When did you start loving your baby?

Bird's Eye View has a lovely post about falling in love with her baby.

After my son was born, since I was woozy and passed out from the sedation, everyone else in the immediate family saw him before I did. And even when I saw him I didn’t feel what I expected – a gush of love so strong and powerful that nothing else would compare. My husband seemed to have bonded much faster than I did. Through the first couple of months of endless feeding and cleaning I guess my son and I took our first tentative steps (obviously metaphoric in his case) towards understanding each other and maybe liking.

My son is six months old now. And today as I watch him, I am touched by myriad emotions. At times his air of fragility and vulnerability annoy me, make me angry. Nobody should be so weak, so defenceless. How will I protect him, not just from the rest of the world but even from me and my moods?

Do read the entire piece.

Name Change - This is for real now

Big N will henceforth be referred to as Calvin on this blog. Remember this from a long time ago?

Until Little N grows up enough to start making demands as to her monicker, she will still be Little N.

The Entertainer: Composer, Scott Joplin; Pianist, Big N

Big N's piano teacher introduced him to Scott Joplin's The Entertainer a few days ago. Big N's been studying it and loves it. It's a lovely piece of music. Without much ado, here's Big N:

Little N and her Big Brother's Friend

Big N had one of his favorite friends, S, over for a sleepover this past weekend. The two of them ran around the house, played games with cars and airplanes, watched a movie, discussed horse power and the merits of F-16s vs. F-17s and which car or fighter jet leaves which one in the dust, etc., etc. You know, boy stuff (although, I must say, each one feeds off of the other and they've both turned into super geeks by the time they are ready to say goodbye to each other).

It was great to see the two kids having fun, but even better to watch Little N.

She chased the boys around as much as her little legs would let her, squealing when she found them and purposefully heading off in their direction when they moved yet again. Finally, when they settled down to watch the movie, she seized the opportunity to stare, uninterrupted, at ... her big brother's friend!

Oh, the adoration on her face! She looked and looked. She ignored me when I called her, preferring to lean on the sofa Big N's friend was sitting on, neck and face upturned. I said, "Do you want to give him a hug?" (She's into hugs, big time). She ignored me. Of course. But kept on looking waiting for him to look at her. He, unfortunately, was engrossed in Star Wars playing on TV.

Then it struck me - this is just the beginning of a future full of Big N's friends traipsing in and out of the house for little N to gawk at. Sigh!

Charu's Blog, Indsight, Turns 4!

My buddy Charu's blog, Indsight, turned four yesterday!

If you haven't read Indsight, now's a swell time to do so. Check out her photos, especially.

Happy reading!

Book Review: Love Walked In, Marisa de los Santos

There's no better way to say it – I'm a sucker for love stories.

Not the kind in which boy meets girl, fireworks explode and the constant excitement is punctuated by frequent bolts of lightning and thunder. Well, not anymore, anyway. I grew out of those, oh, say about fifteen years ago.

The kind of love story that reels me in these days is the one in which the affection is deep, the love is caring and the respect is mutual. You know, the kind that leaves you with that warm, cozy feeling of well-being, comfortable in the knowledge of the myriad, mysterious possibilities of love - long after you've shut the book and consigned it to the bookshelf.

Love Walked In, Marisa de los Santos' debut effort, is just that kind of a story.

It is the story of Cornelia, a thirty-something, five-foot tall storehouse of energy and integrity, who, everybody agrees, is wasting her days managing a coffee house in Philadelphia when she could be doing something worthwhile with her talents. Just what they are (other than a love for and obsession with old Hollywood movies – The Philadelphia Story the prime among them) no one can tell yet.

It is also the story of eleven year old Clare, lost in the wilderness of the problems plaguing the adults around her but holding steadfast with all the discipline and grit she can muster.

Through the machinations of fate and destiny and the stars, Cornelia and Clare meet. Above all other relationships and love connections in the novel, the one that is pivotal to the proceedings is the story of how Clare and Cornelia fall head over heels into adoring affection for each other. Nothing binds Cornelia to Clare – neither familial ties, nor professional ties nor ties of friendship – other than those of love and a fierce interest in her well-being.

As the story progresses, I realized, Cornelia's world is one in which many of us would love to inhabit. To have the friend she has; to have the parents she has; to have the brothers she has; to have the motherly, aunt-type confidant and role model she has; to have the kind of childhood she had; to have the emotional wherewithal to take a broken young child under the wing as she does; and to have the beau (oh, yes!), the love of her life, that walks into her world one day.

Cornelia's first person voice – strong and steady for the most part, but doubting as well, of her own ability to carry the burden – guides the reader through this journey. The informality of the language in which Cornelia addresses the reader serves to let him in on Cornelia's innermost workings turning him into a willing participant in the goings on.

Apart from Cornelia's voice, the strongest of the novel's characteristics is the warmth and love cocooning its people, places and events. For a story that puts its characters through various types of wringers - death, divorce, child abandonment, mental illness – that it leaves you happy and content as you turn the last of its 300-odd pages, is quite an achievement.

And you appreciate that achievement even more for the smart, knowledgeable way in which the story is told. Although half the story is told in the voice of Cornelia and the other half from the perspective of eleven year old Clare - who's seen more tragedy and heartache to fill more than one lifetime - de los Santos manages to inhabit both and a panoply of other characters that reside in her book. They are all well-rounded, with just enough of the frailties and failings to give them flesh and blood and make them believable.

Half-way through the story you forget it's a story and you root for the right thing (well, all the things Clare and Cornelia long for), to happen. What more can I say?

A Woman's Worth

Even as a teenager, the best thing I liked about my grandmother was her soft, squishy, plump lap. She would groan under my weight as I settled in and leaned back onto her bulky stomach, but as she wrapped her chubby arms around me, I would feel the loose flesh of her neck on the side of my face. I cannot remember a time when my grandma was not big and soft.

It never occurred to me that she was not beautiful or that she should have had non-flabby arms or slender thighs.

To me, she was someone who made yummy things to eat (the best coconut obbattu in the whole world) and beautiful art out of cotton and shiny paper; braided young girls' hair with intricately set flowers (moggina jade) for portraits or dance recitals; had the gumption to yell at my mother and my aunts and uncles; someone who never addressed her husband by name; never ever took off her mangalasutra (even when it needed to be repaired, she held on to it while the goldsmith fixed a loose hook); who was proud that she and her husband had managed to bring up five children on a shoestring budget and found good spouses for all of them; someone who took joy in the fact that she was a grandmother many times over.

There is something absolutely calming in staring at the face of someone that has been through a whole life and has come out at the other end of it without frayed edges and with the center intact.

By the time I'm her age when she passed away, I shall count myself incredibly lucky if I could achieve a semblance of the kind of relationships she had with her children and the comfort she felt in her skin.

But this is not the message girls growing up get these days. We've all heard and read about (and can see for ourselves) how the media is inundated with ads exhorting women to become fairer, put on fewer wrinkles, have sticks for arms and legs, banish gray hair and have flat stomachs but full breasts. The engines of the $200 billion cosmetics industry run on these aspirations.

Which is why it was somewhat shocking and gratifying to see this ad for Dove in Time Magazine yesterday. True, Dove still sells shampoos and conditioners, and face and body lotions, but the message of this pro-age campaign and the message of their Campaign for Real Beauty effort are ones that resonate.

A woman's worth measured by the number of wrikles she has earned, not by the number of wrinkles masked; a woman's worth measured by flab acquired by years of living, not flab supressed by years of poor eating; a woman's worth measured by the streaks of gray in her hair collected over a lifetime of ups and downs, not by how successfully they are covered up.

One can hope.

Yummy Mummy vs. Slummy Mummy. And the Winner Is...Who Cares!

I thoroughly enjoyed this Newsweek piece by Kathleen Deveny about the "Mommy Wars".

The mommy wars are killing me. Raise your children however you'd like. Just please—please—stop telling me about it. Do whatever you want: stay at home with your kids, wear gym clothes all day and make your own organic baby food. Work 60 hours a week, fire your babysitter every six months and communicate with your children via BlackBerry. Declare your toddler carbon neutral or get your hair highlighted while you're in labor. Breast-feed your kid till he's 17! I'm a single working mother, and should be interested in all this, but I'm not.

[...]

We have become Narcissist Mommies, obsessed with defending our parenting choices. Yes, motherhood is exhausting. Sure, husbands could be more helpful and bosses are always demanding something on the day your kid comes home with lice. The challenge of finding good, affordable child care is no joke. But we didn't exactly invent kids. "No one can ever understand how difficult it is," says Kateria Niambi, a publishing executive from Montclair, N.J., and single mother of girls, ages 14 and 11. "But once you are a mother, you need to get over it. There's no need to whine about it."

Here's my take on the "Mommy Wars" and why we need to put an end to them.

I'm a Rockin' Girl Blogger!

Taz, my Akshara project buddy, has bestowed upon me the title of Rockin' Girl Blogger. Very cool, eh? Brought a smile to my face and tickled me pink! Thanks Taz!

Here are three fine bloggers that deserve the title as well:

Amrita Rajan at IndieQuill
Deepa Krishnan at Mumbai Magic
Praba at SaffronTree (We've met already. Twice! I know, I know, a post is long overdue)

As Taz says, rock on ladies!

What do you do when your sister is jealous?

Seven year-old brother is massaging (very well, I might add) mother's forehead and temples on the bed. One year-old sister is doing the War Dance of Jealousy on the floor. She can see but she cannot reach. She does circles, squeals, reaches out her arms, flings them back to her sides in frustration, wails, and finally, flops to the floor in utter dejection.

Brother watches sister's frenzy. He knows that feeling all too well. When the occasion demands it, he's a master at displaying fits of heartburn himself.

So he says to his little sister, with the air of someone who's seen everything there is to be seen, "N, no matter what I do for mama, she'll always love you, OK?"

Candles Burn, Flowers Glow

Candles burn, flowers glow

Diwali, the Indian festival of lights. The aroma of mom's cooking fills the air. My home is abuzz with family and friends. Kids squeal at the sound of the firecrackers. In the chaos, these flowers - aglow in the candlelight - give me pause. I love being home. I'm content.

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This is my entry for the Fields of the World Contest hosted by Crazy Hip Blog Mamas.

Tell us where out next “Fields of the World” arrangement should come from! Is there a special memory, place, or family heritage that can help inspire us? Upload your photo with a descriptive caption and tell us the inspiration behind it.

If you'd like to participate, click on either of the links above and enter away! Have fun and good luck!

Fisherman's Cove, Chennai

A few months ago, we had to make a two-day trip to Chennai. We decided to make the most of it and stay at Fisherman's Cove in the outskirts of the city (close to Mahabalipuram).

Fisherman's Cove is a lovely resort, blessed by a stupendous location and gorgeous landscaping. A range of accommodation types includes rooms, cottages and villas. The cottages and villas are steps away from the ocean. A few of them, we were told, had suffered damage during the tsunami and had been refurbished.

A view of the ocean from the cottage

Dragonflies hang on for dear life as a strident breeze rocks the hammock

One of the cottages. The spacious wooden swing is very relaxing.

The sit out beyond the lobby of the hotel.

At the hotel's main restaurant (the one that houses the buffet), the food is nothing to write home about. In fact, the buffet is unimaginative at best.

For dinner, though, the hotel's Upper Deck restaurant is a fantastic choice. The ambiance is perfect for an outdoor space. The restaurant is set on a mound a few feet higher than the rest of the ground, affording great views of the ocean in the dying light. Service is attentive without being intrusive. The chef and the wait staff go out of their way to get you what you want. Reservations are a must.

The cottages are comfortably furnished and will ably aid and abet you in committing the crime of relaxation. At night, the only sounds are of the ocean as the waves dance with the beach in a relentless tango.

Why are Pkblogs.com and Inblogs.com framing my pages with their ads?

Has anyone else encountered this problem? A search for Palm Meadows, Bangalore, brings up the following link:

www.pkblogs.com/blogpourri/2007/07/life-in-palm-meadows-bangalore-view.html

and when you click on it, it brings up my page with that post, but with Pkblogs' ads framing my page. There are other links to more of my posts via Pkblogs and Inblogs. SIFY used to do this to all my posts a year or so ago until I called and told them to knock it off.

If you have encountered this problem, please could you tell me what you did to stop it?

It makes me mad because Pkblogs and Inblogs are trying to make money off of other peoples' work merely by framing pages with their ads.

Indian Schools: ICSE or CBSE? International or Mainstream?

If you are a parent looking to move to India and are confused about the choices available in terms of schooling for your children, this article in this weekend's Mint Lounge offers you a good overview:

It’s a subject all parents obsess about: schools. How few good ones there are and how to get their children into them. The International Baccalaureate (IB) or the Indian School Certificate Examinations (ICSE)? How to make it to South Mumbai’s Cathedral & John Connon School (Maureen’s Head Start playschool is the way), or Campion, or J.B. Petit School.

Or, should you just skip those traditional schools that are stressful, competitive and ramshackle and opt instead for that growing set of new schools which come with an “international” tag? There are plenty of options: The number of Indian schools offering the University of Cambridge International Examinations (CIE) has grown by three times in as many years to almost 200, while 37 outfits offer the IB programme.

My posts on Bangalore schools are here (more posts are linked within each post).

When the sky threatens to fall, you dig deep

I read two stories today from people half way around the globe from each other, but each one resonated for the same reasons. They are gut-wrenching stories of adversity that befalls ordinary people and, more importantly, they are stories of ordinary people digging deep within themselves to find the emotional wherewithal to surmount the adversity.

There is this story of Sadhika, a four year-old, who was diagnosed with cancer a year ago (via Uma).

Both Rajni and I were numb. We went back home and shut ourselves inside for three days. During the second counselling session at aiims we were told that the whole department was with us. The estimated cost for the three-year course of treatment was Rs 7.5 lakh. We were cautioned that there could be a relapse after five or six years.

One night soon afterwards, my wife and I sat together and cried out loud. How could God do this to us? Then Rajni reassured me. She said we had to try and do our best to save Sadhika. We decided we would strive together. It was a cathartic moment. We sensed God’s will behind it all. Maybe it was part of God’s master plan for us.

We then informed our friends and family. We did not want to hide anything from anyone, in part because we also saw this as an opportunity to generate awareness about blood cancer. We told Pulkit that his little sister had a blood infection and we would all have to work hard to help her become well again. The reactions from those we knew were mixed. Some supported us; others told their children to stop playing with Sadhika.

But we were undeterred. I work for a private firm, and they supported me and granted me leave whenever I needed it. Rajni’s family, and my sisters and their families supported us and were always ready to donate blood.

Then there is Jana Lee's story. Frail and sick, she finds solace in simple things - planting some seeds and watching them take root and come alive.

Everything is so simple when you've been sick. To be outside wearing the sun as a shawl when your heart has been so cold for so long is a gift. To think of the ground as a womb and no longer as a grave is a relief. Kneeling to pull weeds and sift the soil becomes each day an excuse to pray. Night crawlers glisten in my fingers fiery red and as valuable as rubies, eyeless and innocent of their importance to prepare the earth for the growing of plants. I watch robins pulling them from deep, secret places beyond the garden's edge, sensing the movements of the worms underground with their feet. I knead dirt for hours like a baker working dough.

In adversity, there is hope.

Please do take time to read both the stories.