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.