dog or doggie?

Back in the day when we still qualified for the "newly-wedded-kuppel" tag, self, A and G were out for a walk. (G is our son by adoption - albeit canine - and is weird enough that he fits right into the family) And I simply LOVE calling out to the two of them, together. It sounds like I'm this sweet, old-fashioned wife who will never take her husband's name. How I love delusions, particularly the delightfully tinkly noise they make when they break.

 

So, we were out for a walk and G was very keen on showing off how he could piddle with one leg raised. The background was that we had just been for a trip to nani's with cows and other dogs (we didn't take them on the trip. Nani had them at home, in case you were wondering). G had made friends with our outsize German Shepherd, Tiger. Of course, when I say made friends, I use the term loosely. Their friendship consisted of G nipping Tiger unmercifully till the poor sod would give up and play with him. My little mutt also corrupted the easy-going, obedient Tiger enough to dig a nice big hole in Nani's lawn when they were both tied up for a bit so that we could breathe. Amongst other lectures that Tiger presumably read to am impressionable G, was one on how to pee.

 

"See here, youngster. Only puppies and lady dogs need to sit and pee. Us tough types, we stand and do it, see? Here's how."

 

The lecture probably worked, since our little fellow decided to give his new skill an airing when we were back in the big city. Unfortunately, he was a little over-enthusiastic and, well, he overbalanced. I was just wiping the helpless tears of laughter from my eyes, (Well, yes, he's my son and he was embarrassed as hell, but what's a woman to do?) when we were accosted by a fellow-walker, who had all manner of questions about G. "Is he real?" (We still get that a lot thanks to the disgustingly cuddly looks G has) "How much for?" "What breed?" Do we ask you questions about your family, Mister?

 

But he made up for all of that when he cleared his throat and asked in what was probably meant to be a genteel manner, "Is it a dog or a doggie?" It took us a while to figure out what it meant. A was quicker on the uptake and responded in a commendably clear voice, "Dog" while I made my escape, pretending that G was pulling on the leash.

 

Cut to about half a dozen years later. I was still in the labour room about an hour after delivering our daughter, cuddling her in an exhausted haze, after a much welcome hot cuppa chai when I realised that I was being spoken to.

 

"You're happy? It's good that you're so happy. Even educated families are not happy when daughters are born. But you can have a second child, no? This is only your first one."

 

Now, I'm not that fussed about whether puppies are dogs or doggies.  I love my puppies. All of them. Even the ones that are six feet tall. But I do get fussed about outright bitches, so it's just as well that she left the room really soon else I was seriously considering throwing something at her and claiming temporary insanity.

silly silai

"You know, you're really getting into this whole pregnancy thing," said soon-to-be PP, "Did you, by any chance look up a manual with all the things that pregnant women feel and do, just to make sure you got them right? You don't have a checklist on you by any chance?"

Fine, he did have a point, even though it was stretched finer than my budget for maternity clothes (viz. nil) I just didn't see the point in shelling out a bomb for ugly oversized clothes which I wouldn't need after baby made the grand entry (hahahaha - I still laugh when I think about it. I punch the air every single time I manage to hold my breath and squeeze into formerly-loose, pre-pregnancy clothes for a second or so. And I once trapped myself for five whole minutes in a dress that I thought would fit. K found my acrobatics amusing and applauded - the brat!)

Anyway, to get back to the point, I was nesting like crazy. One fine day I woke up and demanded a sewing machine. The conversation went something like this.

A: You've always said that there is no such thing as women's work and men's work and that you'd be damned if you would sew buttons on my shirt just because we're married. And now, you want a sewing machine. Fine. Do you even know how to thread one?

Me (trying hard to reprise childhood memories and pretending I know all about it): Of course! See there are these round things called bobbins that are involved...

A: So what will you stitch? Do you know how to?

Me (lusting after visions of Peter Pan collars and an entirely imaginary domestic goddess image of myself)  I will make baby clothes. And sheets. And nappies.

A; Oh really? (while he envisioned a private hell)

And my brahmastra was launched: I'm pregnant! You have to keep me happy and do what I say.

And so he did. We scuttled off to a showroom (MIL was away and would have sensibly dissuaded me from a disastrous decision but well - she was away :) and I shortly became the proud owner of a spanking new Usha Janome Stitch Magic.

Luckily for me, there was a demo of sorts that the guy gave (which included threading the machine, which I obviously didn't know how to do) and demonstrated the bewildering array of feet (the machine's, not his) available and from then on I was on my own.

Suffice it to say, there were mistakes galore, BUT I did manage a couple of dozen nappies from an old sari, half a dozen sheets, a couple of light quilts and several clothes, most of which she has outgrown now that she is nearly five months old)

How? The internet is a great teacher and has loads of free patterns.

I even managed a couple of simple kurtas for the MIL; one for A (he actually wears it out) and a clutch of stuff for myself including two rather nice long divided skirts and a few simple tops, all of which are currently invaluable given my laziness in getting back into shape. More on that later...

stroll poll

When we were kids (depressing isn't it, how like our mums we sound when we become mums?) there was none of this messing around between strollers, car-seat/ stroller combos or travel systems which have a rocker, car-seat, baby carrier, sleeping bag (and presumably a tent and spirit stove to go with it).

 

So here's the deal: every time we ventured out to look at stuff while I was pregnant, I would come back and look for a corner to have quiet hysterics at the prices and the sheer ridiculousness of a lot of the products. Each one of them was tailored to the leader in the gullible target audience segment: viz: first time parents. I knew there was some stuff that I wouldn't compromise on, like a car seat (which in any case, got given to me) but the rest of the stuff, particularly clothes was totally insane.

 

We also knew that we needed a pram or stroller (I still am unsure of the difference) so we toddled across to the store. "Maydum," said the salesman with the greasy wannabe spikes, "Please look at this travel system: all in one" and he proceeded to do bewildering things with a rather monstrous-looking contraption, pulling up hoods, switching around handles, swivelling wheels, removing things, adding things, all the while in full flow. I tried to look intelligent and ask informed questions.

 

The moment Paranoid Papa was out of hearing, (our thoughts on finance diverge drastically - he spends, I faint - and it was best not to have to hiss at each other in public) I cleared my throat and asked, "So what's the price?" You have to grant me this - I did NOT faint or shriek or anything of the sort even when he quoted a price higher than what I had sold my trusty Matiz for, some years ago.

 

I asked him brightly "So, where are the, you know, gears, fuel tank and such-like? Good design job hiding it all so well." He gave me a strange look. In retrospect, that should have tipped me off. I haughtily stated that it did not meet my personal requirements and looked for a place to sit down while I collected my thoughts.

 

Was there the teeniest possibility that we were being a tad, well, overenthusiastic? Of course we were. Unfortunately the marketing spiel for parents hits where it hurts. You don't want your child to have some horrific deformity of the spine because you bought him the wrong pram. Guess what? He won't. It's just marketing spiel and you can ignore it after a while.

 

In any case, I figured, baby would be happy in a sling or baby carrier for the first few months. Another friend later gifted me a much-loved Maya Wrap though you don't really need even a commercial sling. You can just use a sturdy fabric and wrap it according to instructions or even make your own. It supports the baby's spine in the curvature that it is meant to, is breathable and far better than a structured baby-carrier. I've used it quite often with K.

 

All things turn for the best as it happens, and K was happy enough in the sling when it came by. We also started popping her into a desi pram that Nani got. It did not have a fancy brand name but it did have a few tricks, notably the reversible handle which meant that I could make an ass of myself while walking K to her general amusement.

 

Oh, and we use it inside the house as well to parade her up and down when she is cranky. Sometimes, you just need a break from all the rocking and carrying for a colicky baby.

bunny thani

 

Once upon a time, (Did you say, when? Oh, about last week, and please don't interrupt the narrative flow, thank you) there was a bunny. It led a fairly blameless life (A world of vice and sin is pretty much a non-option when you are a stuffed toy, unless of course, you live in the pages of an Enid Blyton, where it seemed that toys got upto all kinds of hanky, not to mention panky).

 

So our bunny sat around looking cute, getting his ear chewed meditatively and drooled on a bit, till the Day Of the Chucking Out happened.

 

It was around the time that K had started throwing things at random, presumably to see whether they would make an interesting noise, bounce or do other fun stuff. It was also around the time that we decided to use her pram indoors and trundle her around instead of carrying her all the time.

 

The combination was fairly predictable. It meant a trail of toys, handkerchiefs, cushions and just general stuff being dropped to the accompaniment of happy squeals all over the pram trail in the house with Paranoid Papa yelling at all and sundry to "sterilise that damn stuff - do you have any idea how many germs these things are picking up?" He had a point...

 

But K was obviously ignoring the point and she proceeded to chuck Bunny out of the pram too. Now, Bunny is a much loved toy and like I said, hasn't done anything to deserve being dressed up (badly) like a Kishangarh painting. But Ghunghroo was at hand. And as the song goes, It all started with a broken sibling, in the words of the famous Rudyard Kipling. As older sibling (canine, but sibling nonetheless), he takes it upon himself to be protective and occasionally bullying, which in this instance, meant that he pounced on Mister Bunny and retreated with him to his fortress under the bed. he probably reasoned that either Bunny had gotten chucked because he was harassing K or because it was an accident. Either which way, he felt entitled to make a meal of him. Well-supplied with dog biscuits that he had been hoarding, he was all set to make a long session of it, till I dragged him out and rescued Bunny.

Since appealing to Ghunghroo's finer feelings does not work when he has his teeth into something, I resorted to putting the fear of Bunny into him (for the entirely selfish reason of cutting down on the laundry). And I did this, with deepest apologies to the ghost of the Maharaj of Kishangarh and his muse, who spawned the Kishangarh school of miniature painting with the famous bani thani portrait.

But you have to admit, that Bunny does look quite thani... And it worked. Ghunghroo stared rather apprehensively at the much-bedecked rabbit and well, rabbited out from there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

scatalogically yours, in the world of poo

Ever wondered what every single new parent is obsessed with? Input and output. And with the output, often more than the input.

The problem is that while milk comes in one standard colour and texture (it's white and wet) baby poop has these crazy variations ranging all the way from "yellow with seed-like bits" to red, black, "explosive green" and white! And you can wipe that horrified expression off your face right now - you did know what scatological meant when you started reading this post, didn't you?

The downside of being the internet generation is that we are the internet generation and think that search engines provide the answer to everything from relationship troubles to haleem recipe hunts. So it was with poo.

I actually found this great poo gallery which I've looked up a number of times, particularly after a memorable week when K was latched on 24/7 and shooting nasty green squirters across half the room when she wasn't nappied. The only way I survived it was betting with myself on how far it could actually go. It turned out the cause was oversupply which is something my mum, MIL and grandmum had never heard of.

I tried pointing out gently that the "humaarey time par toh yeh sab nahi hota thha" (none of this happened in our generation) argument didn't quite cut the ice in this case. This is one argument I won since it turned out that she didn't have a cold or infection like the mothers insisted.

In the meantime, Paranoid Papa made us do rounds of the doc. In his enthusiasm, he clicked photos and insisted on carrying a soiled nappy to the doc. I quietly "forgot" the nappy and smugly informed the doctor that he had me to thank for it. The pathetic look of gratitude on his face was indescribable, especially after PP had shoved the photo under his nose. (He has a damn neat Nokia Lumia 925 and it takes absolutely brilliant photos - unfortunately in this case)

PP then proceeded to enlarge the photo, "See this bit here, should that be there? And that slimy bit there?" ignoring the hunted expression on the doctor's face as he gingerly tried to edge away from the phone while trying to make encouraging, soothing noises.

He was too polite to shriek, but he did sanitise his hands with what I felt was unnecessary vigour. "She's absolutely fine. And you know, I really think she's growing out of my care - I am after all, a neo-natologist and..." We both fixed our four-eyed stares at him and he subsided weakly. "That is, of course I'd be glad to see her but you really don't need to bring soiled nappies to me. An SMS will work just fine."

And you know what? It really does. I always get a prompt response from the doc. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the unsaid threat of poo.
 

give us this day...

Pregnancy changes everyone. I like to think it changed me into this domestic goddess who is patient and kind and a super mom and cooks and looks like a dream.

Of course, I'm dead wrong.

What it did do was give me this crazed but half-baked nesting instinct (more about that later) which drove me to try all kinds of things during my pregnancy. My only excuse is hormones frying my brains. Can you think of any other reason why I would (at 4 a.m.) look up an online craft store and order knitting needles in ALL the sizes they have available?

Anyway, one of the crazed experiments was bread. I must have waded through hundreds of recipes in my lust for the perfect home-made whole-wheat/ multigrain bread. And most of them added all-purpose flour to the recipe which I emphatically did not want. I did finally hit upon one that worked for me with the addition of some baking soda and baking powder.

Of late, I've been on a selective health kick to lose the pregnancy kilos. I eat chocolate and ice cream but make bread at home in the belief that it will keep me healthy.

So while I was doing the weekly loaf today, the yeast gave up the ghost. It just wouldn't foam. I tried adding more yeast, I tried more sugar, placed the bowl in the sunlight and even left the kitchen only to pop my head around the door suddenly to make sure it wasn't pulling a fast one on me. Didn't work.

I went ahead with the dough anyway and was grumbling away when (of course) it refused to rise. After tea with the MIL (blessedly free of breast milk - the tea, not the MIL) I was rummaging through the fridge and spied a pint of beer. All excited, I ran back to the MIL, "Mamma, beer is well, yeast and bubbles, isn't it? It ought to rise with beer." She gave me a jaundiced look and said, "Well, you like to add alcohol to EVERYTHING - your husband does it to mutton, you do it to apple stew, cake, and once, memorably to soup... so I don't see why you shouldn't try this, especially as it will mean a couple of sips from the bottle for you."

So I did, and realised, upon a quick Google search, that loads of people do make beer bread. Aha. And here it is... Not the best but 'twill do...  and we shall bring on the beer from the start next time.

 

ratty today

It's one of those days - YOU know - feeling out of sorts and generally ratty. Started off with K getting a booger in her nose and me trying to inveigle it out with nose drops, when I heard the dadi call it a chooha (which is admittedly much cuter - you have to say that 'mousie' sounds adorable when compared to 'booger')

And that sent me off down one of those little alleys off Memory Lane. [In case you were thinking 'Hey, isn't this is a blog about mums and babies?' Yeah, I'm a mum and I too have some growing to do, and anyway, it's MY blog, so there] So where was I? Ah yes, Memory Lane.

Those were the days my friend, when living in a barsaati (almost attic-y kind of tiny studio apartment) was almost a rite of passage when you started out earning your way in Delhi. The number of friends I know who have been in barsaatis (the word also means raincoat, by the by - so I suppose it was a space to metaphorically keep the rain off you, though in a more literal sense, barsaatis weren't above the occasional leak) are practically all my Dilli friends.

So there I was, having graduated from my Bharatiya Gramin Mahila Sangh (Indian Rural Women's Association) Working Women's Hostel to my barsaati in Defence Colony. Being an army brat, I had assiduously done the rounds trying to figure out a landlord who (and this is important) would NOT know my Dad. This was Defence Colony, after all. I fully intended to raise at least nine kinds of hell and had no intention of word getting back to the parental home. It was more difficult than you would think. The Indian army can, despite being one of the largest standing armies in the world - some say the second largest - be incredibly tiny in some ways.

Anyway, having settled on a landlord who looked like the caricature of an army officer (handlebar moustache, would offer me pink gins when I popped in to pay the rent) and was a rather sweet old bird who declared that I could do what I liked as long as I did not wreck the place, I proceeded to move in with my black trunk (any fauji brat will know what I speak of) labelled with Dad's name.

Life was blissful for a bit: shopping at the Friday bazaar for  heap but cheerful furnishings; declaring to all my friends that I had my own place and all the other things that are so exciting when you are 22 years old.

Till I realised that I had unwittingly sublet the place to a non-paying resident. Moreover, one who, not to put too fine a point on it, was of the rodent persuasion. Oh well, I am all in favour of animal welfare, but I draw the line at having rat droppings in my clothes and having them chewed. So I trotted off for some rat poison and applied it liberally over a slice of bread.

It didn't work.

The damn rat even chewed up the poison packet.

And then declared war.

It was when I actually caught a glimpse of it that I got really worried. It was HUGE. It had obviously come in from the infamous Defence Colony nala. The fact that it chewed through my front door should give you some inkling of its ferocity.

Since poison didn't work, I tried tossing lighted matches at it when it was trapped behind the wardrobe. Ok - it was dumb but I was desperate. No go.

I got a friend of mine over with her dog in the hope that she (the dog, not the friend) might display rat catching abilities. They both stood on my bed and screamed when they saw the rat.

Finally a brainwave hit me. Like all retired army officers, I was sure my landlord had an airgun tucked away somewhere. I went off to borrow it. The colonel's face purpled and then turned a rather becoming red. "You want to shoot at rats in my house? Nothing doing." Then he took pity on my desperate case and came out himself.

I will never forget the sight of Col Puri chasing the rat while my friend and her dog stood on the bed in my tiny barsaati.

And bam bam!

It's true - chivalry is not dead, but he did leave it to us to dispose of the corpse, which I did very tidily in a shopping bag bearing a designer's logo...

tea-thing troubles

Appropriate, isn't it, that the first post on "yet-another-mummy-blog-oh-GAWDS-help-us" is on teething troubles?

Having pandered (did I say shamelessly? Ok ok - shamelessly) to narrative convention, let me commence to begin (that is a phrase punishable by hanging according to my favourite author, Terry Pratchett) but I might as well be hung for a sheep as a fluffy baa-lamb.

So, one was labouring on womanfully with the midnight-to-dawn feeds to soothe the pain of sprouting what I shall regret calling 'teef', the rivers of drool, the colic and the occasional loosies and what have you that accompanies the advent of teef.

And one woke up and begged a cup of tea from the brand new help while the milk monster was still snuggled in la-la land. One staggered to the kitchen to try and get in another pumping session. And one saw the horrific sight of one's carefully hoarded stash of expressed breast milk (EBM) being poured generously into the chai ka patila.

(Alright, alright, too many ones - I'm losing count here) There was a screeching and wailing and gnashing of teeth and my poor MIL ran out to rescue me from what she was sure was certain death - 'Twasn't  but 'twas a close run thing. I had a meeting that afternoon and had been saving it like a miser for when I would be away. AND she was on a growth spurt which meant the little milk monster was twice her usual size... Ah well... c'est la vie avec bebe.

Sometimes you have to laugh. Otherwise you cry.

P.S. I didn't even TASTE the damn thing. She took a look at my face and poured it away!