Mother Vs Doctor

When our kids fall sick, my husband dreads having any illness-related conversation with me. That's because I nag him to death. He's a doc and so I call him every 30 seconds and accuse him of not being sensitive to a laywoman's reasonable anxieties if he tries to tell me to stop being a pain.

First, there's the issue of the dosage. The only one I can remember is 10 mg per kg for Paracetamol. Even for that, more often than not, I ask him to compute the exact dose for me so I don't need to do it myself. Self-reliance is, after all, one of his strong points.

Then when the medicine is being administered, if the child is supposed to get 4.5 ml but her sister bumped into me when I was giving it and I spilled some, how much more should I give? And what about when the baby spits some of it out and there's nothing more in the bottle?

Against all odds

We are speeding down the road and I have already checked my watch five times. The kids have been shouted at three times in the last fifteen minutes and because I am not driving, I am monopolizing the business of shouting. When post one scolding, the irrepressible six-year-old starts off with yet another question, hubby, who believes he can handle this better than I can, tells her quickly, “Don’t talk to your mother. Talk to me!  Talk to me!”

We make it to the venue of the wedding with half an hour to spare, thanks to a gross miscalculation, on my husband’s part, of the time required to get there. However, when I step out of the car, feeling like a flamboyant success, this detail seems to be utterly inconsequential. What is of cosmic significance is the fact that we have made it to a wedding – ahead of time. I beam at my cutiest, beautiest, spousiest spouse.  We are a team. We did it. Nothing can stop us now.

Moving house

They look at me with mocking eyes - all our worldly possessions.  “When is she going to get her act together?” they say. 

It’s been a month since the guests started sitting amidst flotsam and jetsam.  A month since the house has been floating around in a sea filled with monsters that rear their ugly heads every morning; a sea that unleashes storms that shriek and rage; that changes its moods as often as a pregnant woman.

I never imagined that my domain would put up such a fight when we wanted out.  How and when did the stuff and the house get involved? Since when have they become so inseparable? And now, here they are fighting tooth and nail against the divorce that I intend to execute.

On the road

I’m not a great driver, don’t know the machine intimately and have grave doubts about my ability to change a flat. But I do like being behind the wheel of a fast or maybe I should say, fast-ish car. I like the promise of freedom, the way the car cocoons you in a world of your own, the air-conditioning, the music. And on the days when our usually very dusty on the outside and very messy on the inside car is clean and bright, I feel clean and bright.

 

When we’re on the road as a family, though, it’s a different story. Sometimes it’s great and sometimes not-so-great. And then, there are the times when I would be anywhere but inside the car.

Mother Superior!

When at home, the kids fight and whine a lot. The minute they step outside - away from the walls and the box that is the bane of childhood - to say hello to the wide open, they are skipping and laughing and running. They become, in an instant, happy kids. As for me, I start to cruise on my feet, at peace in my suddenly unshakeable belief that I am a wonderful mother.

Is it the ease infused by the soothing greenery, the caressing breeze and the open spaces? Yes, it’s Mother Nature; who nurtures and nourishes; who is wild and yet systematic; fun and full of surprises, yet organized. Like my little ones, she knows how to take dirt and mess in her stride. She knows that the slow-moving, the fleet-footed, the beautiful and the repulsive, the rough and the smooth, the meek and the aggressive all have their place in the sun.

Train journeys and way too much ado

As a mother of two under-fives, I am put to the test almost daily. There are some days when I know I won’t make the grade, no matter what; like when there’s a train journey involved.

The ordeal starts with the crossing of the overbridge - fairly painless unless you have only two minutes or less left. That being the norm for me, I have to take the steep steps two at a time carrying the younger one and a heavy bag and coaxingscoldingcajolingthreatening the older who will invariably come to a stop to inspect that greenish blob of God-knows-what.

When I make it to the other side, perspiring and foul-mouthed, I hear the dreaded announcement – the train is late. After an hour of Lays, Frooty, Appy and similar junk, the train arrives. But as I see it chugging into the station, my relief melts into trepidation.

Martha or Mary?

Who am I going to be today? Martha or Mary?

It’s something I ask myself almost every day. Today, should I be an efficient homemaker who can whip up a tasty dinner in fifteen minutes; who has a garden like Paradise; who irons the children’s clothes the previous night; who will not tolerate dust, cobwebs and disorder of any kind?

Or

Should I be in touch with the latest in music, technology, news; have well-manicured nails; meet my deadlines, listen and not mentally tick off my to-do list while pretending to?