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26/10/201015/04/2017

The great battle of the bulge

No prize for this one but I did get a special mention at the Blogadda contest ‘Good over Bad’.. yay yay yay. Here’s what judge Vidya Sury had to say…

Tulika (yes, I scrolled your blog to find your name) – more power to you! You’ve proved that one of the really ‘good’ qualities of an individual is the ability to laugh at the self. Humorously presented – and fun to read, you’ve waged the battle against that “bad” xxl and emerging victorious on the path to looking “good”. Yes, when you talk about health, good is certainly better than bad. Listen to your body talk to you!

This is what I think I look
like when I exercise

This is the story of the war I’ve been fighting for as long as I can remember — the battle of the bulge — the biggest battle of my life. There has been no truce for nearly thirty years.

For many many years I had been on a winning streak… till my twins happened. The enemy, finding my attention diverted, attacked with full force. By the time the kids turned four and I took cognizance of the situation, the enemy stood waving its victory flag all over me. My cholesterol was soaring and my knees hurt from carrying the excess weight. My ten chins showed themselves off proudly like the ten heads of Ravana. I needed to take charge. It was gym time.

I took on aerobics six times a week. I loved the music and thought I’d have fun. My mistake. Ten minutes into the session and I was spent. I stood panting by the stepper. “Giving up?” Taunted all of my seventy kgs? “No way,” said I and on I went driven by will power alone.

There were days of kickboxing, which I thought I would enjoy till the instructor told me to do sixty kicks in a row followed by sixty punches…. My shoulders protested, my thigh muscles cramped but on I went kicking and punching away at the enemy.

Then there were Fridays.. bhangra days. Now, I NEVER dance, never ever. Not even a casual step or two. But I was a woman on a mission. Fridays saw a resolute me boogeying to bhangra beats. I thought that was as far as the War would take me.

My mistake again. The instructors introduced Salsa every Monday. Slasa and me??? My friends laughed … but did I back out? No. On I went. “One two three.. five six seven..… move your waist,” exhorted the trainer. I struggled to move my feet, my waist and my hands in time to the music holding on to an imaginary partner. Once I lost my self-consciousness it wasn’t so bad. I began to have fun. And the icing on the cake – it wasn’t hard work like the bhangra.

After a well-rested Sunday I entered the gym thinking of a cool Salsa session. But is a war ever easy? No sir. The gym replaced Salsa with Hip Hop. Gawd I don’t even like watching that. But where was the choice? Shahid’s song boomed out — Dhan tanan.. Half a dozen youngsters shook, moved, jiggled and jogged. I thought I would die before I’d try those jerks. But I didn’t. The second week there I was again, yes all of my 40 years and 70 kgs, trying to keep pace. I never dared to glance at the mirror at my ridiculous self. I hated it.. every bit of it. But I did it… again and again every week.

For two long months the weighing scales refused to budge. Then slowly.. very very slowly.. gram by gram.. they moved. Within four months people were commenting.. my XXLs are now XLs and I’m waiting for the Ls.

I war with fat because I love myself. Oh yes I intend to be around for a long long time.. my kids need me and I like being alive.

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26/10/201015/04/2017

The reluctant convert

I’m not really a cellphone person at all.. at least I thought I wasn’t.

Back in the nineties since when mobiles were launched I have doggedly stuck to my landline. Each time we changed homes and the husband suggested we do away with the landline I protested. Each time he offered to get me a mobile I balked. I didn’t need the interference, I proclaimed.

Mobile phone etiquette leaves a lot to be desired … they ring at the oddest hours.. during official meetings, cosy dinners, in theatres even in temples. And people leave mid-sentence, mid-prayer, mid-meal to answer the call of the call.

I dismissed it as a fad, a tashan. It will fizzle out just like the damp squib pager, I said. I waited patiently with my blinkers on. I had a long wait coming.
I moved to Pune and my new editor insisted I carry a cellphone. I cringed, then allowed the husband to get me one. I kept it but vowed not to use it. I’d give people only my office numbers. Each time someone asked, “What’s your mobile number?” I’d reply grandly (and a tad rudely), “I take official calls only at office.”
Then I missed a story because when the girl I was supposed to interview called me I was out on another assignment. Then I missed another one and another. The boss’ sour face made me start handing out my mobile number. It started to ring more and more frequently. “Oh okay,” I agreed, grudgingly. “It’s a bit useful”. Slowly, silently, insidiously it worked its black magic on me. I found myself reaching out for it in times of happiness and stress.

I got a promotion, it let me gloat in private.
The doctor said I was having twins, I couldn’t call my husband fast enough.
My aunt passed away it helped me lighten my grief.
My son fell ill it let me share my worries.
We moved to a different city it lessened the heartache of parting.
My daughter threw up in school it summoned me in a flash.

Yet I refused to acknowledge and accept its significance in my life.

Then two days back it died. I felt like my whole life had come to a standstill. I had to beg my husband to put an alarm on his phone for the next morning. We’ve long since done away with the alarm clock. I went to drop the kids to school and the bus seemed late. I had no way of telling the time. I haven’t used a watch since I got my mobile. “How will I call the driver,” I wondered. Thankfully the bus came and the kids went off to school.

My son had a cough and I worried as I left for the gym, “What if the school calls and I’m not home?” I ran home from the gym because I had no way of telling the maid, “I’m on my way.” Is it anyone’s birthday today, I wondered as I got home. The trustee mobile never fails to remind me. Oops gotto run now… almost forgot, time to pick up the kids.. no alarm today, damn I’m late.

Whew! Got there just as the bus was arriving.

I have a battery of friends who I catch up with every single day. The husband who shells out the bill will vouch for that. Come evening and the landline started to ring. Where are you? Where have you left your phone? Why is your phone switched off? Why aren’t you taking my call? I must have called you 200 times.

Even my friends and family are missing my mobile. When did it become so important? When did it progress from an unwanted accessory to an official necessity and then to a friend and confidant?

It’s supposed to come home today and I’m ready with my welcome song and aarti ki thali. It’s all about My Friends, My Life, My Phone.

24/10/201029/06/2023

Why do I call myself ‘obsessive mom’

This is in response to a query in the comments section — Why do I call myself ‘Obsessive mom’.

And with that a can of worms has been opened!

The name is based on honest self-evaluation — I turned into one. In my defense I would like to explain how/why I became one while hoping I won’t remain one forever.

Tough beginnings

I had a tough pregnancy. I won’t bother you with gory details. Let’s just say that becoming a mom when you’re well in your thirties in age and well in your seventies in weight, is never easy. Add to that the fact that you are carrying twins and the odds are stacked against you… heavily.

That’s when the obsession started. I ate, napped, walked and took my medicines (including giving myself an injection every day) with the single thought of keeping my babies safe and healthy.

When they came

Once they were born at 1.9 kgs and 1.4 kgs, the obsession grew.

I obsessed about their intake of milk, counting ounces like Shylock counted his gold.
I obsessed about the ‘outflow’ making five-strike statistic stacks to keep track of the poos and the pees.
I guarded them with an eagle eye. If someone as much as tried to touch them I freake — ‘wash your hands’ I’d bellow, the ‘please’ lost somewhere in my anxiety.
I was up most nights burping them after the doc mentioned a baby dying because he wasn’t burped properly. (Much later I found out sometimes they just don’t burp.)
I monitored their sleep, eat, play routine like an army sergeant. Still do. (Why don’t they hate me?)
I made copious notes on ‘things to ask the doctor’ at the next appointment.
Once H slept too much, I went to the doc.
N didn’t do the big job for two days, I went to the doc
H went on and on having milk, I went to the doc.

The endless queries

This is embarrassing, but I’m in the confessional

And later, now, a thousand worries still.

Coughs, sneezes, running nose, wheezes — off to the ped

H didn’t start walking till he was almost 1. Should I consult a physio, I asked my ped? She laughed at me.

When there were fights in the playground, I went to the counselor.

At four plus H still has some speech unclarity (a little lisp), I’ve been considering a speech therapist.

However it’s not all worry and trouble

I do love being a stay at home mom (at least most times)
I love giving them a bath even now despite doing it everyday for four plus years.
I love choosing what they’ll wear, though they’re taking away that pleasure from me.
I love waving ‘bye’ to them after they board their school bus.
And I love being there to hold their hands as they get off in the afternoon.
I truly enjoy their school stories.
I love cooking for them, even though I’m cooking challenged.

You get the idea, I suppose

As a result…

I became a pariah among family and friends because I had time for nothing and no one.
I gave up the love of my life Shah Rukh Khan, no films other than MNIK in the theatre since they were born.
I have always loved shopping and now I find myself spending endless hours in the kids’ section. Thanks to my mom/sister I’m still clothed.
My monthly visits to the parlour have come down to a quarterly ceremony.
I gave up the gym and touched 80 kgs, this time without carrying any kids.

Don’t think I didn’t evaluate myself. I did. Check that post here .

Afterword

Most of this is normal new-mom behaviour.. I was perhaps marginally worse because I had two of them together and little support.

I am happy to add that as the kids grow I’m slowly getting over the obsessive disorder.

I go to the gym. My weight is down by 6 kgs.

I have started writing, (posts gone up from 5 in 2006 to 84 already in 2010).

I actually got a story published and made some money after five whole years (Yay! Though the cheque is still awaited).

I won the ‘Sporting memories’ contest on Blogadda which had absolutely nothing to do with kids… double yay.

In another few years I might look at rechristening the blog. What say?

19/10/201009/09/2024

She’s special

Dear N,

I’ve written to your brother earlier but never thought of writing to you. You seem so self sufficient, so self assured, so responsible and grown up already that I never thought you needed advice. But I’m a mama you see, and offering advice is second nature to our tribe so bear with me.. this time and all other times as you grow up.

Do you know it was papa who picked your name for you? Among other things it means ‘someone special’. And you really are. Of course you are special to mama and papa, all children are.. but you are special in a very SPECIAL way.

I don’t think you need me to tell you that, you hear it all the time. You may not be the prettiest girl around nor the most talented.. yet there’s something about you. Your teachers, your friends, their moms, the didi’s and the dadis of the society, the watchmen, the uncles and the aunties.. and sometimes even total strangers on the road seem to have something to say to you. I love it that you’re secure in the knowledge that you are everyone’s favourite.

However along with all this affection comes responsibility. People expect much much more from you. Have you noticed? If a child is feeling left out or alone it’s you his/her mother calls for help? And to your credit you ALWAYS listen and run to help and include the loner. If you happen to get into a disagreement it’s you who are asked to ‘understand’ and back out. It’s a tough deal but you handle it with aplomb. I am so proud.

Oh you’re a smart girl, I know, but sometimes mama-wisdom can help so here goes.

Be your own person.. don’t try to please everyone. It’s impossible to do that, not to say exceedingly exhausting. Trust your mama on this one baby, she’s been there. Don’t depend on others’ approval for your happiness. Don’t evaluate yourself by others’ parameters. Have your own. It’s more important to BE good than to be thought good.

Keep an active conscience.. it pays to have one. Life might seem easier in its absence but believe me it actually gets more complicated. Honesty, you will see, IS the best policy. So do your own homework, don’t expect mama to chip in even if the teacher never gets to know.

Don’t expect too much from yourself. It’s not important to be THE best.. it’s important to give YOUR best. I remember the time you went for a fancy dress competition, you were just two years old. You got tongue tied on the stage and then couldn’t forgive yourself for the longest time because you couldn’t give your best. Don’t be hard on yourself baby.. leave that to the others.

Focus. When you take up something stick with it. You’re a busy girl I know. There are many many things to be done, places to be explored, activities to be taken up .. but do finish what you start or else you’ll get nowhere.

Look beyond the external. Beautiful is NOT always good. And while on looks — clothes are not the end of the world.. oh well you are a girl after all, I’ll let you have that one.

More later

Love and hugs

Mama

17/10/201015/04/2017

The men are fighting

The men of the house got into a scuffle today – the father and the son. Who was at fault? Read on and decide.

The son was in high spirits what with Nanu and Nani ma spoiling him silly and was showing off his skill with his favourite toy, the gada. Enter the daddy.. a tad sleepy considering he got home at 3 am and hence not in the best of humours. One swipe of the brave gada and daddy’s specs came flying down.. the lenses and the frames sailed to two different corners of the room. The eyes, spared mercifully.

Happy to help

Predictably the daddy lost it. The erring gada was promptly confiscated and consigned to the loft. That was of course sacrilege. If you have been a brave and patient reader of this blog you’ll know what the gada means to the son. It’s his weakness and his strength. He has it by his side when he’s eating, sleeping or watching television. Each time we go visiting we have a tussle because he wants to carry it with him. A few days back he wanted to take it down when he went to play the dandiya.

All hell broke lose. I sprinted to the spot to mediate, which I did quite well. Within ten minutes the son was persuaded to tender an apology. The father accepted (after 20 minutes because he was at his phone, as usual).

The daughter, who has perhaps been the worst hit by her brother, literally and figuratively, then persuaded the daddy to return the gada to her heartbroken sibling. She sure can twist the big man round her little finger. Up she went on daddy’s head and got down the precious gada. Some wars are easier won by love than anger. Hrit that’s a lesson for you from your sister.