You know they say “be aware of what you tell your children; it may well come back to bite you in your ass”? Well, it happens to me many a time but the ninny that I am, I keep spinning my web of lies and flounder as my son ties me in knots using the same slimy thread.
For instance, when P was very little, he once asked me why we got married. A thousand replies weaved through my head:
“To shove a thumb up your paternal grandparents noses”
“To have hot, monkey sex at the drop of a hat (or any other apparel)”
“To get away from your maternal grandparents when the GRE route got blocked”
but as none of them were U rated, I decided to plumb for a tamer reply and fed him some jazz somewhere along the lines of a megaserial maa:
“so that we could have you, beta!”
When I had just found I was pregnant, I tried to test P’s reactions in a roundabout way. I did not want to give him any concrete idea about the imminent arrival as he is somewhat of a blabbermouth. So I tried my hand at subtlety and asked him:
“would you like to have a baby brother or a sister, kanna?”
To which, he replied:
“yeah, but I don’t cos you wanted only me and nobody else!” (another web I had spun earlier when he first asked for a sib.)
“Er, what if?”
“Well, then you’d have to get married again!”
“What? Where did you get that?”
“You only said, mummy, that mummies and daddies have to get married to have children. So if I should have a brother or a sister, you should get married again. Daddy would be so upset; he would leave!”
Next time around, I shall stick to the tried-and-tested-truth, shall I?
Oh yeah, I’ve got a bun in the oven – again. Am only at week 9 or thereabouts so am probably jumping the gun in putting the news on my blog (but who reads it but my loyal 4 anyway?!) but then, think of all the lovely posts I am missing – runs, projectile vomiting, nausea and other deep joys that my life is so full of now. So I thought, what the heck.
Yesterday, I heard my not yet 6 year old son emphatically tell me:
“I am not going to get married – not to a girl, not to a boy, not to an old woman. No. I am not. Ok?”
Ok, my boy. Whatever you want.
A little later, a request to make him put his shoes on before setting foot outside the door got his dad the comment: “whatever!” And I thought I had to wait at least till he hit 10 before hearing a “whatever!”. Is 6 like the new 10 / teenage now?
Music – it is about feelings and emotions, right? My choice of music came under much (friendly, of course) ribbing and I shudder to think what kind of comment this post might attract but I can’t help it.
I heard this song after a long, long time today. And with the first bar, it took me back to the time I heard it on my walkman, while on the train back to Madras from Bombay. It carries with it that gentle sway of motion, the sweet ache of parting and a hefty dose of nostalgia.
(Announcer on the telly: “Name one reason why a woman would marry an ugly man?” — with Family Fortunes theme tune in the background)
P: “Well, daddy, you are ugly!”
P’s poor dad: “What? I am ugly?”
P: “er, well yeah, a bit ugly”
P’s dad: “What do you mean a bit ugly?”
P: “Well you wear glasses!”
P’s dad: “If I am ugly, then you must be too!”
P: “No I am not! I am gorgeous! Ask mummy!”
From the mouth of babes….
When I was getting P dressed for school on Wednesday, he told me a story. When he finished, all I could think was: ‘aw, my son, the spinner of stories! He is going to be a great story teller, a fantastic writer. J K Rowling, watch out!!” Before I tell you all the story, a bit of background about P – he hates bathing. Baths, showers, quick ones in a bucket, well he hates the lot. Everytime it is a merry dance to lead him to the tub and make him clean his grubby self.
He kept this up in Madras heat and grime too – that should tell you what a determined monkey he is! More than bathing, he hates washing his face. Every time he shouts ‘I’m finished’, I’ll always find his body sopping wet but there will be nary a drop on his mug. Asking him why will get comments like he dry cleaned his face or some such thing. Hard to believe that when he was a newborn, he *loved* getting his face washed. The outrageous squawk he’d let out to find himself facing yet another bath would be silenced when my gran washed his face.
Now, for his story:
Once upon a time, there was a little boy who took baths every day. He loved washing his face. His face was very, very clean.
Then, one day, he thought to himself that it is too clean and he wouldn’t wash it. But he forgot.
Then one day, when his face got too, too clean, his eyes fell off. Then his nose came off. Then his ears. Then his mouth.
His mum walked around and found them. Then she took out some glue and stuck them all back on his face.
The End.
Kids these days, I tell you – you never know what they’ll come up with. When I hear P pontificate about certain things, I think ‘how the hell does he compute things that way?’ Yesterday, on our way to Marina Beach, he suddenly went: “Mummy, autos are like motorbikes, aren’t they?” As P is addicted to cars and bikes, I generally zonk out after the first mention of a vehicle but this one made me go “DUH?”
So he explained: “Yeah, ‘cos to drive both, the driver has to hold his hands like this” and he mimed a handlebar. My son, the genius! He once famously asked his dad to go to work on Saturdays and earn extra money, so we could donate the surplus to the people of Paris. Paris? Why? you ask. Well that’s because the people of Paris don’t have any food and have now resorted to eating yucky things like *gasp* froggie’s legs, that’s why!
The other day, we went to visit a friend of ours from Brentwood who have now moved to Chennai and since I last saw them, have had a new addition to their family. As the friend’s older daughter has always been a great pal of P’s, I was quite looking forward to him finally having a mate to play with. But thanks to the Chennai heat and humidity, he got tired after 30 mins and got cranky. So my friend put on a Krishna CD for them so they’ll let us chat in peace. But from the next minute, the friend’s daughter A started telling me the story.
“You know Aunty, the baby Krishna will do this now, see. He is going to drink milk from that demon – like the baby does from Amma. But Krishna will kill her!” My friend and I were looking speechlessly at one another as A mimed boobs and the baby feeding! That was when she told me what A did last month. One day apparently she started chucking things from the table on to the floor for no reason. Then she threw the freshly laundered clothes on the floor too and when her aunt asked her why, she went “auntie, see I have become naughty, just like Krishna. Now tie me up!”
Good grief! We want our kids to learn about our culture and get them such things and they pick up entirely different things! I am now too scared to make P watch his new Hanuman CD – what if he decides to try to fly?
I was just going through my laptop files for some important scanned documents when I came across some old pictures. Pictures of my little boy that brought tears to his silly mum’s eyes. To see him as he was three years back, chubby and still in the throes of babyhood. So I thought I’d share some of those pix with you lot.
Here he is with his favourite comfort blanket, rather like M.Karunanidhi. He calls it ‘Nemo fleece’ (his first ever fave movie was ‘Finding Nemo’).
Size does matter!
Walking a mile in my shoes!
In the driving seat, every time!
I am sooo good!
Isn’t he gorgeous? *sigh* Whatever have I done with the years? Wouldn’t it be super if I could turn the clock back and see my chubby cheeked wonder again?
For someone so young, P can spin stories like a pro. We learned fairly early on to never trust every thing he said, especially when he’s spouting stuff with a wicked glint in his eyes. Friends have found this out for themselves at great peril. To see him denying things, with an angelic look on his face is a sight, indeed!
Recently we were visiting friends and as it was a hot day, we sat at this nice pub by a canal and were quenching our collective thirst when a narrowboat came along. A man jumped out, went to the bridge across the canal, and opened the lock. The bridge swung out near where we were sitting and a few older boys jumped on it. P wasn’t going to be left behind, oh no! He stood on the edge, much like a ship’s captain and observed the proceedings. The minute the bridge became one, he lit out and made a mad dash towards us. He came to me, huffing and puffing and went ‘did you see what I did, mummy?’
And I replied ‘oh yes, baby, did you enjoy it?’
To which he went ‘Oh no! It wasn’t me that wanted to do it. Uncle did – he made me go up there. I was almost hit by the car!’
Needless to say, it was a good while before the couple could close their mouths.
He also has a ready-made reply for most situations.
‘P, shall we go and pick up daddy from whereever?’
‘Nah’
‘Why not?’
‘No need, mummy. Daddy is a big boy, he can find his way back by himself’.
Then there was the time he found a spider in the tub. I had noticed it a few minutes back and had left it there to see what his reactions would be. As he walked in to brush his teeth, he noticed the bug and let out a shout. Then there was silence.
I was puzzled. Not for long, though. He came out couple of minutes later with the explanation.
p: ‘There was a spider in the tub, mummy’
Me: Really? What is it doing now?
P: Oh, it got died.
Me: How come?
P: The water came and splashed it and it got died.
Me: How did the water come and land on it?
P: Oh I turned the taps on.
Me: So you killed it then?
P: Oh no, it wasn’t me! I just turned the taps on. It was the water that killed the spider.
As if one needs more proof of his way with words, here’s an excerpt from our conversation as we walked back home from school today.
Me: So, baby, did you have a good time at school?
P: Yep.
Me: What’s that star on your t-shirt for?
P: Oh that is for when I did some counting and didn’t use my fingers. I had to add 10 and 6 but I did not use my fingers. I just used my brain. I used the fingers in my brain!
Look at my brave li’l boy – peering down at nothing! We went to Blackpool last weekend and this pic was taken atop the Blackpool Tower. This is the famous Walk of Faith where there is nothing but clear glass underneath your feet. You’ve got to remember at this point, one is at a height of 300+ metres! Totally unfazed, P sat quite comfortably on the glass and peered down below.
