hey crackpot child of mine,
you are all of 30 months old today.
on st. valentine's day.
you talk endlessly. you sing rhymes, songs, and even make up new ones with loads of nonsense words invented to rhyme with real words. the meter should not be messed with, right?
you hate dirtying your hands. you have gross, unwashable stains on the front of EVERY t shirt of yours. you wipe your hand on the t shirt and only then delicately wipe it on your napkin.
you count numbers, you sing out the days of the week, you make up stories that begin with...last monday...
brushing teeth twice a day is our established war time. occasionally kala ghoda and such creatures come in to save the two of us from screaming our voices hoarse.
i loved/love puzzles. and you refuse to be bothered by them. and often when i lay out the jigsaw puzzles you walk off to ride the horse to goa, calcutta, kerala, malaysia and i am left concentrating on the puzzle- often four piece puzzles- a trifle embarassing.
you love books. i must read out atleast five to six before your nap times. the slightly humiliating bit is that while i read, you pick up your own book and shout out your version of your story. and if i stop to listen i get a yelling. and if i skip pages, or muddle up the story, i get a yelling. so while i have forgotten multi tasking, you seem to have picked up the talent. read your story, keep an ear open for mum's sory, and a yelling here and a shout there to keep her in check.
you know your colours now. so you insist on matching clothes. no, pink does not match with pink in your books. and no contrasts either. no colours from the same palette will do. the shirt matches with the t-shirt- not with pants/skirt/shorts. no amount of reason will change your mind. a yell, whining, pleading and often weeping gets you to deign to listen to me. but then there are days you walk out of the house with a skirt worn under a dress, a satin red purse on the crook of your arm, and grubby chappals that you wore when you were one. i grit my teeth and walk out with you.
you comb your own hair. i am not allowed to come near, and if there is a clip, ribbon or hair band in my hand you turn into a slippery eel. and how well you comb your hair -upwards, those curls are brushed heavenwards and they pretty much stay there, in perpetual salute to the skies above.
in despair i took you to the parlour to chop your hair. you watched in horror as a lady got her chin waxed. you bravely allowed the chopping. and the one high point in my life - i got the lady to give you a fringe. do you know what that means to me? me, the one who looked at fringes/bangs/and all other fancy cuts with envy. my hair looks the same, whatever the cut - a mess of something frizzy. i will live out my dreams through your visits to the salon, my child.
you have a sweetheart now. the little boy who lives opposite us. the doorbell fills me with dread now. me, and his mother. the two kids dart towards the door, and into each other's arms when the two doors open. pulling them away because of mundane things like, food, naps, bath, ends in wailing of the kind i have only seen in cheesy films that have evil parents that keep lovers apart.so now i am the manorama (remember her?) of my house. great.
take care of your mother my child, any sane person reading all of the above will know she needs help.