The on-again-off-again atheist

Dear Snowflakes, 

I was already an hour late to get home when Sid called to say that AJ was on the door crying "Mahmmamah". He is sick, and as would luck would have it I had some deadlines to manage. I felt so dejected.

But then, as I left work the tram arrived just as I reached the tram stop, as did the train. And all the pedestrian crossings were green! Never in my memory has the public transport of Melbourne been this obliging. I reached home in record time.

Someone somewhere is feeling kind towards me. It is unlikely to be the General Manager of Public Transport Victoria. Could it be ... God?

Love

The on-again-off-again atheist (aka Mumbaikar in Melbourne)

PS: This one's for you, AJ. I hope you always see life through rose-coloured glasses. 

Understanding parenting "Reality Bites" Style

Dear Snowflakes,

One of the most amazing things for me to experience is Chuk-Chuk's increasing vocabulary. She is not-quite-three but every time she uses a new word correctly, I find myself just a little bit stunned. Where did she learn that? I ask myself. Each time.

Today's addition: almost.

I know. I know. What a dorky thing to say. What's there to be stunned over when every not-quite-three girl out there is literally programmed to spout new words at this age?

Nothing. Except that parenthood is all about dorkiness. Every parent since the beginning of human history has had the same experiences. But each parent is programmed to experience them as something unique and stunning.

I guess a good analogy to my life before and after kids is the 90s cult-classic Reality Bites. (Because, you love movies).

Before having kids, I was Ethan Hawke. I would never allow anything to surprise me, shock me, thrill me or hurt me. And post-kids, I've turned into that puppy dog Ben Stiller. For was there ever a more eager line spoken on the silver screen than Stiller's: "Have I crossed some lines on the sands of coolness with you?"

But then again, to understand this transformation, we must revisit that uber-cool question that the magazine editor throws at Ryder: How do you define irony?

The answer: "When the actual meaning is the exact opposite from the literal meaning."

I guess, when it comes to experiencing life with irony then it would mean finding something miserable in the joyful and something joyful in the miserable. Which is why it is so hard to be ironic and a parent. Parenting is hard enough (no, there is nothing joyful about its miseries) without you refusing to experience its little joys wholeheartedly.

I guess as for "irony", I will  leave it for the day Chuk-Chuk throws the word at me.

Love
Mumbaikar in Melbourne
PS: So in the pursuit of uncoolness, here's one for you Chuk-Chuk and AJ (minus the French kissing of course). You both make me so proud.

On poop-filled days and nightclubby nights

Courtesy: http://memebase.cheezburger.com

Dearest Snowflakes, 

I am so glad to hear that you are feeling better.

My life is ho-hum. Somedays, I want to either kill myself or kill Sid. Mostly him.

Today was strange. It started so badly... First I got up with a godawful cough and a pulled chest muscle. Then I landed up putting some of Chook-Chook's soiled clothes (she is toilet training, not very successfully) with all the other washing. The filth! I don't have words to describe it. In my second try, the machine shut down and I was convinced that it was the shit that had clogged the filter.

Then AJ pooped in the water while taking a bath with Chook-Chook. So both kids had to be taken out, cleaned separately and then the bath, toys and the towels had to be washed.

But just when I thought this shit-smeared day was the worst of my life, AJ went to sleep for full four hours, and Chook-Chook turned golden - happily painting, colouring and singing. Then she and I sat in the wintry afternoon sun and popped bubbles of a meter-long bubble wrap for ages. It was bliss.

Sid returned and rescued our washing - it was not shit but one of Chook-Chook's shoe. It was still my fault but not as disgusting.

It is night now and Sid has brought the mattresses into our living room and put up a disco light thing. So we have a trampoline and nightclub all in one here - and the kids are going wild with fun. 

And I am thinking as I write to you - isn't life good?
I hope the mundaneness of my letter doesn't offend you at such a difficult time. Few days encompass the best and worst of parenthood and I wanted to share it with someone. 

I hope one day your life is as ordinary as mine - just a little less shit-filled. 

Love
Chatnoir

From Supriya to her Grandparents

Dear Dada & Dadi, 

How are you? Mummy says you have just been to Scotland and are planning to visit Vienna. How can you do this to me? I demand that you come back right now and play with me. How can travel be more fun than sitting next to me and going "agooo, abeee, agooo". 

I don't want to admit it but I think I miss the two of you. Mummy is alright, but she keeps busy most of the day (I don't know what she keeps typing on that silly computer of hers). It was so much more fun when the two of you were around - all I had to do was cry "baiiiinnn" and one of you would come running and play with me and my lovely talking dog Violet. 

Did I tell you that I have graduated to the stroller from my bassinet? Yes, I did. I took Mummy and Papa out for a walk this Sunday on my stroller. We went to a cafe, and it was so much more fun to sit face-to-face with them on the table. I was really getting sick of lying in that bassinet of mine. 

Last week, I took Mummy out for a walk with my friend Thomas and her Mummy. We walked all around North Balwyn until that Thomas started crying. Then, I had to send them back home. But I think we are going to make it a weekly affair - that is, if it ever stops raining.

How is Akshay? Mummy, Papa say that he is turing into a nice, big baby just like me. I hope to meet him soon and play with him. I might even share Violet with him... or maybe I won't. I need to think about that a bit more. 

Anyway, I better run. Mummy has just made a cup of tea for herself and looking forward to enjoying it. That is not a good sign. I think I will poo, then cry, just to ruin her tea. 

Lots of love - and hope to see you soon.

Supriya

Supriya Pari Prakash: Or why we decided to give a middle name to our daughter.

It is only your spare name, darling!

I always thought that middle names were silly. They added unnecessary length to the name. They served no real purpose in modern life where our efforts and not our pedigree took us forward. And they sounded pompous. 

In fact, I earned my middle name quite by accident. My 10th grade teacher took it upon herself to tack my Dad’s middle name to mine before sending off the list to the High School Board. My high school degree arrived in the name of Chetna Rao Mahadik instead of a simple Chetna Mahadik. Having insidiously imprinted itself on this critical document of my life, the “Rao” then made its way to all my subsequent degrees, bank accounts and passports. 

Seventeen years on, I am still trying to get rid of it. 

Which is why, when Sid and I started thinking of names for our daughter, a middle name had no place in my plans. 

It was a chance discussion with friends that first got me thinking that middle names made little sense for my generation, but could be critical for my daughters’. 

You see, my daughter belongs to a generation whose life and actions will be imprinted all over the internet. From this blog, to her blogs and whatever other social media that takes over Facebook and twitter: her life, photos, opinions and actions will be played out in public. And with that public life will come the very possible risk of public embarassment. 

I think a lot of my child’s peers will look back at their teenage years and wish that they could somehow distance themselves from those internet words, images and personality attached to their names. And since they'll be unable to change the internet, many of them will change their names instead. 

And frightening as it seems, my daughter could be one of those wanting a new name. 

Taking this possibility into consideration, suddenly a middle name sounded not pompous but practical. It acts as spare name, waiting in reserve if someone found their first name too internet-tainted. If Supriya had an official middle name, a name change would not involve crazy and painful paperwork. It would simply mean dropping her first name, and adopting her middle name for most public purposes. 

So it is that a tiny, innocuous “Pari” made it between the Supriya and Prakash of my daughter’s name. 

And I sincerely hope that she never finds any use for it.