• Now that’s not a word that means your kids are at summer camp or has Grandma babysitting while you take off on a holiday. No indeed. Childfree is a proper concept thank you very much and one that’s catching more momentum as well.

    Today there are more people who consciously take the decision to not become parents, biological or adoptive, than there were a few decades ago. It’s not merely with an eye on the exponential rise in population and dwindling natural resources the world over, but also with a good look inside oneself that tells them that this is one area where they could take a pass. And happily so.

    Having been a parent for a few years now and still a child for god knows how many more, I can honestly say that I applaud this decision. Not because kids are little monsters we have to groom into becoming humans but because the decision to give life is not one that should be taken lightly. Ever.

    It is the highest level of responsibility an individual can ever expect to undertake and try to fulfill. Over millennia it has sadly become something that people do because it seems to be expected of them. Proliferation of the species aside, shaping and nurturing a child is something that ends only when the parent passes on. Even separated by continents, a parent can reach out and influence their child’s nature, emotions and ultimately behavior as well. That’s a heady thought to start with and when it occurs it’s a headier thing altogether.

    This next bit is taken from Wikipedia verbatim “According to economist David Foot of the University of Toronto, the level of a woman’s education is the most important factor in determining whether she will reproduce: the higher her level of education, the less likely she is to bear children. (Or if she does, the fewer children she is likely to have.)
    Overall, researchers have observed childfree couples to be more educated, and it is perhaps because of this that they are more likely to be employed in professional and management occupations, more likely for both spouses to earn relatively high incomes, and to live in urban areas. They are also less likely to be religious, subscribe to traditional gender roles, or subscribe to conventional roles.”

    And it makes a lot of sense. There’s a shortage of resources, there’s a shortage of time to parent and see to it that a child doesn’t have to grow up too hurriedly, rise in crime and even with any dystopian constructs, there’s often a more pressing reason for not having a child. Simply, not wanting to.

    A few monthly ago, the Holy See released a statement saying it was selfish opting out of having kids. And am sure quite a few religious and spiritual heads will concur. Proliferation of life can be and is joyous. But one can still proliferate joys and a quality life without bringing forth new life.

    It is assumed that women yearn for motherhood. Some do. Some don’t. Some can be very nurturing towards others’ children and yet sleep peacefully every night despite not having a child of their own to tuck into bed.

    These women come from a variety of backgrounds but by and large are enlightened enough to know where their fortes lie, where they can maximize on their potentials the most and have multiple avenues of not only keeping busy, but being productive and also being contented and downright happy.

    So if kids aren’t *that* big a deal then why does the whole world and their Aunt Samantha go around having so many? Well…it’s like this. Seeing an extension of yourself (mind and body) have a corporeal form is akin to a miracle for most people. Myself included. No matter how many babies have come forth in this world and no matter how many would have come by the time the blog is posted, each one is special. They are the blank canvas that  reflect the glories of the world and not the vagaries and debaucheries.

    But for me, I guess I just wanted another person to love. And now looking at my child, there’s very little I would do differently where he is concerned. But had I the benefit of hindsight before it became hindsight, I would properly think it through before opting to become a parent. Because I have also realized this while parenting -I would have been a good non-parent as well.

    Acknowledging it isn’t a bad thing at all. Just honest. So if you are a childfree individual, that’s just who you are. Accept it. Don’t justify it.

    You are still who you were supposed to be.

  • Life offers up platitudes GALORE. Some are self-generated and the others are ladled out by well-intentioned albeit unoriginal people.

    But platitudes, clichés whatever we choose to term them, do serve a purpose. The first time I saw this scene in Victor Victoria, it struck me for a reason I wasn’t able to define or even decipher as a teen. But as an adult there have been times I have replayed it or its paraphrase in my head. There *are* moments in life where clichés seem to tell it like it is. Loud and clear.

    For instance, while you were growing up if you thought of yourself as a dynamic, capable, individual who walks the walk and talks and talk and is hugely successful and has all the requisite things that label her as having arrived, well you could say that you were one of the multitude who did so.

    What is also true is that you are instead a part of the multitude who are the housewives who bake, fuss about the laundry and the kind of fabric softener you need to use, which kind of flour is higher in fiber for your kids and how your husband needs a hot meal when he gets home. You have turned into a Betty Crocker of sorts and aspiring for Martha Stewartness.

    You search for the man of house’s socks and wonder if you have enough baking soda to take that weird odor in your fridge away or if you should use some vanilla-soaked cotton balls instead.

    And if by chance, one day, when you wake up and realize that parts of your life have become a cliché, you can either run for the hills or accept that yes; while unoriginal it does make up for things in prophecy and thereby gain some credibility. So you aren’t the Prada and Christian Louboutin-wearing, Centurion-card wielding, big bundle of hotness! Big deal

    It’s not a bad thing to become a cliché. Not merely because there are others out there as well but simply because clichés are enduring and they are a truism. You might not have wanted to become predictable or a type but you have become who you could in life. If that means you cut out coupons before going to the grocery store, so it be.

    While the “stand-out-in-a-crowd-types” try to maintain their individuality, it’s the clichés who silently rule the world. Or the household with the sweet smells coming out of the oven and the lemon-scented wood furniture at the very least!

  • There are times when one wants to thoroughly box Alexander Graham Bell’s ears. True, he took communication to a previously unknown zenith but sometimes it’s actually too much of a good thing.

    I remember there being 2 different landlines in my parents’ house while my dad was still working and there were plenty of days when both would ring at the same time and he was busy on his mobile and my mother and I would rush from one room to another to answer calls, take messages or furiously mime out a message to my father in case the call was important or urgent.

    Fast forward a few years and the same thing is happening now- I get calls on WhatsApp which get disconnected when someone calls on my mobile. And let’s face it; someone always calls on the mobile! Anyhoo, then there are calls on the intercom at home from the building security letting us know there’s a visitor, or a courier and the person making the delivery is usually calling at the same time.

    Talk about cacophony. I long to dunk my head under the water in a heated pool somewhere (for I am a sybarite at my core) because things are blessedly silent there.

    And before I can wax on eloquently about the joys of having one’s head underwater, I need to put a pin in it because there goes the door bell!

    Why is this Friday so chaotic??

    am-i-the-only-one-around-here-who-thinks-that-too-many-calls-have-been-taken

  • Getting My Goat!

    These aren’t those bleating goats. No Siree! They are those invisible metaphorical goats whose horns keep poking at you something fierce about stuff that irks you at the very least and makes you want to take a sledgehammer to stuff at times.

    So back to all my irks…and there are quite a few…dirty nails, people who think from between their legs all the time, those who can’t hold their liquor and make crude passes, bitchy people…you name it and it irks! But an irk especially close to my heart is one about moms and their kids.

    Let’s get something clear at the onset- NO ONE IS EVER READY TO BE A PARENT! Not in the truest sense. You buy into the idea but you never can imagine the gamut of the doodoo that comes your way; in and out of the nappy.

    I have always had an extremely capable and proactive husband by my side while I make my way through the maze that parenthood is. I’ve never had a maid for my kid. Somehow it just didn’t click. Not for lack of trying either. It was one of those things. And for the most part I think the kid’s turning out ok. He wants to be a dragon when he grows up but no one’s perfect and life’s weird.

    If life were normal, I’d be in Bora Bora with Hugh Jackman right about now! Anyhoo…*reluctantly puts fantasies in the box labelled “night-time fun”*

    Today while my flesh and blood was frolicking in a kiddy play area in our complex after getting back from school, a nanny suddenly told me to watch her charge and vamoosed. Before I could blink she was making long-legged strides down the landscaped yard and going out of sight.

    She had vaguely pointed towards the playground equipment and told me to watch the kid who till then I’d neither seen hide nor hair of. I took a peak around the corner to see a little boy, not even 3 years old, happily exploring the place and clueless about the fact that his caretaker was gone.

    I called his name and said hi and apparently that was spooky enough for him because he jetted too; looking for his nanny and acting like I was the proverbial stranger that moms warn kids off from.

    I chased the kid all the way to the place where the buses drop off our children and managed to grab his hand before he hurtled himself near an oncoming bus. Phew. My angry eyes did nothing for the tot or his nanny who didn’t even think to apologize.

    I got the mom’s number from one of the other moms and called her and told her what had happened. Her thank yous were distinctly lacking in sincerity and warmth and that’s to be expected. No one likes people critiquing them or their choices; strangers doing it is even less welcome I’d imagine.

    But while I don’t relish wearing the hat of the playground police, ever since I’ve become a mother I can’t *not* be anything other than a mother if any child seems to be in potential danger, negligent situation or anything that seems less than ideal.

    Despite my gung-ho approach, my own child, close friends’ kids have still managed to get hurt, sometimes narrowly missing a major injury and therein lies the rub.

    Maids, nannies end up being surrogates for parents but aren’t parents at all. Not to anyone else’s kids. They are hired help who may be good with our kids but handing them over to the kids without adequate checks and balances isn’t to our advantage and certainly not to our childrens’.

    I don’t fault moms who have nannies. It’s a choice they make. And they live with it. I made a choice to go nannyless and it’s something I had to live it. Wasn’t easy by half! But try and have the measure of the person you’re handing your baby over to. They may love your child but be closet kleptos (as a dear friend found out recently), they may not have vices but their personal hygiene might entail a one-way ticket to a pig sty. Anything!

    My personal view is this- safety in numbers works for us all. Adults and children alike. And when someone points out that your child wasn’t in the most secure position and was deliberately left vulnerable by the one person who was supposed to keep him safe; for Pete’s sake! keep your snit to yourself. People would rather be cuddling their own kids and sipping hot coffees rather than charging after a toddler barrelling towards an on-coming bus!

    Loads of scary shit already going on in this world!

    Here endeth the lesson.

     

  • Kids are trouble. If our parents had known that then and unless they were full of the love of humankind our existence would be voided.

    But this is a more realistic and non-candy floss way of looking at having kids. The making of the kids is probably the best part of the entire deal but then again it only takes about a few tries so you’re jipped in the end anyhow.

    The birthing and that carnage aside kids are plain and simple parasites. You love them to bits and wouldn’t stomp on them or spray pesticides at them sure, but till they strike out on their own and sadly often, long after that, kids are parasites. Only this kind of parasitic relationship is one we encourage so in the end it turns out to be a whacked-out symbiotic relationship of sorts since we derive these gurgles of pleasure from them feeding off us.

    And when I say feed, I mean the the kind of feeding that bleeds you dry emotionally and physically long after the actual weaning has been done and dusted.

    YOUR life, YOUR space, YOUR bubble of YOU that is a kitschy mix of sanity+kookiness+idiosyncrasies is made to go on an undefined time out and it’s like you’re made to face the wall without being able to see your earlier self for an unknown amount of time.Do NOT pass go. Do NOT collect $200 and no hope for parole.

    Parenting is exhausting. Rewards not always visible. Discernible, And it’s scary as hell to have a hand in how the course of someone’s life will shape up, how their personalities will blossom or not based on how YOU play YOUR cards. Having kids is the closest you get to playing God and that’s an area that’s fuzzy enough for humans with our heady mix of believers, heretics and agnostics. So, to willfully do that with another human being is nothing short of crazy! And it’s completely selfish. No one really needs kids. We just want to have them.

    The saving grace (and there are many) is that you experience intense emotion in a manner that’s akin to a knee-jerk reaction, the love is fairly unconditional and makes you rise above yourself and put someone else’s welfare before your own. We seldom do that for anyone consistently throughout our lives barring our offspring. That does help you grow in some ways but it doesn’t stunt your growth either if you don’t indulge in it. And the crux is that parenthood changes you SO much and none of it is change you wanted or planned for. And it’s the change that the kids bring that we instinctively fight back against all our lives.

    Loving your kids is the only safety valve to that bit in life. Or is it?

    But you have to admit, if the little humans we pop out are cute lil things, the whole grin&bear-it becomes so much easier! Just saying.

  • The loud people of this world, well most of them anyhow, are fairly easy to decipher. What’s not hard? Everything they think, feel and see is broadcast all over with no consideration for others…am proud to be an official member of this elite group since puberty.

    But it’s the Quiet Ones you have to watch out for. Not because there lurks a pedophile inside them or something equally revolting but because they have a darkness that us loudmouths can’t begin to fathom.

    The Quiet Ones live in their own quietude. And to do a cliché to death am going to write this line next- This quietude is like the icy cover under which waters rage or flow swiftly but are seldom still or ironically…”quiet”.

    The Quiet Ones feel deeply, emote passionately when the icy veneer breaks and are capable of absorbing a lot of darkness without letting it alter their psyche or their balance much; or if, at all. They seem to anticipate the subtlety of the morbidity of human existence, morass of immorality and cognitions and take it in their stride, even enjoying the break from the monotony of the very obvious modes of behavior that people tend to exhibit.

    The loudmouths on the other hand are more obvious. The art of subtlety isn’t one they espouse much. They feel deeply, emote deeply and things which are capable of mind-f***ery…well it f***s with their mind and they don’t like it. For it’s not in their nature to be subtle you see.

    The next time you read about some atrocity in the world and find a person on their soapbox, blasting everyone in the immediate vicinity with their opinions; look around for the quietly sitting person with that impassive and yet slightly anticipatory look on their face. That person is a Quiet One. He knew this would happen. He isn’t shocked. He knows about the dark side of the moon.

    Just something to think about…

  • Why Should I?

    Why should I *have* to like cooking?

    Why should I worry about calorie intake and the amount of sugar my kids ought to get? We have dentists and I have money ergo…well…figure it out.

    Why should I be buying the bedsheets and crap all the time? Aren’t there any geometric patterned bedsheets and covers to ever tempt a man into buying one for once in his life?

    Why should I have to buy the deodorizers for the house? Can’t anyone tell if there’s a stink? Does estrogen give me an enhanced capacity to sniff stuff out?

    Why can’t I just sit still and be like Al Bundy? That was a good life..

  • Saying When

    I am a daughter of an never-diagnosed, almost-OCD father. And I mean that in semi-jest. Growing up, life was a series of bedspreads which had to be redone because of a semi-wrinkle towards the edge of the bed and the litany of “Perfection is NOT an accident.”

    My mother, God Bless HER!, isn’t OCD but neither does she countenance sloppiness beyond a point. The kitchen is her domain and that is kept neat enough to pass a health inspection but not that neat that you can literally eat off the floor. I mean, who does that?

    Life as a teenager was one of rebelling against having to put everything in neat piles in my closet against wrinkling my nose at the actual garbage dump I saw in the rooms of some of my friends.

    Fast Forward to circa 2005 and I started dating a nice guy. I mean Nice Guy. But an unconcerned slob nonetheless. As long as he can find his shit (figurative one), then he doesn’t see the need to have after-school and school piles of clothes. Neither does he see the need to ball up his socks to make room in the sock drawer so things look and are neat. I never anticipated that while dragging my kid out of bed and out the door in the morning I’d have to locate spectacles, men’s underwear all the while letting the caffeine surge through my veins to insulate me against another day as a mother and wife.

    The last 6+ years of my life have gone in maintaining more than basic hygiene and some modicum of order because of a baby. This baby has grown from a toddler to a grade school kid and isn’t much inclined towards tidying up unless his mother gets into her dragon avatar, complete with flashing reptilian eyes and slashing her spiked-tail. He’s more the sweep-it-under-the-rug kind of person, or chuck it under the bed. Breeding tells. Genes will kick you in the balls.

    August this year my kid went off to school for 8 hours a day. This opposed to the 2-3 hours he has gone for the past 4 years. And I rejoiced. By doing nothing! Zip. Nada. And it felt goooood.

    I let clothes pile up. Folding them but never completely closing the loop by either putting them away in the right closets. The couches became refugee camps for the clothes in our house. The futon in my kid’s room for his stuff and the dining room couches for a myriad of clothes, toys and God only knows what!

    The house wasn’t a total dump but disarray was definitely the name of the game.

    See, as a product of two slightly compulsive people who married a totally laid-back guy I’ve battled nature vs. nurture for the last 10 odd years. You can’t make your spouse over into a form that pleases you. You take the good with the bad or undesirable. And you make your peace with it either with post-kid-going-to-sleep whiskey or some rants in a random blog post or some disgruntled sulks aimed at said spouse when he finally gets back home.

    And trust me, being inert doesn’t take much doing at all. It’s just a question of mind over matter. You stop minding it so it doesn’t matter!

    You choose to not segregate the laundry piles and sit down to watch Modern Family because, hey! Phil, Cam and Jay are definitely more entertaining than putting away tiny t shirts which can (and will) yield to small hands pulling them into an untidy heap in a New York minute!

    Watching New Girl is better than grumbling at the absent spouse who doesn’t give a rat’s ass that his well-ironed shirts are placed with care and consideration so the collars don’t get squished. He’ll shed his sweaty track pants on top of them anyhow and leave the closet door open as an additional insult to injury.

    And so I let it slide. Disarray begot disarray. Piles moved from one couch to the other but never got unpiled. Till last night. After 2 months of being on a quasi-vacation from the must-dos at home I said WHEN.

    I tidied up. Moderately. I mean I didn’t have a religious epiphany. I just looked around and saw that if I kept my overbearing-about-cleanliness parents and butt-scratching-mess-making husband out of the picture; I was actually a person who liked stuff tidy. I like it tidy enough for it to look pretty.

    When I switch off the lights for the night I really don’t want to have to go hurt locker across the living room just to get my book, phone or any old thing from 5 feet away.

    And looking at things in their own place makes my space look bigger and brighter than it actually is. And armed with that knowledge, I cleaned up. And will continue to clean up some more till the piles stay in their infancy and not get a chance to grow to an adolescent or let alone an adult stage.

    It’ll never be the kind of home my folks would and could keep. And it won’t be the semi-bachelor pad my husband makes the house over the weekend but it’ll be space where I prevail and which reflects what I wanted growing up: the room to make the optimum kind of mess.

    It’s funny being an adult. Some days you can feel yourself grow into your skin. It’s a surreal but a satisfying incident at the end of the day. At least you aren’t hopping on one foot till you hit your side of the bed because you stepped on the mini-dragon obstacle course your kid effortlessly designed all while getting ready for lights out.

    Cleaning up is *not* a chore.

    Amen.

  • A Woman Inspired

    First off..this isn’t an anti-men blog. It’s not anti- anything per se but it’s about what A Particular Woman wants. No mouthpiece for the countless women who abound in the world here folks. All about an opinionated woman’s opinions.

    And when there’s a first, a second is sure to follow…so like I started out to write..a woman doesn’t need to go anywhere special for inspiration. You can see the lumps under the sheets on your bed and write a blog post about your bedmates. You can also see a commercial on tv and be spirited miles away as well. So we’re not that high maintenance on where we get our brain food from. To be honest, having to forage for one’s own brain food has led us to adapt and find our inspiration where we can take it.

    Going to the Himalayas or doing stuff like Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love is not only horribly clichéd and so passe…but where’s the bloody time to GO and DO something when you’re perpetually living your life planning and anticipating the NEXT MOMENT.

    And the “next moment” is crucial. It can make or break a day. The next moment is directly influenced by the previous moment and it in turns influences the moment after it so it’s very, very important to have a good next moment. And that requires planning.

    For those of you thinking OCD can just pick your butts off your couches and pick up a DSM or ICD and look up a whole bunch of new disorders to attribute here because again, like Ms.Roberts, OCD is soooo passe.

    Let’s try something with a pinch of psychosis thrown in. Way more fun than the endless cleaning and clicking of switches!

    Not put off yet? Well, good for you.

    I have more to write between observing my leg stubble and encouraging my inner sloth.

    Cheers!

  • Zeus Had Elves

    Zeus Had Elves

    I swear you can’t make up the kind of stuff that resides in a child’s imagination!

    Most of my talks with my kid start with him telling me something he’s heard or read or seen. The stuff he’s read and seen is more reliable given the way his mind processes information. The stuff he’s heard tends to often have a lot of comic relief because his mind was at warp speed while his ears were trying hard to catch up.

    So today’s backseat session began with him telling me about the story of The Happy Prince. After getting to the near finale he told me about the God who asked his elves to go down to earth and collect the Happy Prince’s heart and the swallow (or something along those lines).

    Hearing me go, “What the…” he says ” Yeah…the God..I think his name was Zeus and he had elves”. Now Oscar Wilde with his cheeky humor is laughing somewhere but even then he might find the idea of Zeus with elves as incongruous. So I asked the offspring again, “Zeus had elves? Like Santa?” And after a few moments of pondering comes the reply, ” No, not elves but those fat-baby flying thingies.”

    Oh Lord…angels preserve us. Or the fat baby-flying thingies at the very least. Amen.