Guilty Until Socialised Innocent

Some days ago I read a heartening albeit surprising article about parents today.

Apparantly parents, especially mothers, of our generation are racked by far more guilt than our predecessors - that wasn't the surprising bit - but they also spend far far more focused and quality time with their children than those of the earlier generations!

Now this latter bit of information was startling. As a new mom I too am constantly plagued by a sense of insufficient time and inadequate attention. I too feel that I am depriving my child of something fundamental in parenting whenever I am at work, at the gym, working on my laptop, surfing channels, meeting friends.

I was happy to realise that actually the time that we do manage to make for our children is not only quantitatively more than what many in our parent's generation did, but qualitatively better too. More focused, richer in content and deeper in bonding.

Happy research results which I read, filed in memory and forgot.

This evening my husband and I came back early from work, met our daughter at my mother's place, which is barely a few doors away, and then while she was having her supper I realised I had some work to catch up on, so I walked home leaving my husband to bring our baby back.

They followed soon, by which time I was deep in the middle of multi tasking - watching a TV show I had recorded and clearing some mail on my laptop.

My daughter plonked herself on my bed, played with my books and wires, hugged and kissed me, romped around, eventually got bored and went off to play with her nanny cheerily. I continued working.

My 2 year old has taken to trying on every adult piece of footwear lying around the house so I can hear her coming from the other end of the house, clip clopping in my slippers or my husband's shoes.

Everytime she walked into the room I lowered the laptop screen, gave her a big smile and hug and felt that stab of guilt. Why was I working when I had come home early and why was I not giving her my entire attention?

And suddenly there flashed before my eyes images of my home maker mother during my growing years. Ma cooking. Ma serving. Ma tending to dad's needs, his parent's needs, our needs. Ma directing the help. Ma buying grocery.

Ma was always busy. And never guilty about neglecting us. If anything at all, she found raising us to be a full time job, a pleasurable one for sure, but one that only added to that laundry list of other duties that kept her busy. There was no sense that the cooking or the cleaning or the serving was in any way taking time away from her 'parenting' duties.

And then it dawned on me that this guilt that I feel every single moment is a product of socialisation and gender stereotyping at its most fundamental level.

A mother who is too busy to play with her baby because she's cooking, cleaning, running house has no guilt. A mother who is ocassionally busy working on a laptop, working out at the gym, meeting a friend for drinks, is committing a double crime. She is not only depriving her child of her mental and / or physical time, she is also crossing the gender lines and being 'busy' with what 'dads' ought to be busy with.

I know at a conscious level we have all left behind these stereotypes sometime back. None of us are ostensibly thinking like this.

But deep down, the socialisation runs in permanently etched furrows upon the mind. My husband feels no similar guilt when he works at home. And I know, even though I hate cooking and almost never cook, if I were to occupy myself in the kitchen with my toddler romping around, tugging at my shirt ends, I would feel no guilt either.

Because that image would overlap beautifully, seamlessly and therefore sinisterly, over the image of me and my mother when I was a child.

That is the real danger of socialisation. It is comfortable. It is familiar. And it operates at levels that we are not even aware of.

Missing Daddy....

Babaa.... Aa jao. Babaaaaaaaaaaaa.......... Aajao....

Don't know when I last heard a sadder song. Daddy, come home.

First Blood

Always hurts.

There's no getting around it.

From the first menstruation
To the first penetration.

First blood
Always hurts.

Yesterday my toddler
Slams her face into my knee
And splits open her lip

Red preciousness spills.

First blood kills.

Look Who's Talking!

There are several milestones in a baby's life, from infancy to toddlerhood and beyond.

The looking, the smiling, the crawling, the gurgling, the standing, the walking and so many more that one delights in. And remembers.

But for me the greatest transition for a child will always be that from pre verbal to verbal. In many ways its the single most 'humanising' development of a child. That moment in evolution when the homo sapien was born. And as has been said often enough, in the growth of a baby one can see the entire process of evolution, if one observes keenly enough.

When we had seen the first ultrasound of this beautiful being, my husband had christened her 'tadpole'!! So well, I guess it can be said officially, 8 and 21 months after that day, our tadpole is socio culturally 'human'.

Look who's talking!!

Still Furious, Still Sad, Still Upset, Still Mad....

After nearly 12 hours....


My baby hates parties. My baby hates crowds. As her stories and pictures amply demonstrate, she's a drop of pure sunshine in her own comfortable, familiar environs...

She plays, she gurgles, she laughs, she playacts, she's a regular dollop of delight...

But take her to extra loud, extra bright, extra crowded settings, especially in unfamiliar territory, and she dissolves into a mass of fear. And wails. Very very loudly. She's miserable and nothing soothes her until you get her out of that scary place...

I know that. And it doesn't surprise me, considering both her parents are pretty private, pretty reclusive people. So are her grandparents, largely. How is this girl, born into two highly introverted families, suddenly supposed to become a people seeker?

However, all situations can't be avoided. One doesn't want to appear rude. One doesn't want to seem unnecessarily unsociable.

So after turning down a rash of invitations one finally accepts one.

Last night was one such. A family do. My mom would be there. And other assorted relative-in-laws, from my brother's side.

Shaayari had been in top form all day. And I prepped her in advance saying we were going to place with lots of people, some babies, a dog, and granny. And she was not to be afraid, and she was to give all 'flying kishies' and say hi.

By the time we reached, it was nearly her bed time. Sleep grubby and confused, the house and lawn spilling with unfamiliar adults petrified my little one. She shrieked and howled. And awww... heartbreakingly - she remembered mommy's instructions, so in the midst of her wailing she kept blowing kisses at the highly amused and confused guests....

It didn't work. We had to rush her to a back room, switch on her favourite music channel on tv and rock her until she calmed. Which she did, the moment the crowd was out of sight...

But boy. Then the judgement started. How maladjusted. How socially inept. How badly brought up. How inccorrectly trained (hello, she's a child, not a dog) how singularly imperfect (hello, still a child, not a project!!).... How so-and-so's granddaughter loves all and sundry. And so-and-so's grandchild never cries. How that little one never watches any tv and this little one will say hello to all....

Yep, all old ladies. All competing with my mom and my mom getting embarassed on my daughter's behalf and offering explanations...

Which made me even more furious. Hey what happened to the family loving her for who she is and accepting her unconditionally? She's not an airconditioner who's tripped during the warranty period. She's my perfectly imperfect child of a myriad moods and many moments, high and low. She's my life experience and my greatest bag of surprises.

Why are we apologising on her behalf? Did she misbehave? No. Was she rude? No. Did she throw a tantrum and throw things? No.

Was she scared? Yes. Was she overwhelmed? Yes.

Hey. She's twenty months old.

Can she compete a little later please? Its bedtime. She's tired. I'd rather just sing her a lullaby.

Our little Tina Turner

Ab iska mundan kaise karaun? Batao?

Coming Home to Things

You come home from work and an exhausting gym session and find your baby alone in the house with the nanny and the cook (so far you're ok, you knew that)... with the front door wide open.

Yawning into a cruel stairwell, not to mention the unnamable horrors of life in Delhi.

Everyone is safe. Everyone is happy. Your baby jumps into your arms and as you inhale baby smell and feel podgy arms around your neck, you can't decide whether to wring the nanny and the cook's neck, or cuddle baby forever, or quit working.

Or simply thank a god you suddenly start believing in at such moments, for keeping baby safe.

This 'coming home to things' is the lot of working moms. The joys of it, the fears of it, the horrors of it, the delights of it, the wonders of it, the panic of it, the surprises of it, the shocks of it...

The utter unpredictable pallette of it.

The Coming Home to Things. And the realisation that for a mom, this is just the beginning.