Saturday Morning Conversations

I crashed by myself last night…was listening to music, sorting out playlists…everything you need head space for and which can’t always be done effectively with someone staring at you with googly eyes and asking, “what are you doing?” for the millionth time.

I avoided weird bedtime conversations but couldn’t avoid them during the next morning when someone decided to wake up and smell the roses with unbounded enthusiasm before his mother got caffeinated.

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Imagine having slept off to music spanning the decades along with conversations with friends on and off till the middle of the night and then waking up to the most #dafuq question one can imagine first thing in the morning viz, “How old do you think De Villiers is?” And on seeing my glazed, semi-blurry vision starting to go the angry, snorting bull way, TO preemptively turns his face skywards and says, “Why me?!!” Nothing quite like having your angsty moment stolen and impersonated by the person who brought it on in the first place.

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So on we went with the good morning kisses and inane questions till my brain cried out for coffee once more. Red being the coffee guy at home was hollered at and he promptly went and made some for HIMSELF and not me. There’s only a few things a woman can say to her husband at such times and I tell back on Barb#1 aka ‘ I gave you a kid, can’t you even get me a cup of coffee?’

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We are fond of our drama in this household. Be it me trying to bury myself under the covers so I don’t have to hear my kid drone on about some ODI post which Tendulkar decided to retire from cricket

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or trying to bargain for more screen time or me giving the evil eye to the placidly coffee-sipping spouse who’s going to need me to find his stuff for him soon; this is just how we roll.

Slainte!

Waiter..There’s A Fly In My Soup

Well…there may have been a fly and there may have been a waiter and there definitely may be some soup somewhere in this universe. But this morning it was just me and TO, sitting at the dinning table while it was still a bit dark out.

He was all agog about going to his cricket class after having a break of 4 days. I made him a quick breakfast of toast and jam and was just lurching towards the coffee mugs when suddenly this happened: “Ayu…come here please!” Ayu duly went and was faced with the crisis that would lead to humanity being at utmost peril…a portion of a bread that wasn’t covered with enough jam!

TO-” my bread is empty here. Me- it’s not empty..it just has less jam. TO- but it’s almost empty…that spot has jam but this corner doesn’t have any jam at all!”

Me (going back to the kitchen and gripping the butter knife the way Carrie’s mother held the cleaver)- “Shall I put more jam for you then? Why don’t you eat the rest of the other bread while I put more jam on this bit?” TO-” I want to eat it all together Ayu. I’ll wait till you put more jam. That’s it..a little more to the right, no..that’s going out of the bread! Yup..a little more to the left…perfect! The whole bread is covered now. I can FINALLY eat in peace!”

Me, bleary-eyed, sleepy and caffeine-deprived, ” Am so glad I could take care of your jam emergency baby. Nothing makes a mother happier than stuffing more sugar into her kid and being micromanaged into the art of spreading jam on a piece of bread.” And pat comes the reply- You’re welcome. Kissy kissy”

AAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHHHH!

Conversations On A Monday Monday

I live with two people who want me in their space but refuse to let me breathe the way I want to. I like the windows open with loads of fresh air coming in. TO wants the inside of a freezer all around him and greedily watches the AC to see when it’ll be turned on. Red wants the AC switched off when I would rather have a slightly chillier atmosphere, leading to genuine chill emanating from me that ends up baffling him for some reason. Go figure.

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So I wake up this morning and do my usual stuff of opening the doors to the balcony, opening the windows; take a deep breath of air which hasn’t yet been saturated by exhaust and what not. This lasts all of 2 hours. When the offspring wakes up, he goes around closing the windows, drawing the shades and closing the blinds as well.

On being told to keep everything back the way it was, he starts objecting, “But Ayuuuuuuu”. Mondays are tough enough without another month and a half of holidays remaining. I tell him to give me my fresh air and ” GO BE A TROLL” in his own room with the curtains and windows closed!

11yo has a 'pot belly'

His response? A beaming smile. This is how monstrous ideas are formed…by loose lips of uncaffeinated mothers. Ye Gods!

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Oh My Angst Hurts

The Offspring (TO) has been introduced to the world of peer pressure. He has met the “popular” kids, met the jocks, met the goody two-shoes and is trying to fit into the whole ecosystem as we speak…erm type.

Being of a slightly more touchy disposition, TO is at times inclined to want to change schools if he doesn’t have a good day or have a bad experience. Of course the very next moment he can be on top of the world as well. Am told such is the world of children.

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This morning his reason for not wanting to get up and go to school was due to the kids he had a falling out with. He gave us more details while having his milk. The conversation went something like this- TO: ” So I’m not friends with X anymore. Me: Why? TO: She doesn’t want to be friends with ME. Me: (making sympathetic face) Whhhhyyy? What happened? TO: She says stop following me around. Me: Well…do you follow her around? TO: (looking sheepish)..only a little bit. Me: Well then, don’t follow her. TO: (huffily) ok fine!

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The rest of the conversation consisted of words irritating, annoying, irritated and annoyed and why the middle finger is *not* to be shown and at least a 1000 reminders to finish his milk and go for his bath.

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Turbulent Thursdays anyone? And to think that we have yet to navigate through the choppy waters of puberty. God help us.

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Joys Of Being A Sourpuss

Another reblog from another time…

Been a long time between posts. I wanted to write but people and things kept cutting into my bloggy brainwaves and once they were gone they sulked till I came grovelling to get them back. Cognitions can be a bitch that way. You remember things you would much rather not; not because they are unpleasant but you don’t want to be stuck replaying the same happy shit from 5 years ago in your head. You want new happy shit!

You also want, need, desperately crave your own bloody, friggin’ space! I finally know which way my life is going. I’m a bag lady in disguise as an urban woman. I’m cranky, I want to wander about when I feel like it. I don’t particularly want to feed pigeons and smell of stray cats but I want the freedom to sit on a park bench and watch life go by from time to time.

This particular epiphany occurred a few days ago when I was being talked at (not talked to mind you) from all directions. I hate being talked at. I don’t talk at people unless I’m pissed off at them or I want to show my derision, disdain or other words starting with “d” having negative connotations. And having people talk at you in your own home gets you riled.

It turns out I was in the wrong. I often am but admitting it is tougher as I grow older because as a kid you think when you’re an adult you can be as wrong as you want unless that means you chopped off someones’ toes. I’ve been a mean grouch for the past few months. Moments of tranquility have been less because I didn’t know where to look but damn being a grouch can be fun.

People give meanies a wide berth. It’s almost like you’re a monster truck everyone else makes way for. You speak only as much as you want to and grunt your assent/ dissent the rest of the times. You sink in silences which people can misinterpret as gloom or ire but actually your mind is taking delicious trips with glorious technicolor images and yeah, you down more quantity of alcohol than usual.

The alcohol isn’t a must-do but it someone worms its way into the whole thing so why fight it, eh?

Another benefit of being grumpy is that you can bitch, moan and gripe to your heart’s content and NEVER have people question your need to do so. You’re a grump. Ergo you must exercise that grumpy bone. You can start with injustices of your kindergarten days when someone got the last lollipop to when you had your last yeast infection and the world’s your oyster!

Try to bitch without being a grouch and people (read women) come in droves and ask you what’s wrong. They start with the obvious- PMS and move into break-ups, fights, bad hair day, bloating, cramps, unending issues with the mother, or something to do with the person you share your life with. Seldom does one hit the nail on the head- you *want* to bitch and spread bitchiness the way you do when you’re happy and the world seems brighter and you want to pull people into your little rainbow&unicorn world. What? Wait…that was a bad hangover post too much girly time. Scratch that scenario.

But grouches have it good. They can shoot from the hip, get excused for their behavior and can tell it as it is and be labelled moody and yet speak their mind.

That’s 1-up from the rest of us yuppies who’re conforming with our smiles and hellos and air kisses. Think about it.

Signing Off,

XOXO (not!)

 

Sunday Morning Shenanigans

While growing up I think the one thing most people on this planet had in common was their Sunday mornings. Even if it came at different times across the world, I firmly believe every damn person with a whit of grey matter WANTED to sleep on Sundays!

As kids we slept pretty much as long as we liked on Sundays and and as adults the sleeping in on Sundays took on a religious zeal almost! It was as if the Galactic Amoeba (am kind of a fence sitting on the existence of the Almighty so I guess HE/SHE could be like a giant amoeba in the cosmos too right?) created you with the inability to get up before 8 am on Sundays.

Enter matrimony and you find a husband who likes to sleep and let sleep. Till date I can’t recall Red (he shall be called Red hereafter) having woken me up because he was hungry or he thought it was too late in the day. He likes to sleep till it leaves him on it’s own and he wishes others around him do the same.

But we people are an odd bunch. Just when things are going well we think to ourselves, “wouldn’t it be fun to have my body stretched beyond normal capacity and give birth in excruciating pain, to a child who will change the course of life forever! Let alone my Sundays.”

And the baby cometh. The baby groweth. From a wailing infant to a chubby toddler who puts his fingers up your nose as a wake-up call. Then when he grows to a preschooler he comes and bounces on your undefended form on the bed and demands for toys and Play Doh and whatnots. And just when you’re growing the slightly bit immune to his tactics and have developed an armor to deflect it, he says those words, in that tone that no mother can ignore. Beyond a point anyway…”am hungryyy”.

You haul yourself out of bed, try to be a good trooper and give the poor starving child with his Oliver Twist eyes something to chow down on. And think it’s just a Sunday…no biggie…I’ll sleep when he becomes a teenager and is surly and non-communicative. But till then your Sundays are toast! And so is your sleep. 

So what’re you gonna do? You are a good mother after all! You wake up the spouse and ruin his Sunday morning because NO good deed goes unpunished!