Our Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Days

The only thing worse than getting up on the wrong side of bed, is spending the day, with a toddler who woke up on the wrong side of his. Of course, sometimes, we BOTH wake up on the wrong side, which is the very WORST. This can be a particularly frequent occurrence, while living with a tempestuous two-year-old.

On mornings such as these, I'd like nothing more than to jump back into bed (on the right side), pull up the covers and sleep it all off, but, instead, I'm usually summoned, angrily, by Adil, with urgent demands of "milk-in-the-green-sippy-cup-warm-but-not-hot"! "Say please", I ask, feebly. "PLEASE", he barks. And if I have the nerve to mistakenly offer the milk, "too-cold-in-the-blue-sippy-cup" (mostly because my eyes are still half-shut), all hell breaks loose. And by all, I mean ALL.

Yesterday, the blue sippy-cup and all the milk in it, were sent flying across the room, in a fit of fury and we had a time-out, before my first sip of coffee. He emerged from the time-out and whacked me for giving him a time-out and so we had a second time-out, before my second sip of coffee. It wasn't even 7am, yet.

As you can imagine, most of the rest of our day didn't go very well. Tantrum when the TV was turned off. Refused to eat the waffles served for breakfast. Got mad when I changed his diaper. Kicked me. I threatened another time out. I questioned the whole point of time-outs. etc etc etc. I'm aware that none of this reflects particularly well on my parenting skills, or authority, but this is our truth.

Here's what we felt like, yesterday:

But here's what we looked like, on Facebook:

If you actually believed our photographs, you'd think our life was idyllic. That Adil was angelic. And that I was ecstatic. (Okay, that last bit is total overkill, but I needed the rhyme). I love Facebook, unabashedly, for connecting me to my wonderful universe of family and friends. Yet, it does such a great disservice - in encouraging us all to make the rough times look pretty.

I know I do it for many reasons, but mostly because I'm afraid of being judged. Maybe I'm trying to convince myself that my life is happier than it sometimes feels.  I also rarely have my camera on me, in the midst of a full-blown, temper tantrum (I'm too busy running for cover). But it's deeply exhausting putting up a front for social media. I wish I could sometimes just say that we had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. How liberating that would be!

Going potty

They say that the best time to begin potty training, is when your toddler shows signs of readiness. Here's the sign that Adil showed me, when I first put out his little potty, a year ago:

The photo prompted hilarious comments on Facebook. "He needs a laxative. He's all blocked up", quipped one friend. "What are you feeding him? Looks like an overflow of knowledge", joked my uncle.

I, myself, was deeply relieved that Adil wasn't interested, because I was far from ready. The very thought of potty training, struck untold terror, in the very depths my heart.

In the months since, we've made feeble attempts at it, but have been met with various forms of resistance. I recently found a yellow submarine in my toilet, conveniently submerged with a butterfly net, I then used to fish it out. Last week, Adil tossed my favorite earrings into the pot, with a gleeful glint in his eye.

Scarred by our scatalogical misadventures, or lack thereof, I have accepted that you can take the boy to potty, but you can't make him poop. When I finally, FINALLY got Adil to do "it" in his potty, for the very first time, he looked at it, proudly, and asked me, "Amma, what is that?! Is it a flower?!"

Parental discretion advised

Last week, Adil announced to his nanny, Ingrid, that he was going to have a baby sister. Adil is NOT having a baby sister (much to Ingrid's disappointment). But his new favorite cartoon-character, Daniel Tiger, is, and Adil seems to have some trouble distinguishing between the life of his fictional feline friend, and his own.

He's been calling us, Mom and Dad, instead of Amma and Baba, just like Daniel Tiger does.

He stomps his feet three times, when he's angry, just like Daniel Tiger does. Errrrr, actually, Adil stomps his feet many more times than three.

Explaining away an imaginary baby sister, is easier than apologizing for being summoned with the words, "Come here, you fat, little piggy!", as Adil had been doing, when he was obsessed with Peppa Pig. So taken was he, with the endearingly plump, puddle-jumping, little piggy, that we were all pigs, as far as he was concerned. As you can imagine, it's led to some uncomfortable situations, in school, at home and on playgrounds. It's also quite demoralizing being called a piggy, if you happen to be carrying around a few extra pounds, as I am the the moment.

When he was addicted to Bob the Builder, we were all designated roles, as various construction machines. Adil himself switched between being Bob the Builder and his digger, Scoop, and I was usually Dizzy, the cement-mixer. We were constantly reminded that Adil/Bob was the 'Boss' and we, his obedient minions. When Adil/Bob shouted, "Can we fix it?!" we were expected to chime in with an enthusiastic, "Yes we can!" My visiting brother, once had the nerve to reply, "No we can't!" and Adil/Bob, didn't take it lightly, at all.

I have finally understood the good old TV rating system. It's not to protect children. It's to protect us adults. Parental discretion advised, really means, "Beware Moms and Dads! If your child watches this show, you will be subjected to its long-term, irreversible, often damaging, side effects."

Turning tables

I have the dream desk. It's stark white, like a brand new canvas. On it, are all the supplies I could ever need - sharpened pencils, colored markers, ink pens and glue, scissors and scotch tape, stamps and a stapler. The bulletin board is pinned with family photos and a study of my favorite Monet. The little table top calendar, is always up-to-date. The desk, itself, is placed next to a window, overlooking a gorgeous tree. I could spend hours here - working, dreaming, sketching, writing. Except, I never do.

Instead, I'm always seated at our sturdy, dependable, brown dining table, amidst piles of un-filed papers, bowls of half-eaten cereal and assorted toddler toys. It's where I think and create best, because it's the heart of my home.

Working at dining tables, is a family tradition. It's where my mother drew every single one of her cartoons - from the early family strips, published in the local newspaper, to the political satires, featured in a national daily. I'm amazed at how prolific she managed to be, interrupted as she was by ringing telephones, tears from badly bruised knees, calls from vegetable vendors and trips to the kitchen, to check on boiling milk.

It makes me wonder if my perfect desk, is just that - too perfect. Like a blank canvas, it intimidates me, leaving me uncertain of where to paint the first stroke. My dining table, on the other hand, is comfortingly, messily, intimate and my work there, like my mother's, a seamless continuation of a full and happy life.

Who moved my Pee-Pee Teepee?

One of the most sought-after gifts on my baby shower registry, was an item called the Pee-Pee Teepee. For those who are unfamiliar with this hilariously innovative little creation, here's it's product description:

"Changing a baby girl is not all glitz and glory; changing a baby boy is an even bigger horror story...until now! Simply place the soft cloth cone over his wee-wee, during diaper changes to avert a sprinkling."

As the soon-to-be mother of a baby boy, I was terrorized by the possibility of an unexpected spraying, during those dreaded diaper changes. I spent hours obsessing over this eventuality and was deeply relieved, when I discovered the existence of this concept.

The Pee-Pee Teepee is available in a whole host of 'themes', including 'Wild West', 'Gone Fishing', 'Blue Camo' and, my personal favorite, 'Weiner Dog'!

Since my baby daddy is a golf fiend, I asked for the very-dignified, Golf Teepees, covered with tiny, printed balls and clubs. Here's what they look like:

As I prepared my diaper changing table, the Pee-Pee Teepees were give a place of honor. Little did I know then - in those final weeks of anticipation - that being tinkled upon by my newborn baby, would be the very least of my worries. Ironically, in hindsight, I don't even remember using them. We just never seemed have enough hands, to reach for a teepee, while wiping down an angry, howling, squirmy, bottom.

But I will always keep my precious Pee-Pee Teepees. They are a great reminder that, as a parent, you may think that you have things covered (pun intended), while in reality, you're not at all in control.

PS: Just FYI, I have been sprinkled on, multiple times, and I've survived!

Blue Deepa

When Adil was eight-months old, we took him on a highly-anticipated visit, to India. I had been dying to show off my little man and, equally, looking forward to the many loving hands, to hold and cuddle him.

Our trip was full of deep affection and incredible warmth, yet I found myself grieving the absence of a mother, to go home to - although I had lost her, more than a decade earlier. I returned from our long travels, depressed and totally exhausted - from running after a curious, crawling, infant, who was always on the move. My hormones were also out of whack, from suddenly switching him to formula.

For weeks after, I felt overwhelmed and irritable - barely able to get through a day. I was gripped by a sense of emptiness and purposelessness. Life had become an unbearable drag. It seemed like everyone else 'had it together' and I just didn't. I even envied Adil's ability to live in the moment - unburdened by anxiety and sadness and guilt.

But becoming a mother also pushes you to seek out your most authentic self. I had no choice but to accept that I was broken. I saw a therapist. I began taking anti-depressant medication. I learnt how to care for myself, in my darkest moments.

I realize now that my depression may have manifested postpartum, but began long before Adil was born. I got by, by fighting it hard, every, single, waking moment. But having a baby makes you vulnerable in ways you couldn't ever anticipate. It was like my entire being had been transplanted into this new little person - a bundle of constant needs. I simply couldn't cope. Having Adil, was like surrender.

There are still impossibly challenging days, when I feel like I'm falling into a bottomless abyss. But I have two fabulous boys - one big, one little - who know how to lift my spirits, and, more importantly, I pick myself, back up, with a growing kindness and compassion. It no longer feels like a battle. It's become a journey - towards recovery and joy and light.

Slow love

I'll never forget the day I fell in love with my son. He was already several weeks old, at the time. We were at an infant massage class. He was lying on his back, while I gently kneaded his little toes. He stared straight at me, his eyes dancing with mischief. I tickled his tummy and he let out a gurgling, belly laugh. My heart skipped a beat.

I had spent the months leading up to that moment, anxious and uneasy. I was convinced that I was an inadequate mother, entirely lacking in maternal instinct. Sure, I loved him whole-heartedly, but it wasn't the mad, blind adoration, that I'd pictured myself feeling, from the instant of his birth.

"He's changed your life unrecognizably", a wise, older friend said to me. "You're just taking your time to know and love him. Why should this be different from other relationships?"

I realized then, just how much we mythologize motherhood - setting ourselves up for self-doubt and guilt and disappointment. We expect to feel the perfect feelings, at the perfect time, for our perfect babies and are devastated when things don't go according to plan.

It's the one truth that I wish somebody had told me about parenthood  - that it can be a slow falling in love. But when you do fall, you fall hard, never to recover.

Mother India

You can take the mother out of India, but you can't take India out of the mother. I am living proof of the truth of this old adage and nowhere is this more evident, than with food.

When Adil turns his nose up at the meals I, so lovingly, prepare him, I experience the same pangs of rejection, of which my own mother, so bitterly complained. And despite firm resolutions to the contrary, I sometimes find myself chasing after him, with a bowl of food, ready to shovel its contents down his throat - much to his, and my own, disdain.

Of course, it doesn't help matters that he is currently a two-and-a-half-year-old, picky, moody, erratic eater, whose repertoire of acceptable foods, doesn't include anything colored green, orange, red, purple, blue, or yellow. Basically, we're talking large quantities of yogurt, white rice and pasta, with cheese.

Adil, meanwhile, is shooting up, like a weed. I blink and his clothes are tighter. Some mornings, I'm convinced that he's actually grown an inch, in his sleep.

I'm told that a toddler will never really starve himself, but no good Indian mother, worth her salt, is willing to buy that. We remain convinced that just a spoonful of cajoling, will help the yellow dal go down.

Oops, got to run! That big pot of penne, has come to a boil.

My amazing, post-baby body

Reading the gossip columns is my secret, guilty pleasure. It's an indispensable step, in my wind-down routine, after Adil has FINALLY, FINALLY, fallen asleep. My preferred source, The Daily Mail Online, is best served with a tall, chilled, glass of white wine.

Keeping up with the Kardashians and the Real Housewives, the Jolie-Pitts and Miley Cyrus, makes me feel, at once, incredibly awed by the insanity of their celebrity (or pseudo, in most cases) existences, and incredibly grateful, for the absolute anonymity, of my own.

It's deliciously relaxing and mindless reading - until I hit the photos of the stars and their perfect post-baby bodies. I come undone, when I hear that Reese (yes, of course, I'm on first name basis, with all these fabulous people) lost ALL her pregnancy weight, just ten days after her third baby was born. Keira and Scarlett, have no business flaunting their size zero waists, so soon after giving birth. And Kate, must positively STOP showing-off her super-flat mummy-tummy, as she effortlessly trots around, in four inch heels, with newborn Princess Charlotte, nestled, happily, in her arms.

This is what I look like, two years after Adil was born:

My body weighs several extra pounds and things have shifted around, possibly never to return. Last month, a total stranger, asked me when my next baby was due, and I am NOT pregnant, again.

Posting this photograph makes me cringe. I share it, nevertheless, because it portrays a moment of such pure happiness, that it far outweighs the inhibitions of my vanity.

I see a strong and confident woman, throwing her son, high up in the air. Her body is amazing, because she bore him, and birthed him, and carries him, still (all thirty-three pounds of him, now).

They are gazing at each other, with an exquisite and boundless love. He's squealing, with delight, and shouting, "Again, Amma! Again!"

And with a joyful whoop, she swings him towards the bright, blue sky. Again! And again!

Confessions of a slacker mom

It's rare to have an epiphany, captured on camera. Here's what it looked like, for me:

It's the moment when I realized that I'm too lazy to be a legitimate tiger mom. I'd much rather sit back and watch Adil build sand castles and splash in the backyard paddle pool, than ferry him from piano class, to soccer practice, to Kumon lesson. If this little man chooses to be an over-achiever, he'll have to do so, on his own steam.

By all accounts, Adil, himself, will most likely thrive on this unstructured, unscheduled, free-play. We grew up entertaining ourselves on the street, in front of our house - hiding and seeking, running and catching, hopping and skipping. We used sticks and stones and piles of sand, from the neighborhood construction site, to draw and build and lounge on.

That's when you notice the ladybug sunning itself on your sleeve, or that your toes are deliciously moist, from the freshly-mowed grass, or that the setting sun has lit the sky an impossibly brilliant shade of pink.

Then you run back home, for a cold glass of lemonade, snuggle up on against your Amma, and truly feel, in the very depths of your being, that you belong and that all is well with the world.

Follow the moon

On the day my Amma died, a full-moon carried me home. It might have really been a crescent, or a lunar eclipse, but I will remember it as blindingly full - a north-star, that guided me back to where I belong. I stared at it, unblinking, not crying, or speaking, as a night bus drove me to that very last goodbye.

The moon was our secret code. At a family vacation, before I went away to college, we made a pact to bounce love off its luminous edges. On long, homesick nights, I'd hug myself on the terrace of the girls hostel, pretending that she was holding me close. She was a thousand miles away, but we were looking at the exact same moon, and in those moments of crippling loneliness, that was enough.

We were soul-mates and best-friends, my Amma and I, and her loss swallowed me like an unfathomable blackhole. I may never fully emerge, but I have made friends with the vast, inky darkness - learning to navigate its perilous slopes and countless shades of gray.

One day, when he's old enough, I'll introduce my son to his grandmother, on the moon. He will smile and wave a warm hello. Then, he will turn to me and hug me with a tightness that could only be hers. And maybe, for that one, fleeting, instant, I will, once again, feel whole.

Keeping it simple

“In the tapestry of childhood, what stands out is not the splashy, blow-out trips to Disneyland, 

but the common threads that run throughout and repeat: the family dinners, 

nature walks, reading together at bedtime, Saturday morning pancakes.”  
~ Kim John Payne in 'Simplicity Parenting'

I constantly revisit this insightful quote, as a guidepost on my own journey of parenting. It reminds me that a charmed childhood is not about giving kids lot of stuff, but about cultivating connection and imagination.

Last week, Adil came to me with a new and unusual request.
"Amma, I need money", he said.
"Really! What for?" I asked, quite unprepared.
"I need to buy a crane," he replied.
"A crane?! I'll have to think about that," I responded, trying to buy time.

Adil is totally obsessed with all kinds of construction equipment. His toy excavator is almost like a third hand and I'm always being corrected on the names of various heavy machines. "That's not a digger, Amma!" he exclaims, exasperated. "It's a backhoe loader!"
"Boys and their toys!" I sigh.

An indulgent mom, I'm easily tempted into getting him all the playthings he wants. But watching him improvise, is much more fun. Since he doesn't own a crane, he makes one up - using a fishing rod from a favorite toddler game, or kitchen tongs, borrowed from the cabinet, or an old, discarded drink straw.

"It's pretend, Amma" he tells me, authoritatively.
I nod and smile to myself.

Uncropped. Unfiltered. Posted!

One day, I will be brave enough to share photos of our home and our lives, as is. Raw, messy and unedited. Instead, I rush to tidy up, leave out offending piles of toys, crop the bits that make it in, plaster on shiny, happy filters - all before hitting the 'post' button. Gosh, it's exhausting looking pretty on Facebook!

Today, I challenge myself to show you the kitchen counter, as it really looks. Just seeing it, makes my skin crawl.

On it are:

Kiddie books
A toy steamroller
My sunglasses
A cup of yesterday's orange juice
My headphones
Adil's gummy bears
Mosquito spray
A big box of my vitamins
Car keys
My iPad
Old, ugly paper towel
Snack cup with cheerios
Shoe polish (?!!)
Adil's video monitor
An empty baggie
Fishing rod from toddler game
House keys

Random things, behind redeeming vase of flowers

Metal Eiffel Tower that doesn't belong on counter

This is life with a two-year-old. It's all-over-the-place and maddeningly disorganized. But it's also joyful, silly, spontaneous and whole-hearted. 

This is my life, today.

Google it, baby

Crowd-sourced parenting is now a thing! Adil's being raised almost solely on Google search results and the collective wisdom of the world wide web.

Yesterday, Google informed me that my son had lost interest in food, because he's two-and-a-half, and that's what two-and-a-half-year-olds do. Last week, my favorite Facebook moms group, gave me the lowdown on potty training (ugh!) I ask, and the internet delivers. (Actually, it almost aways over delivers and I spend hours sifting through endless gigabytes of data, to make sense of it all.)

Living half a world away from family, as we do, there's a great reassurance in knowing that I'm just one click away from good ol' mommy advice.

But the net can be an equally precarious and toxic zone. When I switched Adil to formula, I was very nearly convinced that I was poisoning my fragile, precious, little infant. The inexplicable and insane shaming of moms, breast-feeding in public, inhibited me from ever even giving it a try.

I guess taking internet advice is not that different from asking for your mother's opinion, on parenting - listen to what works for you and take the rest with a pinch of salt. Babies are meant to be on low-sodium diets, anyhow!

I blog, therefore I am

Motherhood made me invisible. From the moment of his birth, so consumed was I, by my brand new little love, that I unabashedly handed him my entire heart, mind and soul. Our identities were seamlessly linked and I became Adil's Amma - an inexperienced but earnest, involved but overwhelmed mom, racked with guilt, second-guessing and self-doubt.

Two-and-a-half-years later, I still feel inept and uncertain. It appears to be built-in to the design of parenthood - of bringing up a moving target. Just when a skill seems within reach, your toddler throws you a curve ball, leaving you totally out of breath - like totally not eating, one week, or throwing toys at you, the next (possibly because he's just so hungry from all that self-starvation).

Tonight, as I lie by Adil, soothing the shooting pains, from his growing knees, I decide it's time to begin my blog. To be visible, again. To evoke the person I once called myself, who most likely no longer exists. Perhaps, to make friends with the me I've become, since?

I must really need this space - to be willing to confront critics and trolls, and more terrifyingly, to brave the voices in my own head, mocking me for becoming 'another-mommy-blogger-with-nothing-original-to-say'.

He's fast asleep, now. I'm writing, again.

Hello, Amma Deepa Kamath! I'm looking forward to getting to know you, again.