A Quiet Evening In

Tonight, Shabd and I had the pleasure of each other's company exclusively. We had a wonderful evening, just the two of us.

By the time I get home from work, Shabd had already had his dinner. He was sitting on his grandparents stoep, passing his time drawing, while he patiently waited for me to get home. He was excited to show me his latest discovery; his shadow! He wiggled and jiggled and jangled to be sure the shadow on the ground really and truly was his. Do you remember when you discovered you had a shadow?

As soon as we got home, Shabd called out "Pappa, are you home?" When I explained to him that his father was out with friends for the evening Shabd proposed that we do some yoga. I politely declined and redirected his attention to the prospect of Skyping his Ba.

I forget that this child has the mind of an elephant sometimes. He readily agreed with my proposition, but insisted that we dragged our yoga mats to the study as well.

Unfortunately the connection to South Africa was not great and so every time we connected he would yell out quite loudly (as if he was sure his Ba was hard of hearing), "Hello! CAN YOU HEAR ME?" Eventually, Ba gave up on this mode of communication and called us up on our landline. Shabd had a rather adult conversation with her - him being almost three years old after all - narrating to her that "there's something wrong" with his tummy and could she "bring me a car please?" Solicitations done, he politely handed the receiver over to me and disappeared.

He reappeared 10 minutes later half dragging, half carrying his huge red basket of cars. He sorted through his basket, picking up and examining each car. By doing this, one by one he carefully lined the cars up from smallest to largest, keeping the construction vehicles, motorcycles and airplanes separate.

We've come to learn that this ritual is something he loves doing and it seems to calm him as he debates the position of where the car he's holding in his hand right now should go. Sometimes, all the red vehicles are lined up together. Other times the vehicles are lined up by category; cars, SUV's, motorcycles, airplanes, construction vehicles. Sometimes we come home to a row of vehicles that spans our rather long kitchen and any disturbance in their order is met with much annoyance from the little Mr. (meticulous) Monk!

As I sat on the couch nearby and marveled at his little mind analyzing away until he was sure that he was happy with the order of his cars, a rather scary thought flashed into my mind. I often think to myself "things must be just right, just perfect or my world might collapse!" A little melodramatic I would agree, but as we all know, I have quite the flair for drama!

I don't think I've ever said this out loud - understandably, I try not to let the weird and wonderful musings of my mind come out vocally too often! The question does beg to be asked though, could Shabd have at some unconscious level learnt about my unreasonable need for perfection and be mirroring that?

Chocolate break!

We sing "There were 5 in the bed" and pretend to roll off the coach. We sing "the wheels of the bus go round and round" complete with hand actions and end off with the "head, shoulders, knees and toes" song to work off all the energy from the Lindt balls we've just devoured.

Then it's time for a shower and off to cuddle in bed while Shabd drifts of to dreamland.

Nothing special or extraordinary or particularly exciting happened tonight. It was an ordinary night and we did ordinary things like ordinary families do. I've not had ordinary in a long time. I miss ordinary sometimes. I long for the simple life of having spent a wonderfully ordinary evening together, having done ordinary mother-son things. Tonight, we did that and I feel as if a wish I had sent to the stars was granted to me. Amen!

A Very Brave Boy

I was curios as to what this word "Brave" meant. This word has begun to feature quite a lot in my world. I am often told that I am brave. I often find myself telling Shabd that he's a brave boy. And since I often don't feel very brave, despite having been called this, I wonder how Shabd feels about the word and what he understands by it.

brave

breɪv/

adjective

1. 1.

   ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage.

   "she was very brave about the whole thing"

   synonyms:

   courageous, plucky, fearless, valiant, valorous, intrepid, heroic,lionhearted, manful, macho, bold, daring, daredevil, adventurous,audacious, death-or-glory; More

   

noun

dated

1. 1.

   an American Indian warrior.

verb

1. 1.

   endure or face (unpleasant conditions or behaviour) without showing fear.

   "he pulled on his coat ready to brave the elements"

   synonyms:

   endure, put up with, bear, withstand, weather, suffer, sustain, go through; More

I'm not sure that I am lionhearted, or plucky or audacious. I know that I suffer and I endure, not without my fair share of complaints none-the-less. Am I a good example of an intrepid warrior to my son? Do I show him, through my example that he should endure life's slings and arrows? Will he grow up to be a lionhearted man, oh I pray he will be.

Shabd has constipation and has been constipated on and off for two months now. Finally at the ends of my wits, we made a final trip to our friendly Pediatrician, Dr. Thancanamootoo. Whether it was seeing my very obvious agitation or genuine concern for the little patient, we ordered that x-rays be done. "Uhm, don't they have to lay very still for that?" I piped up, wondering how on Earth we were going to get Shabd to stand still.

And so, all the way to the clinic, his father and I spoke about what an amazing tummy he has and that they would like to take pictures of it. And if he could just stand very still and smile for the camera, that would be super. And, we'd get him a beeg present!

Shabd entered the clinic with some trepidation, children have a sixth sense about them. The fish tank overhead and the water cooler provided enough distraction to lull him into a calm state. He calmly walked into the x-ray room, politely said "Hello Aunty" to the nurse and even helped us undress him. He was intrigued by the big white apparatus and kept inquiring as to where the camera was. The "Aunty" showed him and asked him to stand very still and smile for the camera.

Without batting an eyelid, my brave little soldier boy pulled himself straight up, tensed every muscle in his little body and gave the biggest most widest brave smiles I have ever see.

"Thank You Aunty for the picture." Shabd calls off to the nurse as she leaves the room with a smile playing on her lips.

Shabd struggles to make a movement. He feels bloated and gassy and his stomach aches a lot. When he gets a particularly painful spasm, he runs to either his father or me screaming "Help me! The tata is coming!"

We help him, in the only way we know how. We squat with him, or rub his back and we sing our special tata song. When we're not home, his grandfather takes him to sit on the big potty and sings the Mauritian national anthem to him. It's very soothing to Shabd, but unfortunately not relaxing enough for a movement.


One evening Shabd informs me that he's scared of making a tata. When I ask why, he replies that it is painful. I ask him to be brave as we wrestle him down, kicking and screaming and give him yet another enema. My heart breaks at having to do this to him.

His screams, tears and the painful contortions his face makes indicates to me just how painful it is for him, and I cry a million tears in my heart. If only I had the power to take all his pains away.

I hold him tightly and softly croon a song while periodically rubbing the perspiration off his forehead. Oh how I wish I could take this agony away and I curse the Gods for making my child suffer so much.

To him I keep crooning a little lilt, "Shabd is a brave boy. Shabd is a wonderful boy, Shabd is an amazing boy. Shabd is a very very brave boy. Mummy is proud of mummy's brave boy."

During the painful times, in those breaks between stomach aches and painful spasms, Shabd asks me alternatively to "shout" at his tata or to repeat him brave phrases with him.

The Shout
Mummy (speaking in a cross tone): "Tata! What's this nonsense! Please just come out now. You're hurting my child. Stop it. Just come out now. Do you hear me?"
Mummy (speaking in a gently lowered voice): "Is that okay Shabd? Do you think that's okay?"
Shabd: "Yes, it's okay now Mummy."

The Brave affirmation
Shabd and Mummy: "I'm brave like my Pappa. I will not be scared!"

The bottom line is that he simply must make a movement on his own, unaided by syrups and enemas. Yet, we're cognizant of making too much of an issue around this least we compound the concern by adding even more stress on him. So we keep going on the "Brave Boy" theme.

We tell him that we understand the pain and that we're treating that. We also ask him to be incredibly brave. To be incredibly strong. And that we'll give him a huge surprise when he goes to make tata on his own (hey! don't judge me..these are desperate times calling for desperate measures!).

The carrot approach worked a total of once! Shabd is a Thomas the Train enthusiast and beamed from ear to ear at having been given a talking Percy flashlight.

Now if only we could have a repeat performance on the potty! - Glory to thee, Motherland oh Motherland of mine!

Disclaimer: There are many very brave little children out there with severe problems. I do not mean to diminish their very real struggles and bravery. This blog is about my little boy and how he's shown bravery in one little aspect of his life.

If only they were here

I can't sleep. I can't sleep because there is a fog that settles over me often. It is not a cold, dense uncomfortable fog. It is more a longing, a pain in my heart for what or should i rather say who is there no more. It is a fog that envelopes me and transports me back in time, to a time when my father and Foi stilled walked this Earthly plane. And it is through this remembrance, this longing, that i wonder how different life would have been if Shabd and Simran would have met them. How blessed they would have been to have met my father and Foi.

I don't even need to close my eyes to see the twinkly in my father's eyes and the special way he would have smiled at his grandchildren. My father had a very special way of saying your name; his voice echoed your truth, as if his spirit danced a celestial dance with yours. Hearing him say your name was the most ambrosial melody you could ever imagine hearing him say to you.

My father was what one might call a "Baby Whisperer" - he had a way with children. Children were drawn to him, like the Pied Piper of Hamlet, his melodious voice, always a brim with love, moved children to aim higher, achieve more, keep reaching for the stars. Children gathered at his feet, sat on his lap and took comfort from his...his...his - oh what's the word - his himness! None embodied the words "I am that i am" more graciously then my father. I think it was because he understood children; their pure love, their sacredness, their frailty.

I am often saddened that my child will not meet my father. That he won't know of my father's magical love, of his generosity of spirit and of his immense strength. My child won't learn to draw cars from my father, neither will he learn to give change from the till from him. They will not go for long hikes in the mountains together, or munch on oven-baked samoosa's in the kitchen. They will not go for long drives together, and my father won't teach Shabd how to swim like a fish.

Yet, in many ways, i see my father in Shabd. It's in his smile and cleft chin! It's in the way Shabd wraps his arms around my neck to hug me. It's in his drawings and paintings and love for cars and speed. It's in his generosity of spirit.

I see it when Shabd consciously chooses not to hurt someone else's feelings. And in his love for music. In his curiosity that has no bounds. In his intelligence and love for the written word. I see it in those quiet moments, when Shabd is lost in thought. Mostly, i see it in how Shabd talks of Naru dada as if he were still alive.

In the perfect world, Foi would have been alive and proudly showing off to Jasu foi that her great grandchildren names, Shabd and Simran represent two fundamental elements of her spiritual path. She would also have shopped up a storm ensuring they both her great grandchildren had the very best clothing India and South Africa could offer. And my sister and i would regularly be receiving courier parcels full of Gujerati books, to teach to the children of course!

Like my father, her holidays would have been divided equally between Simran and Shabd - the two representing holidays in either Palma or Pretoria. And while in our homes, she would have daily cooked up a veritable storm of gathia, sakar para, puri, thepla, dokra and a whole assortment of Gujerati delicacies!

My father would have in all likelihood taken the kids swimming and hiking. The rest of their time together would have been divided between reading, story-telling (he was a great story teller) and an assortment of artistic adventures!

Like my father, Foi's presence in my sister and my homes would have brought to our hearts peace and a certainty that there is goodness and wholeness and pureness of love in this world.

Bang, Bang, Strum!

Our home is alive to the sound of music day and night. Shabd and Akash are always tapping or humming or singing or playing some instrument, where the instrument is sometimes the counter top! I can imagine that to the uninitiated, our home must be a very noisy place to be.

Akash and I have infinite patience when it comes to creative expression, evidenced I might add, by the crayoned walls! So if you want to bang out a tune on the djembe, or try out a little ditty on the guitar or sing out a song at the top of your voice, our home is where you have all the freedom to do it!

You can sing the same line or song over and over and over and over again, and be guaranteed no-one will yell at you to stop. You can add sound effects to just about ANY activity and no-one will yell at you to stop. As long as you're exploring your creative repertoire, it's all good! I'm not sure that patience is extended to other areas of parenting but with music and art, we've gotten that right (or so believe).

Shabd is blessed to have been born into a musical family. At the age of 2 and a half, he already has his own "Shabd sized" djembe, guitar, keyboard and harmonica. We encourage him to experiment through play and positive reinforcement. We support with plenty of "Bravo Shabby!" and lots of applauding! And we hope to send him for music classes when he's old enough to be accepted.

It should be noted however that while I have great hopes, dreams and aspirations for his musical career, I've been informed that I'm unfortunately no good at music.



I often sing along to the radio while driving and just as I'm hitting those crucial high notes, "And Iii- eee - iiii....will always love you, ooohhh oohhh, will always..." a little voice pipes up from the backseat, "What are you doing Mummy?" "I'm singing Shabby" say I ever so sweetly. "No. Don't. Pappa is better." he says in his most sternest voice and face. "Yeah I know," say I, "but I like singing too." To which I get a very curt reply, "No Mummy, Pappa is the strongest. Okay." And just so I clarify for you here, by "okay" what Shabd really means is - end of discussion okay.

Obviously I'm crestfallen at having been told that I don't stand a chance next to Pappa. But I know I'm a good dancer, so as soon as we return home I switch on the radio and invite Shabd to dance along with me. I'm unfortunately met with an incredulous "What are you doing Mummy?" to which I reply "I'm dancing Shabby. Come join me. Come on." "No," he firmly replies, "I don't like dancing." and saunters off to play with his cars leaving me alone on the dance floor!

If I cast my mind back, in the 2 and half years Shabd has walked this Earth, he has never enjoyed dancing. So in all fairness, after having dismally failed as being a credible singer, maybe proving my prowess as a dancer was doomed to be met with disapproval, right?

Surely he's too young to be embarrassed by me I think to myself as Shabd hums a U2 song while playing with his cars. Righ?!