime.

So last weekend we had friends over. They watched in dismay at what I was doing, at one point the woman was going to get up and call Child Services but refrained (politeness or fear (she knows of catfight), I don’t know). But 15 mins later when the Maharaja was fast asleep in my lap and I rose to go and put him in his crib, she followed me upstairs. "Is that OK?" she asked. "Oh yes" I said, going on to tell her how another friend of ours gets her toddler to climb the stairs till he falls asleep. Very effective. But I would refrain when his eyes are half closed and he is leaning on the banister. Making him do it one last time then? That’s just heartless. My guest swallowed hard.

So we were in the nursery and the King was down. I tucked him in and looked up to see my friend staring at the wall behind the changing table. "You like?" I asked. "I used oil, so the colors are bright." She turned around and said "It’s in your psyche. You’re a baiter. I see the underlying theme now."


Later that night, I told MrG. "I’m not a baiter, am I?" I asked all sweet and gentle. "No, of course not. They don’t have kids, they don’t get it. You’re a good mom." he assured me, equally gently. "Awww" I go. We switch off the bedside lamp.


"But I’m really tired"


Monday, December 18, 2006

Refusing to let it be

'Child-woman' and 'woman-child' all sound good. But there are some things you really wish you've grown out of. Catfights, for example. They are not at all what they are made out to be. I was in one recently and though the event has "left the building", the bad taste in my mouth is yet to leave. MrG drew my attention to a Dilbert panel yesterday which has Ted (the generic guy) going "Can I bail out of this project before it becomes a blight on my resume?" I wish I had the sense to get out of the catfight before it became one, before it became a "blight" on my life. Sometimes, the warning bells are all ringing, the signs are all flashing, yet you don’t get out while you still can, gracefully. Why, oh, why?

Maybe I just like the taste of blood  :)

Friday, December 15, 2006

Guilty Pleasures

I’m in love with working-out these days.
I watch the O.C. I also watch E! News, Gilmore Girls and America’s Next Top Model. Wait it gets better, I even watch One Tree Hill (*Sigh* The things I admit here). MrG’s old grad school TV was retrieved and placed in front of the treadmill in the basement. And you begin to see.

So in a world of crazed bosses, aspiring yet clumsy crawlers and hubbies who have sudden bursts of work-related travel (Yes, very fishy. He takes business trips every month since the baby came. Even a chimp can do the math), lying on the couch watching TV all evening while Mom watches the baby is not an option. But working-out? Now that’s an admirable thing to do. Keeping fit and all that good stuff, such a positive air about it.

Now, next to the treadmill room in the basement is a dump-room. That does not mean we take dumps in there (east-lingo never really meets west-lingo!), it just means anything and everything that you can’t find a place for in our house, goes there. Or stuff that we don’t want visitors to see. Or stuff visitors gave us on earlier visits, which we promptly pull out when they come visiting again. (Cross-stitch-paintings, soap-cases...I love you visitors but what were you thinking?) MrG keeps his tools there (temporary home, a beautiful new mansion will be built for the babies when they come of age or something he assures me) and he spends several perfectly useful afternoons doing perfectly useless things in there.

So as my work-out sessions grow longer and longer I see MrG spending more and more time in the dump-room. Yesterday, after my time sauntering on the treadmill was over, I worked over to the dump-room to see what he was up to.

Did I mention...the beer has been displaced from the kitchen as well while Mom’s visiting?

Friday, August 11, 2006

Confessions of a Daughter-In-Law

I’m dying to

1) Prance around in shorts and a tank-top in this hot, hot weather without a care in the world

2) Dance my crazy dance in the living room with my son in my arms – in the said outfit. Look crazy while doing it.

3) Hug my husband whenever I feel like it and maybe even slap his bum and get slapped right back.

4) Sit on the couch after work with nothing in my brain. No small talk, absolutely nothing. Just let the day’s events wash over me in a calming summation.

5) Wake up at noon on a Saturday. Or even better, spend an entire day in bed with my son wedged in between me and my hubby. Watch TV in bed and eat in bed too. Shower and go right back to bed.

6) Maybe roll out at dinner time and cook a very, very, very simple meal (which will contain NO Indian spices). Very slowly.

7) Sip a nicely chilled Smirnoff Ice while chopping the vegetables. Chop, chop, chop...sip, sip, sip.

8) Have dinner in complete silence. Beautiful, comfortable silence.

9) Run the dishwasher when I feel like it. Maybe day-after-tomorrow.

10) Just be a small little family.

I'm such a wuss. My friend wanted to poison her mother-in-law's meal. Either that, or it ain't that bad.