How I got Zara excited about clearing up

Hint: By getting excited about it myself

Okay, no, there’s more to it. But let me start with that one. I’ve been meaning to declutter my living space and shed/give away ‘stuff’ for a while now, but have only managed to do it in miserably tiny bursts. So when a friend shared a link to the Marie Kondo show trailer on Netflix, I bookmarked it as something to get to soon. Oh I also shared the link with my mum who began watching the show right away and gave glowing reviews.

Also, on clearing up children's stuff OR getting them to clear up - it's a royal pain in the backside. What I'm sharing here, therefore, helped me address both - ek teer, do nishana types. (One arrow, two targets. No, I will not 'kill two birds with one stone'. I refuse to kill birds, even in words.) Back to the topic.

Last weekend, at a best friend’s house where we were staying, I sat in front of the TV and announced to Zara (after her TV time was over) - 'I’m going to watch something now.' ‘Please watch something I’ll like as well? Like some cartoon’, she said. I responded, ‘I think you will be interested in what I’m watching’, and put on Marie’s show. She joined me on the couch, we scrolled through her episodes together, and picked one which had a couple with kids. We watched as a couple’s house got transformed over the course of a month (54 mins for us) of applying Kondo’s methods. I asked Zara - ‘Will you join me in doing this for our house?’ She said ‘Yes!’ So that was one.

Yesterday, now back home, I was wondering how to get started on this endeavour. It had come up a couple of times on our flight back. Suddenly, it struck me - ‘Zara, why don’t you make a list of what we will do on which day to clear up your stuff’. ‘Mama, it will also be your list because you also have clutter’. Okay, point taken. So it became our list - not just her books, but also mine, for instance.

Now, a note about Zara and lists - she loves them - both making and ticking them off. She takes them very seriously. Like very. So I used an insight I had into her as a person, along with a bit of child psychology (all of this is post-facto deconstruction, as in, in hindsight, at that time it was pure inspiration) - that children want to feel like they’re in charge, they are in control, and can direct things. It’s a basic human need for power and freedom (you can read up on William Glasser’s ‘5 Basic Human Needs’ in his Choice Theory ). So she felt like she was directing the process, not I, which matters. To my daughter, especially, as she exhibits a strong independent streak, is a natural leader (‘The little directress’, I call her. More on this another time.) and loves to be in charge. She also loves feeling a sense of accomplishment, and gets motivated by challenges. Mission accomplished.

That was second. Third was to set boundaries and consequences. Yesterday it was that she would get to go on the playdate with her best friend only after she finished the day’s task as per the list. So while I heated our lunch, she got busy with the first task - clearing up the top bunk of her bunk bed (yep, she has one. The bunk bed is another story for another time). At first she said ‘You have to help me, I can’t do this alone’, and I said ‘Why don’t you get started, I will help you shortly or if you need me’. Thus assured, she clambered on to the top bunk and began. Very soon she'd created a game out of it where she used some props and concocted a theme, decided to take exactly five objects to put away at a time etc. She was some rainbow witch or something, I'm forgetting now. Basically, I saw her enjoying it, and I was enjoying her enjoyment of it. By the time I served our lunch, she was halfway through, which was her target for yesterday anyway. I was so surprised it was actually done! Yet another consequence was that any item of hers that was left behind on the dining table (there were a few books, a doll, some small toys and knick-knacks scattered), would disappear forever and likely be given away to someone else. That's a rule for the hall because it also doubles up as my office and I like having it clean and uncluttered, I'd once explained to her. The rule hasn't always worked before, for many reasons, but this time she cleared up the dining table too before leaving.

Cut to today. I suggested to Zara that we go meet her nana-nani in the evening, and she said ‘But Mama, then we won’t be able to finish our clearing up target for today!’ So now her nana-nani are visiting us instead, and I’m waiting for my daughter to take charge this evening so we can finally get some more clearing up done. This is an experiment that’s working so far. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts, and keep at it myself in the process!

P.S. - It feels so good to be back to this space. I'm going to share more. Oh there is so much to share!

P.P.S. - Just for context, Zara is 8 now. I know right?! :O

P.P.P.S. - I need to change the blog headline. I'm no longer a 'mint-fresh' mommy, though I often feel like a novice.

P.P.P.P.S. - I hereby promise to not add any more P.S.'s even though I love them.

My dearest big little girl,

This has become a ritual I have come to cherish, and I'm wondering if this blog has been reduced (elevated?) to becoming an annual act of pausing and taking a snapshot of life as it is with you. Happy birthday, my love. You turn 5 today. And this one sure is a milestone I wouldn't want to miss. Seeing '30 May' on the date of the blog-post matters; seeing that date triggers so much, brings up so much inside. Needless to say, I'm a bundle of emotions today, as also of thoughts.

You know, Zara, I'd read somewhere that a child is connected to her mother with an invisible umbilical chord up until she is 5yrs of age. Is today the day that chord starts dissolving? (I certainly don't feel it snap) Maybe it's just in my head, but today when you rode your first proper cycle on the terrace and told me 'Mamma, I will ride on my own, you don't need to follow me', my heart gave a lurch. So there is my baby, growing up. Allow me some time as I manage my separation anxiety.

I keep telling people that mothering is the toughest school I've enrolled in, in life. It's such a bittersweet blessing. Sweet is obvious (and I will keep telling you how and why in a million ways). Bitter because the lessons don't come easy. Like sharing you with the world. As you grow older, I'm beginning to (just beginning to) learn to let go, to enjoy seeing you have moments with others, seeing you enjoy intimate connections with others. You cannot even imagine the possessiveness I started with when you were born. :) I've come a long way, and yet there is such a long way to go. Yet, you are the one who is helping make this journey easy. Because you know exactly how to reassure that possessive mum. Like today. I came into the bedroom to lie down and rest from all our hectic morning of activities and fun, and just wanted you to be close to me, just us. There was laughter and banter, your Appa, Atthai, Paati-Thatha in the hall. I told you to come lie down next to me (as you always do) although you wanted to be in the hall, amidst all the action. I said I wanted you here just for a little bit because 'You're my baby no?' to which you said 'I'm their baby too'. I smiled and said nothing, marveling at the truth you had revealed for me to digest, but I think my face fell a bit, because the next instant you said 'But you're my Mamma, and I'm YOUR baby, so I'm going to be here with you'. What followed was a good 15-20mins of rolling about on the bed, masti, cuddles, and laughter. And then you said 'Okay, now I'm going to the hall'. And I happily said 'Okay', having had my share of you, knowing I dare not ask for more. Because you belong not just to me, but to all those who love you dearly as their own. And that is going to keep expanding. But you sensed something, and you responded to it with a sensitivity that left me astounded. I'm grateful, child, for you are a marvel of nature, an angel of God.

If we're able to keep this sensitivity intact, your innocence alive, and your refreshing originality throbbing, I think we will have done our job. I'm going to post this now (remember the date?) but come back to it tomorrow to add more. A little cheating is allowed eh?

As You Turn 4

Dear Zara,

You turn more adorable by the day, more than I could ever imagine. You surprise and delight and stun at an alarming rate; we have to try hard to keep up. Today you are a pirate looking for treasure, yesterday you were a librarian ('libralian', as you say it) handing me out my night read, the day before a doctor prescribing eye drops in a certain order, and the day before a fridge-magnet seller. (As I draft this you creep up to me doing goofy moves, running away to the hall as I turn to see.)

You give generous 'Thank You's and heartfelt 'Sorry's, and make me wonder if I do enough of both. Day before, after we shopped an hour for your birthday party return gifts, after I refused you a Grandpa Pig soft toy because you have many and we need another occasion, after you threatened a tantrum and then reconsidered it in the face of my dispassionate, cool-headed response (Go Mommy!), as we walked out of the store and got into the car with your Thatha, you said in the sweetest voice possible 'Thank you, Mamma, for buying me all those return gifts'. It came unexpected, and I was touched. I was in a 'This-is-my-parental-duty, to organize your birthday, buy gifts and return gifts etc.' mode, and you stumped me by thanking me for it. Shows how you're shaping up to be, and you're shaping up to be a beautiful human being, inside-out. Last week you thanked me for ordering you your birthday dress (as per your given specs – white frock with red cherries hanging from green leaves) and assorted accessories (namely, cherry clip, cherry ring, cherry sun-hat. My doc Dr. Cherry Shah who delivered you would be moved)

I want to shower you with all the material things in the world, buy all the Grandpa Pig dolls in the world, and yet I know that would be less a gift, more a disservice to you as a person. What do I give you then? My love, my untiring bear-hugs, my ready kisses and smiles, my gratitude, my forgiveness, and yes, my apologies too, when I need to. My prayers, my blessings, my empathy, my understanding, my listening, and my hopes – these are all yours too. The other day, in the middle of a regular trying toddler-moment with you when I was trying to do something you suddenly remarked, 'Mamma, you are so patient no? How are you so patient?' All the lines on my furrowed brow dissolved and I broke into a laugh – 'Because I am your Mommy. All mommies need to be patient with their babies' 'And I am your baby!' 'Yes, you are.' How are you so graceful that in the middle of trying my patience you acknowledge how much of it I have?! Unsurprisingly, one of your names is Meher, which translates to 'grace'. Hoping some of that rubs off on us adults around you, some more you sprinkle on the world. On another occasion you snuggled into me and declared that I am always there to hold you when you are scared, and asked in a small voice if always will. I don't mind that you got this idea from a Peppa Pig book on her Mummy (+1 to Peppa). I will always hold you, Zara. For I know not another way.

As you turn 4, I am amazed at how sensitive, perceptive, and articulate you are. We have a language that began even before the first word was uttered between us, and so it remains. So it shall always be. You, my darling chatterbox (as you once proclaimed yourself to be, having newly learned the word), don't need to say a thing. Your misty eyes say it, your bowed head (when you feel defeated in light of your unmet demands), your dancing steps ('I'm so excited you're not working today!'), your quivering lips (just before tears break through the dam of your eyes), your singing, honey-sweet voice ('Mammaaa...shu karey chhe?' when I travel and ache to hear it), your tiny palm (as it finds my hand in the dark to rest for the night), your butterfly fingers (that cannot resist touching my tummy, your "favouritest place in the world...because I was there for 9 months") all of you from head to toe. All of me loves all of you.

And then there are moments you remind me of me. Running in front of the stage dancing, unfettered, as your Appa sang on it. The sheer particularness of your demands (cherries had to be hanging from the leaves, could not be floating about), clear likes and dislikes, strong-headedness. Of course your father shares many of these qualities too. So you're a double-dose that way. Saturday, as you danced after Synchrony* was over, I casually brought my hair forward on one side, watching you move delightedly. You watched me, paused, searched for the end of your ponytail, and coyly brought it in the front on one side, giggling to find your hair wrap itself around your neck, because it wasn't long enough and the pony was high. That moment was as flattering as it was humbling. Here you are, wanting to be like me. Here I am, seeing just how much of your own person you already are. So glad I have another year of the metaphorical umbilical cord between us – they say till 5 the child and mother are still connected as one. Let me enjoy this while it lasts. (Of course, you also try to sing the songs your Appa sings and hold the guitar the way he does, but that's his story to tell, not mine)

For all my cribs, all the exhaustion, impatience, annoyance, irritation, feeling overwhelmed and out of depth, you, my dear Zara, remain the single-biggest wonder in my life. The blessing I don't know what I have done to deserve. My Dancing Queen, who began dancing in my belly before coming out into this world. I can only pray to God, to the Universe, to give me the strength to be your rock and your river, continue learning from you as I attempt to teach, let you take the lead and bloom into the magnificent being you are meant to be. God bless you, my child.

Happy Birthday, baby. :) <3

Hey You, Young Mom

Hey you, young mom
Who's forever exhausted
Often frustrated
While being delighted
Hey you, who feels no one gets it
(Maybe they do, maybe they don't)
Who wishes for once
Someone would see what she's doing
Feeling
Going through
Who craves empathy, not sympathy

Hey you, mommy
Who feels this is a lonely road
With or without a co-parent
Parts you've to walk alone
There are others like you
Invisibly walking alongside
Feeling alike

Hey you, who craves
A single night of full rest
Who steals moments to call her own
Wishes someone would officially
Permit me-time
You have permission. Go.

Hey you, who physically loves her children
Yet feels her body doesn't fully belong to her
And is instead at the whims and demands of this little rascal
Remember you were one, once?
You and this little thing
Your body feels the separation
As does hers
So gravitating towards each other
Don't mind this transition
You'll miss it once it's through
And you'll have your body back, fully

Hey you, always on the move
Rushing here, there
Always on an elastic band
Tied back home
To your little one
Like you're away on borrowed time
It's okay to feel happy
About being away and on your own
Enjoying the taste of freedom
As much as it's fun to revel
In the reunion
Once back home
You can have the best of both worlds.

Hey, new-age mother
Trying to always better yourself
It's okay to not do it all
To do it now
With your child
There is time, there will be time
Breathe. Pause.
The moment will pass you by
Before you know it
Your child's childhood
Will pass you by
It's okay if the clips don't match
Every once in a while
Heck, every time
(Your pre-teen won't put up with it though. My toddler often doesn't)

Mommy, my dear
It's okay if it isn't all clear
You haven't figured out your act
Are too busy getting by
Day to day
Look, catch your child's gurgle
Doesn't it put everything into perspective?

What you're doing is a big deal,
Even if every mother before you
Has done it
And several fathers too
(Except the birthing and feeding)
I'll make a big deal out of it
Watching your every move
Lauding your every success
The small steps
Of victory. Of growth.
You're not alone
Not one bit.

I want someone
To say all this to me
So I say it to myself instead.

Written on 04 May 2018 at 20:51hrs
On a flight from Mumbai to Chennai

Playschool Pangs II

Dear Zara,

The playschool account would be incomplete without telling you what happened the day after I wrote the post, and the day after that day.

That Thursday night, I tried putting you to sleep by telling you how you need to get up early to go to school, to go play and have fun, make friends and so on. You said, 'But I don't want to go. It's no fun.' I was taken aback. You proclaimed you didn't want the trampoline or the slide in the school either, stuff that I know for certain you thoroughly enjoy. So I was able to shake off your announcement as a passing phase. At least, I hoped it was. Later, I even requested your father to take you to playschool for a few days, to try and see if you would be less clingy with him. But for now, it was just you and me, because he was travelling on work. I knew he would've handled this a lot better. At least that's what I felt. So I looked to him for guidance.

In the morning, Srikrishnan advised me not to read too much into these things, that it would help you if we were matter of fact and light about the matter. An hour later, I messaged him saying I was going to cry. I had just left a sobbing, leaky-nosed you behind in playschool. It was so painful, again. All morning you had been chanting that you didn't want to go to playschool. It was tough for me to be light, to laugh about this. I was torn between giving you your time and being around until then, or just letting you cry, and leave. My deepest values, all education theories floated in my head. 'Let the child take the lead', I had held, always. But for how long? Should I wait around until you happily asked me to leave? Would that time ever come? I didn't have any answers. This process was going against my conviction. Your father suggested I pick you up and gently talk to you about your day, assuring you we were right here. He was aching to do it himself, and would, a few days hence. Unfortunately though, that morning I had a meeting and would be meeting you only after you were picked up and back home.

I put my mind to rest and threw myself into the work meeting. With trepidation, I returned home, wondering how you would be. Turned out you were laughing, playing, waiting for me to pick you up and take you home after my meeting. I heaved a sigh of relief. That evening, your Paati spoke to you about how you did enjoy school but were really not admitting it. We had many conversations too, you and I. Sweta didi shared what she had told your cousin Yuvaan and I tried it with you. Explained to you how you were anyway going to go to school, whether you did it happily or grudgingly was your choice. And that you did enjoy, after all. In another post-dinner chat I told you how I was always here, waiting to play with you once I was done with my 'office kaam', when you returned from Paati-Thatha's house. That evenings and nights and mornings were ours.

Just as I was about to put out the lights for the night, you quietly told me, 'Mamma, I won't cry tomorrow. I will go to school with a smile.' I smiled and kissed you goodnight, surprised and yet wondering if this sentiment would last until morning. As soon as you woke up, you sat up in bed and declared, 'Mamma, I'm not going to cry. I will go to school happily.' My heart gave a whoop of joy. We together went over your schedule from morning to night. You repeated it multiple times, including in the car just before getting dropped at school. You told me one more thing when we were headed there. 'Mamma, I'm going to count to ten. Then you can go, okay?' 'Okay', I said with a smile. True to your word, you got off from my arms, held me tight, and counted slowly to ten. I could sense you were being brave. When you were taking long to reach the end, I told you I had to leave before all the kids came out into the play area for yoga. On reaching 10, you let go and walked a few hesitant steps away from me. You looked back just as I was about to leave, and waved a bye. I smiled at you, feeling choked and proud. You had found your own way. You had indeed taken the lead, and helped this rather conflicted mother out of her quandary.

It has been more than a month and a half now. Your hugs during countdown have slowly loosened. Now I'm the one who hugs you tight and gives you a goodbye kiss, asking for one in turn, while you peacefully, smilingly, walk into the playschool waiting to play with your new friends.

Love,
Mamma

Playschool Pangs

Dear Zara,


Taking you to playschool is so hard. I was slightly nervous about the routine – wayward as I have been in my ways – never once thinking anything else would pose a challenge. Turns out that getting that schedule right isn't the hardest thing, it's what happens after that that is. To leave you there and walk away.

It's what they call the 'settling in period', when they allow us parents to anxiously hover around our little ones. The second day you went there, this cute little Montessori playschool in our neighbourhood, I was told that I need not linger any longer; that you had settled in quick and fast. I was relieved. Saved us both the initial hiccups. I saw a few other kids hollering as they were carried inside by the Akka (helper lady) and bid goodbye to by parents at the gate, feeling bad for the kids and the mothers alike, thanking my stars you weren't one of them. But my respite wasn't to last, just like in the previous crib story (Yes, you promptly came back to the bed and mummy's tummy the next day. Now the tummy can't go to sleep without your touch, it seems. Some strange primal connection this is).

Last Thursday you cried when you were taken away by a teacher. I had been waiting with you in the play area for 20mins already because you didn't let me go, when they finally lured you inside with tricoloured balloons. They shut the glass door once you were in. You turned and realized what was happening and let out a cry. In your tears I at once saw distress mingled with what I perceived to be accusation – 'How could you do this to me?! Leaving me behind with strangers' Sigh. Am I imagining too much? Maybe. I'll never know. When you grow up we'll be the ones telling these stories to you, bereft of the tiny details time will take away from our memories. Hence, this blog, in all its irregularity. Hence this post.

Over the weekend you told me, 'Mamma, I don't want to go to school on Monday. I will miss you.' My heart sank. Eager that you build a positive association with going to school, I accompanied you inside on Monday, then yesterday and again today. Monday, you went in glumly (thank god no tears) after half an hour of my hanging around in the lawn with you.

Yesterday, you rushed into my arms and said, 'Mamma, I'm hugging you tight so no one takes me away from you'. How can one not melt at that? Your small, fragile body in the my big arms. Like a sparrow rushing into a mountain, in search of home. I didn't want anyone to take you away from me either, sweetie. But you had to go to school. And I had to pick up my work. While one teacher (aunty, as you all call them) patiently gave you your '5mins mamma...mamma 3mins more please wait. Mamma, 6mins!', another one came a short while later and carried you away. You cried again. I anxiously peered in through the curtains on the side and tried listening, but I couldn't hear any cries. Someone told me you were sulkily playing in a corner. Haha...my darling.

Today, your crying brought on your cough so I waited around until you had calmed down a bit. You said, after a good deal of playing together, 'Mamma, I prrromise you (yes, that's how you say it) I won't ask you to stay after this. Just 1min more' How do you calculate these things? When the teacher carried you inside, you threw your arms and legs around, screaming at her. 'Leave me alooone!' I wanted to laugh and cry both. I did neither and just quietly slipped out, dil par patthar rakh kar.

The moment you go inside though, your cries disappear. As if it's a switch. You observe, you sulk, you reluctantly, eventually, join in the play. But you don't cry. In those few moments of parting, however, my separation anxiety has washed over me and left a dull heartache behind. 'Bacche toh rote hi hain nursery mein', my mum said. 'I used to have tears in my eyes while dropping kids off to playschool', said my mother-in-law. Another mother whose child is also new at this playschool, and about the same age as Zara, sits on a couch in the cafe next door, casually checking her phone while teachers try and settle in her sobbing child. I look at her calm, smiling face greeting me with a sort of dazed look. How does one do this? How do I do this?!

This really does seem like my settling period, much more than yours.

Love,
The Mamma-who-never-quite-wants-to-leave-or-let-go

P.S. - Last night, while putting you to sleep, you asked why I was still on my phone. I explained to you how one of my closest friends was upset, so I was listening and trying to make him feel better. You thought for a few seconds and then said, 'Mamma, you should call him. He will be happy'. I smiled, taken by your response, and said 'How sweet are you, Zara?!' 'Very', you quipped, and snuggled into me. Wise and cheeky. Quite a combo.

Baby Steps

Last evening, dear Zara, I read in the Babycentre newsletter an article on toddlers and sleep. It said that the way you're put to sleep is exactly what you'd look for when you'd wake up in the middle of the night. I remember reading this in the context of nursing you at night and how I'd have to resort to it should you wake up mid-sleep.

Over the last couple of weeks, you have been going to sleep on my tummy. Not sure if it's the warmth of my flesh that you find comforting or the low rumbling sound within...or maybe you find it to be a cosy cushion to sink into (note to self: belly flab seems to have some utility after all) But it is tummy you seek and tummy you get. You know how to demand it too, and chant 'tummy, tummy, tummyyyyy' if I try to put you on your tiny pillow instead ('pi-yo no no!'). Obviously then, every time you wake up you've been wanting to lie on my stomach again to go back to sleep. But tonight was different.

Inspired by that article, I began my attempts at transitioning you away from the tummy and into the pi-yo, so that you'd go back to sleep without needing me to lift you out of the crib and bringing you to sleep next to me (Usually, a daily 4am ritual). So tonight I sang to you while stroking your hair and rubbing your belly, as you like it (such a cat!). And you in turn let me put you on your chhotu pillow next to me. But somewhere in the middle of the third song, you raised a sleepy head and demanded 'tummy!' I gave up with a sigh, resolving to revive efforts the following night.  So on my tummy your head went, tossing this way and that in the no man's land between sleep and wakefulness. Some 10mins into this, as I was drifting off myself, you raised a tiny finger and said 'Cwib', pointing in the dark towards the side of the bed. 'Crib?', I asked, with a tinge of incredulity. 'Cwib', you repeated in a soft voice. I wordlessly lifted you from my tummy and lowered you in your crib. You turned to your side and curled up into deep slumber.

Tonight, you took a precious few steps towards claiming your own space. My baby, you're growing up. And apart, literally.

01 March, 2017
11:30pm