Pearls are for Tears

I once read somewhere to never give someone pearls, since pearls are for tears. If this is true, then i must be swimming in pearls. I've cried an ocean on this journey, i cried a stream this week alone. These were tears of joy, tears of frustration, tears of laughter.

Shabd started daycare this week, he goes from 08h00 to 12h00. My heart ached at parting with Shabd, at realising that my little baby was becoming a "beeg" boy now and taking this step meant that he was entering the "real" world. At school, he would have to stand up for himself, speak up, share and learn the rules of engagement. I cried a river that morning. I dropped Shabd off with Miss Sherry, got into my car and cried so hard it hurt.

Shabd absolutely loves staying with Dipika masi and Desh masa. They have gone out of their way to ensure he's comfortable and happy in their beautiful straight out of Top Billing home. They've borne, with great dignity, Shabd's little intrusions into their once sacred and private bedroom. They bravely grit their teeth when Shabd lets out his ear splitting howls and screams. In a mere week, Shabd and i have turned their neat little haven upside down, and they've remained the perfect hosts; genial, loving, caring.

It's been tough for both Shabd and I being away from Papa. We've grown very close. All rules, for this year, were suspended pending full recovery of mummy. Thus, I'm ashamed to say that Shabd has become quite the spoilt child and throws many tantrums.

My child give credence to the phrase "Terrible Two's". The thing is, not knowing any other two year olds, I'm not sure if Shabd's behaviour is normal for a two year old, is it adjusting to the change of moving to South Africa or is he simply spoilt.

Now, I'll tell you why this is important in my little world. Understanding why Shabd is throwing a tantrum will guide how i deal with the tantrum; ignore, hug and cuddle, or discipline. I've read so much on line about tantruming and about yelling (i have been known to join the tantrum parade from time to time). And the advice always points to either:

1. Ignoring the tantrum thus the child realises that throwing tantrums doesn't get him attention and there are more constructive ways of getting attention.
2. Hug and cuddle the child as the child does not have the vocabulary required to express himself and is thus feeling frustrated by this.
3. Discipline the child by means of the "naughty chair" or something to that effect so that the child learns that his actions have consequences.

Now call me overly cautious if you must, but I'm just not sure which punishment fits the crime. Simply because all to often, I'm not sure what the nature of the crime is! All tantrums look, sound and feel the same to me. There are tears, screaming, head banging or body wriggling and a pained look in his eyes. None of these rather conspicuous actions give me the least clue as to the reason the tantrum is happening. So how do i apply the right sanction? For the love of all toddlers out there, how does one know?

As to the advice on averting a potential tantrum; the theory being (and i stress on the word THEORY here, since I'm not convinced it can be done) that if a parent is able to catch the signals of a tantrum still brewing, they can take steps to stop the tantrum before it becomes full blown. 

After many hours of observation, and thought, and more observation, i have only one question, "Are you people psychic?" How do you recognise the tantrum signals? I have to admit, i don't get it. I often ask myself if i am the most obtuse mother alive? Hmm....one for the Lunch Mommies for sure.

Tantrums or not, i wish i could take all the pearls in the world and throw them into the deep dark ocean. Seeing my child's eyes flooding with tears is like having a sharp barbed wrench being turned in my heart.

Pizza! Yay Pizza!

Last night, Papa came home and instead of kicking his shoes off and sinking into the couch to cuddle with Shabd, he declared that we were going out for dinner, as a family, just the three of us. What a special and unexpected treat! I felt as if i was given a birthday present. There was no dilly-dallying, no uhms or arhs, no give me a sec, just lets go for dinner to Beau Bassin.

So off we went, the three of us, Shabd singing at the top of his voice, to Mani in Beau Bassin. Mani is a quaint little pizzeria. The atmosphere is cozy and the staff welcoming. Joyce greeted us with a big smile that widened considerably when Shabd asked Aunty Joyce for pizza please!

Going on our vast previous experience of Shabd being quite an excitable little boy, we were armed with the iPad and prepared to whip it out at the first signs of trouble; our objective being to have a fun family meal together, by hook or crook.

Never in a million years would we have thought that the occasion would not rise for us to bring out the ultimate weapon of distraction. Nay siree. Shabd was the model of a toddler (and here i mean in the positive sense, cute, engaging and all that!). He politely nagged Aunty Joyce for pizza, dancing a little jig, hands in the air, "Way!!! Pizza!! Thank you Aunty Joyce!"

"Make it cold Mummy" and with that he gobbled up his pizza. We were surprised to say the least. Shabd has never before eaten pizza, on account of his lactose intolerance. We've been slowly introducing lactose into his diet, he's reacted positively and negatively to different items. And so the experimentation continues. 

Shabd was polite, calm, relaxed and engaging all through dinner. Politely asking me to vacate the bench i was sharing with him, so he could have more space to stretch and play. There was no screaming, no running around wildly, no trying to escape outside or up the steep staircase. Shabd was in his element. He was happy and content. We just looked on in wonderment, neither of us wanting to point out the obvious, for fear of breaking this magic. For magic it must have been. 

Having dwelt on this further, i find it amazing just how perceptive children can be. We leave for South Africa on Saturday for a two month sojourn and unfortunately Papa cannot accompany us. Each of us, in our hearts, have a tinge of sadness at being parted for so long. Having cancer has deepened our connections with each other and we will miss the comfort of each other.

I worry how my men will cope. Papa rattling around in our big empty house. Shabd being away from his superhero. I am comforted knowing that both in South Africa and Mauritius, there is family plentiful with love abound for my boys. And Grace whispers to me not to worry so much, but to take care of myself and trust.

Papa says i should take a page out of Shabd's book. He loves watching the Three Little Pigs clip and instead of being afraid of the rather scary looking big bad wolf, he points out to Papa that it's actually a dog. And he's not afraid of a dog. Them being so cuddly and soft and warm. Perception is important, turning the scary into the not so scary sends out positive energies out to my son. 

So while my heart is heavy at leaving Papa behind, and i know Shabd will miss him dearly. The next part of our adventure takes us into loving arms of my family and friends. The incessant care of Dipika masi and Desh masa, the home cooked goodness of Ba, and the playfulness of Kamal and Trishul mama. Not to mention the many cousins and aunts and uncles and grannies and grandpa's that like a wave will carry us through this part of our journey, with love, laughter, smiles and joy.

"Who's afraid of the big bad wolf,  big bad wolf, big bad wolf?" or since Shabd prefers watching this clip in French, "Qui craint le grand méchant loup, méchant loup, méchant loup?"

A Time For Every Season

Everything in life has a season. Here, I notice little shoots and buds pushing their way up through the rocky, hard, unforgiving land.

There is a season for everything. A season to heal, a season to dance, a season to cry and a season to rejoice.

Shabd has come through a very stormy season. He's faced many challenges, the biggest of which was saying goodbye to his nounou Lysie. The woman who has nurtured him, hugged him, kissed his boo-boo's better, nursed him, loved him as if he were her very own grandchild. With her departure, the season of storms was upon us.

We often see the dark clouds gathering inside of our little boy. We've weathered quite a few storms with him and being human, we've learnt to adapt and thus calmly steer through the storm.

Late last year, we were in the season of growth and change, of uncharted territories and new discoveries. We were starting a new life in Dubai. We were set. We were ready for whatever windstorm that dusty desert blew at us. We had each other and we knew that those bonds were strong enough to face any storm. Together, we were certain of that!

Little did we know just how strong those bonds are, nor the colossal storms we would have to steer through. Little did we know that by steering through these storms, we would discover so much richness in ourselves and in each other.

And as I sit here, in our little study, writing these words, an old song by The Byrds wafts slowly up.

To everything - turn, turn, turn

There is a season - turn, turn, turn

And a time to every purpose under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die

A time to plant, a time to reap

A time to kill, a time to heal

A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything - turn, turn, turn

There is a season - turn, turn, turn

And a time to every purpose under heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down

A time to dance, a time to mourn

A time to cast away stones

A time to gather stones together

To everything - turn, turn, turn

There is a season - turn, turn, turn

And a time to every purpose under heaven

The Reluctant Indian

My child has the privilege of being a multinational by reason of parentage; South African mother with Gujerati roots and a Mauritian father with Bihari roots. This equates to a melting pot of cultures, customs and languages. On any given day, one will hear English, Afrikaans, Gujerati, Creole and French in my house. And Shabd, in his own astounding manner, has found a way to assimilate all these languages, adapting himself to his given audience.

Shabd has always enjoyed music. Be it strumming the guitar, banging the djembe, blowing into the recorder, fingering the piano or singing the hundred tunes neatly stored in his little head. He seems to have taken the same liking to languages, quickly picking up nuances in pronunciation and accent. He can quite convincingly say, "Sies man!" as if he were a South African. Or look for his father in French, "Papa, ou etes tu?" (Papa, where are you?). Or greet his Ba in Gujerati, "Namaste, kem chor?" (Namaste, how are you?).

As a mother, i'm in awe of his ability to assimilate so many languages having had no formal introduction to them save hearing the languages, some often and others only occasionally. And as a mother, i realise this view might be just ever so slightly biased. This does not diminish from the wonderment of hearing him speak 3 different languages within one 2 minute conversation.

Growing up, i was quite the reluctant Indian myself. My parents, being good and conscientious Gujerati's ensured i went to Gujerati school and hindu Sunday school. We children were forced to attended classical music and dance concerts. I even studied Bharata Natyam for many years. My mother and Chandrika masi (my mother's best friend) always spoke of India with such passion. It was their motherland. I never understood their fascination nor patriotism to India, until now. 

I am a South Africa with Indian heritage living in Mauritius. I have a 2 year old son and i want him to know all about my culture, customs and language. I want him to at the very least be able to dance garba (a traditional Gujerati folk dance), understand basic Gujerati and Afrikaans and be comfortable in a kurta. Most of all, i want him to know that he comes from a rich parentage, full of colours and grace. And that is something to be proud of.