So we went to Pahadland...

..but to cut a long story short, I dislocated my shoulder so not typing out a post about it. (Patience, folk, will do so the moment the good doctor gives me the go ahead for long hours at the key board) but here are some brat on pahadland trip pics.

Have you been checking my posts for Parle G's blog?

Love to see your comments on this one:
http://parentsquotient.thefuturegenius.com/?p=14

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And so he swam...

..his heart out. And came third in his time trial and 26th in his group. Not a stellar performance at all. But we weren't really expecting medals. All we wanted from him was that he did a decent timing, bettering his regular time and so he did and we are pretty delighted.

Here's the video of his race. He's in lane two and I'm kneeling in the white at the turn.
For me, it was my first ever experience of attending a sporting meet as a parent. And someone should have warned me to carry throat lozenges given that I spent a major part of the day shouting my voice box out for all the children of the club who participated. Sports meets are rather fun, I must say, never mind that we were grilled to cinders in the hot sun through the day despite the shamianas thoughtfully put up by the Otters Club organising committee, which had also provided for a tea and snacks counter which I am told is the best part about the meets held here, in contrast to the GMAAA contest which happens at a pool where not only do you not get beverages and nutrients to keep body and soul together, but you also need to cart along mats to provide seating for self.
The comic relief at the swim meet was provided by some of the parents, who were taking their role as cheerleaders very seriously. So seriously in fact that for one, I thought we'd need to keep an ambulance on standby in the event that her heart gave up on her with all that shouting and jumping around, and for another we looked around for the fishing net in the very real possibility that she would tumble into the pool and collide with the unfortunate swimming in lane six.
The drama happened at the fag end of the second day when Farhan Akhtar, dapper in aviators and insouciance arrived to be the chief guest and hand out them medals and certificates to the worthies who had won their events. After all the swim mums had finished collectively squealing, collapsing in a faint and rushing with offspring and scraps of paper for autograph, I grabbed vantage point directly opposite said droolworthiness and did unabashed gawping from behind the safety of a pair of aviators.
But honestly, for me, the best moment of the two day meet was when the announcer, out of the blue, announced "Today, we have as a swim parent with us (the spouse's name) ex national champion, Breast stroke, and member India Waterpolo team, please give him a round of applause." And the gathering cheered for the suddenly embarrassed spouse. At that moment, seeing all the unfamiliar faces looking at him now with new found respect, after all these years of knowing the man, I realised that indeed, being a national gold medallist two years running is not something to be scoffed at. The brat of course, is floating around on helium cloud number nine. "Dey callt my fadder's name. Did dey call yer fadder's name."

Of competitions and coming fusht...

The brat is in training for the first swimming competition of his life, the Otters Club meet this weekend and given he has just about begun competitive training and his timings being what they are, mamma and pappa are looking at this more as an opportunity for him to get the experience of a competitive meet, rather than any hopes of him bringing home them medals.
The brat, regardless of his prosaic parents telling him that medals don't matter and that all they want is for him to do his best, is working very hard to reduce his timings. Every lap he swims at the pool during practice, he asks his coach what he clocks. And then he exults or sulks as the case might be. All the spare time he gets at home, he is, *gasp, shock, die* not checking out WWE episodes on the iPad, and going through swimming training videos.
The other night, thrashing in his sleep next to me, obviously in the clutches of a deep dream, he yelled, "I dint come second I came fusht. Don lie."
I sat up and blinked hard. And wondered whether to take him out of the dream that was disturbing him so. But I let him sleep on and battle whatever situation he was facing in his dream unhindered. In the morning I asked him, "What did you dream about?"
He looked at me quizzically and replied, "Dat I came fusht."
I drew a deep breath and decided to have the "It's okay if you don't win," talk with him, but then stopped. Who was I, I realised, to sow the seeds of self doubt in his head? We weren't pressuring him to win, the only thing we were keen on is that he did his very best. He was old enough, keen enough and he was motivating himself internally. Shouldn't that be all that mattered? I'm still grappling with this.

Of choosing to have a child...

In the past few days I've read a very poignant piece by a noted feminist writer on why she has chosen not to have a child. Some married and childless by choice friends have spoken about how they feel it is unfair to bring a child into 'this' world. Some others have been brutally honest and said they have reached a comfort level with the way their lives are and wouldn't want a child to come into the equation and change it. Yet others have spoken about how they don't want to put their career before the demands of raising a child, of how we don't have good child care available in India, and how moving up the corporate ladder becomes more difficult while negotiating nappies and PTMs.
I don't know.
I chose to have a child. I spent eight years after being married childless. Not that it made a difference to me at that point, I wasn't aching to have a child. I just didn't conceive after an initial miscarriage and I wasn't pressured enough within me to try to have a baby, to consult infertility specialists, to get a diagnosis of why I wasn't conceiving. I quite enjoyed the freedom of being able to pull out a duffel bag and pack a week's worth of clothes whenever we felt like it and hit the road, driving down to Goa, to Cochin, to Chennai, to wherever the fancy took us. I liked the freedom of staying out all night, partying, coming home with the milk, spending the weekends lazing until the muscles atrophied from disuse.
The lack of a child in our lives didn't matter. Then, it hit me. When I hit thirty. A vague sense of needing more, needing purpose though three years later if you told me my purpose was to be changing diapers at 3 am and getting by on three hours of sleep a day, I would have thrown a wooden wedge heel at you. Nonetheless, I wanted, I decided, to have a baby. It was almost like a fierce physical urge that burned me when I saw small children wheeled around in their prams, friends with babies were only too glad to have me around because I took charge of their offspring for the few hours they were with me, giving them a welcome breather. To me then, having a baby was a bit like a three year old playing with a doll.
I had no clue of what actually having a full time, pooping, crying, feeding baby meant.
And then I had mine.
I won't kid you that love happened at first sight. I looked at the crumpled, wizened, red face and my first thought was that, it is true, man is descended from the monkeys. The second thought was panic. Pure and simple. I had no idea what to do with the child. Every time he began bawling, folks around flung him back at me like I had some surprise solution for the sobbing. Most times it was solved by a feed, but often it meant walking endlessly, an upset stomach, some msyterious pain or ache or discomfort I couldn't fathom. And then, slowly, without me realising it, I was in love. An all encompassing, fierce love that excluded everything and everyone, including my hapless hubby, who realised, resignedly, that he was to play second lead in this love story henceforth. Nothing mattered. No one mattered. The only thing that mattered to me now was my baby. And this almost visceral sense of possession and pride took over everything.
The boy is nine years old now. I have absolutely no qualms in stating that my life revolves around him. I made a choice career wise when he was born to step back from full time work, and I don't regret it a bit. I did what was right for me at that point. The husband and I haven't been out on a dinner date for years. Do we feel our relationship shaky and tenuous because we barely have together time? Far from it.
Choosing to have a child when I did was a decision I took consciously. I had dated my husband for six years, we were married for eight before the brat was born. Today, I cannot imagine life without the brat. Which is not to say that I am at the other end of the spectrum from those who chose to not have children. I sincerely believe to each their own. And we need to be free to make our choices and not need to justify them to ourselves or to the others around us. Would I choose to have the brat, had I a choice again? My answer might differ depending upon whether he's tantrumming in the immediate vicinity, but seriously, yes, I would. And it isn't the urge to keep my genes going long after I'm gone that would make me say that. It is just the simple, primal joy of creating within me a complete human being, of seeing that human being grow from being completely helpless and dependent on me for every little thing to becoming a strong, independent young boy who doesn't want me around and can manage everything on his own. It makes me paradoxically proud and feeling redundant at the same time.
I chose to have a child. It was completely my decision. I understand the privilege of being in a position where I could make that choice unencumbered by expectations from family or the spouse. I understand for women who don't have that privilege of choosing to have their children, there might be a sense of resentment for the life choice forced upon them.
I chose to have my boy when the time was right for me. I didn't choose to have a baby after he was born. That was another choice I made. And no, I wasn't going to have another baby to give him 'company' or to make sure he had family around after the two of us were dead and gone, and if I was selfish in doing so, so be it. It is a decision I would take if I had to take it again. And it is a decision I don't regret. I don't regret the silvery lines on my stomach, the slight overhang of the belly where the scalpel made the incision, the gentle sag of the breasts which have fed this baby, the grey he put into my hair each time he was hospitalised, the backbone that now collapses on me at any chance thanks to the epidural. No, I don't regret a thing. If anything, I regret not having him sooner.

CSAAM April 2013: Let's talk about the elephant in the room

This is the third year that a group of dedicated volunteers, whom I'm proud to be a part of, are working on the Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month April 2013. In the past year, the newspapers are increasingly reporting cases of child sexual abuse in homes, in schools, in public places. Human Rights Watch released an 82 page report on CSA in India, titled “Breaking the Silence: Child Sexual Abuse in India.”which stated that, “Children are sexually abused by relatives at home, by people in their neighborhoods, at school and in residential facilities for orphans and other at-risk children.” (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/08/world/asia/report-faults-indian-government-over-widespread-child-sex-abuse.html?_r=0)
To quote Meenakshi Ganguly, the director of Human Rights Watch in South Asia, from a statement. “Children who bravely complain of sexual abuse are often dismissed or ignored by the police, medical staff and other authorities.” According to the HRW report, "More than 7,200 children, including infants, are raped every year, while many more cases go unreported." Here is the full report: http://www.hrw.org/sites/default/files/reports/india0113ForUpload.pdf
A statement released by Louis-Georges Arsenault, UNICEF Representative to India, states, “It is alarming that too many of these cases are children. One in three rape victims is a child. More than 7,200 children including infants are raped every year; experts believe that many more cases go unreported. Given the stigma attached to rapes, especially when it comes to children, this is most likely only the tip of the iceberg. ” (http://www.countercurrents.org/asingh220313.htm). To quote from this same report, "In 2007 the Indian government sponsored a survey called, “National Study on Child Abuse: India 2007” through the Ministry of Women and Child Development, GoI. The findings of the study was based on interviews with 12,500 children in 13 different states, and reported serious and widespread sexual abuse, thereby bringing on record the gravity of the problem. Yet no concrete steps were initiated to deal with the problem and Renuka Chowdhry, the then Minister of Women and Child, went as far as describing the prevalence of child sexual abuse in India as “a conspiracy of silence. What was really disturbing was the fact that the survey confirmed that 72 percent of the victims said they were abused and they did not report the matter to anyone. Only a small 3 percent of the victims’ families complained to the police or made the abuse public. Interestingly, prior to the GoI study in 2007, an India NGO named Recovery and Healing from Incest(RAHI) conducted India’s first study of child sexual abuse in 1998 called “Recovery and Healing from Incest, Voices from the Silent Zone(New Delhi 1998). The study interviewed 600 English-speaking middle and upper class women out which 76 percent said they had been abused in their childhood or adolescence. Shockingly 40 percent said they had been abused by a family member mostly an uncle or a cousin. Yet despite the study making its findings public nothing much was done by the government or related agencies to address the problem with seriousness.”
The unreported is what we are all familiar with. The "Don't talk about it with anyone," the "Don't be alone with that uncle/cousin", the "what did you do, it must have been your fault," that we have all grown up with. I say all, because in all these years of talking about CSA, I have yet to meet one lady who says she grew up without experiencing some CSA, in whatever form from the mildest groping and fondling, to the more horrific. Our abusers weren't people we didn't know, they were the people who had easy access to us, relatives, family friends, trusted uncles, older cousins. Our parents didn't encourage talk about what had happened to us, even if we dared tell them about it, and if we did gather the courage to do so, rarely was the abuser confronted or blacklisted from the home, forget lodging formal complaints against them. Often we grew up with the ignominy of having our abusers around us, despite our flesh cringing at their presence, because it wasn't done to confront them, to call them out on their behavior, because family was more important than a child's sense of security. I notice things changing today-parents are willing to take up cudgels for their children, parents are ready to talk to their children about good touch/bad touch, they are empowering their children to come to them with any issues they have without fear of censure, and children are being empowered to not do anything an adult says without questioning.
This gives me some hope, the hope that no longer we are a society that will stigmatise the victims and survivors of CSA but with castigate the perpetrators and not allow them to move around with impunity. We need to remember that a child sexual abuser will go on to abuse more children if not caught. "An average child molester will offend 200–400 times before being caught, if ever." As parents, it is our job to have 'the talk' with our children, no matter how uncomfortable we might find it.
Here are some good pointers.
Pointers for Parents:

• Calmly and clearly, teach your children about personal safety, in age-appropriate ways, from age three and up, each year adding on more age-appropriate details. Role-playing different scenarios is a very effective proactive tool. Try to prevent your children from learning about this in a much harder way.
• Be wary, and openly communicate through calm and concerned questions, with a child if he or she appears to be uncharacteristically uncomfortable or expresses negativity around a particular adult male or teen—even if the person is a neighbor, close friend of the family, relative, or respected community member.
• Calmly and clearly, teach your children about personal safety, in age-appropriate waysBe wary, and openly communicate through calm and concerned questions, with a child who is receiving special favors or gifts from an adult male or teen.
• Be wary, and openly communicate through calm and concerned questions with a child, if anybody—including teachers, coaches, counselors, youth group leaders, doctors or babysitters, as well as relatives, ever meets privately in a room with a closed door with a child for any reason, or goes off with them to any place where they are alone.
• If a child discloses that he or she has been sexually abused, never blame the child for any of their actions or for not telling you sooner. Victims of abuse require support.
• If a child discloses that he or she has been sexually abused, don’t rely on anyone else to fulfill your obligation. Go to the police.
• Remember that perpetrators can look you right in the eye and lie easily. They are masters of deception. Leave investigations for forensic experts.

(Information sourced from: http://www.chabad.org/theJewishWoman/article_cdo/aid/1707466/jewish/Things-You-Need-to-Know-About-Child-Molesters.htm)
And finally, do trust and support your child. The way you respond to a disclosure of abuse might be the key to whether your child will bring any more instances to your attention. Here are some helpful tips as to how you can respond.
• Always believe the child.• Reassure the child that telling you was the right thing to do.• Maintain a calm appearance.• Find a quiet place to talk.

Be truthful
Children and young people sometimes fear repercussions for themselves or siblings, or consequences for parents or other family members. Because of this, a child might ask an adult to promise secrecy before disclosing. Such a promise should not be made. The mandatory reporter can reassure the child and encourage them to speak out about the abuse.

Let the child or young person take their time
It is important the child or young person does not feel rushed or panicked and that the mandatory report has plenty of time to calm and reassure them. Be a supportive listener, however, remember, it is not a counselling session.

Let the child or young person use their own words
Children and young people have their own way of describing their experiences. It is important not to ask questions that suggest the ‘right’ words to a child or young person, or in a way that can be seen as putting words in the child’s mouth. The investigation of the disclosure should only be done by professional child protection workers or the Western Australia Police.

Let the child or young person know what you will do next
Child abuse often leaves children feeling disempowered and lacking control in their own life. Making sure the child or young person is fully aware of each step can make the process less intimidating and can help return a sense of power and safety.

Do not confront the person believed to be an abuser
Do not confront the person believed to be abusing the child or young person. Confrontation has the potential to place the child, the mandatory reporter or others at risk. Professional child protection workers or the Western Australia Police will take any necessary action.

Make the call
Due to the seriousness of child sexual abuse, a verbal report is the preferred method of reporting in the first instance.

A written report must follow a verbal report as soon as practicable, preferably within 24 hours.

(sourced from http://mandatoryreporting.dcp.wa.gov.au/Pages/FAQ-Respondingtoachildwhomakesadisclosure.aspx)

We are trying to talk about the elephant in room, we are making a start. CSAAM might be an online effort, and it might yet not have the numbers or the offline presence that is needed, but what we are trying to do is to remove the taboo surrounding CSA for the survivor, to empower survivors to know that they are not to blame, to tell parents that they can't be ostrich like and pretend CSA does not exist, and that they need to be extra vigilant, that they need to be on the watch for signs of CSA, that they need to empower their children, however young, with enough vocabulary and confidence that they can explain any incident to them.

Join us on http://csaawarenessmonth.com/ all through April to talk about CSA and how we can and we must keep our children safe.

Of vicious park fights and sobbing pintsizes

The other evening, I'd just returned home from the office and had put my feet up, metaphorically speaking and had dug my nose into a Dave Barry, when the phone rang. A friend from the complex. "Where are you?" she asked. I replied that I was on the premises. "Come down immediately," she commanded. "Your son is hurt and is bleeding."
I fled down not bothering to change out of tatty pyjamas and top which had been bought during pregnancy to accommodate swollen belly and was now accommodating expanded waistline. A hurriedly called conference was on, the friend who had called me down was patiently talking to the kids involved in the scrap, the other kids around were playing star witness roles and giving full detailed accounts of what had transpired.
"Aunty, he was doing nothing, R was constantly kicking A's cycle and A thought that the brat did it, so A began punching him and scratching him."
In all the accounts of the events that transpired, it emerged that a simple misunderstanding caused all the fighting. 
In all this, the brat, bleeding from multiple scratches to the face was standing stoically, much flattered by all the attention he was getting, while A, one of his frens in good times and bad, was sobbing bitterly, whether from fear or from remorse, I do not know.
It ended up with me making them shake hands and be friends again, and telling them both not to get into scraps and try and talk things out rather than getting into fisticuffs, but which self respecting little boys would heed that. And spent the next 20 minutes consoling the crying boy, who seemed terrified that reports of this attack would reach his home and an irate father.
Ah well, I didn't go ringing the doorbell to complain, nor do I believe in writing letters to do the same. I hope the quiet conversation I had with both of them would be enough. Although the aggression levels are terrifying, I'm still not in favour of rushing to complain to the other parent.
Here's the brat. Post being cleaned up and Savloned. And, no, he didn't shed one tear.

Of singing in class

The brat has taken on himself the duty of being the class clown. Ergo, the diary has been peppered with strident complaints from the teachers about him singing and dancing in class.
At the last such complaint, a stern talking to was given and he swore on all that was dear to him including John Cena that he would not repeat it.
Therefore when I picked him up from school the other day, a little girl from his class pulled at my sleeve, "Aunty, Aunty," she said, "the brat was singing in class today!"
I turned on the brat like the wolf coming down on the sheep. "Is this true? Did you sing again in class?"
"Yes aunty, he was singing Balma."
"Wot lies!" The brat exploded. "I wusnt singing Balma. I wuz singing Hookah Bar. And I wuz singing soffly."
Errrm. Yes. That redeemed him. Not.
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Of uninformed mammas and mash ups

The brat and I sat before the telly watching a music channel. In the distant past, dear reader, you might recall, a little brat being able to rattle off lyrics to songs, distorted appropriately but damned if he could remember the alphabet in appropriate sequence.
Well that love for them songs lives on and mamma learns of new hit songs when the brat begins humming them while doing his homework, not watching much of them channels herself.
While watching, mamma realised that a new trend was to combine all the songs of a movie into one and provide a sort of overview to the music of the film. What? What? Yes, mamma is a cave woman in some aspects. She gently pointed this out to the brat. He gave her the long suffering long patient look of one who will disown her in polite company when he hits his teen years. "Mom," he said, doing a pretty good rip off of mamma's patented eye roll, "that's a mash up."
He didn't add the Duh. To think that mamma does reports on mash ups. She earned that Duh. And that eye roll.
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Gearing up for CSAAM April 2013

Dear Friends,
April 2013 is a month away, and we are gearing up for the 3rd year of CSAAM. As you are all aware, through the month of April we talk about the menace of CSA across social media, via Facebook, twitter and blogs. We count on your support and participation as always.
Partnering us in our efforts this year will be organisations working in this field like Arpan, Tulir, Human Rights Watch as well as online initiatives like Blogadda and Womens Web.
You will see personal testimonials, expert advice, twitter chats, information sources, resources, workshops, an iPhone app and lots and lots of blog posts across the blogosphere.
We need to get people talking about this elephant in the room. If you would like to post on your blogs, do send us a tentative date, so we can schedule your post in. If you would like to participate in a twitterthon, do let us know. Even forwarding this email to anyone you think might be interested in participating and contributing would be welcome.
If you would like to add to the discussion or know somebody else who would, please note that we welcome entries
• mailed to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com OR
• posted as FB notes and linked to Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month Page OR
• posted on your own blog with the badge and linked to the main blog OR
• linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR
• Anonymous contributions are accepted and requests for anonymity will of course be honoured.
• You can also support us simply by adding our the logo of the initiative to your blog’s sidebar. Grab the code below to do so http://csaawarenessmonth.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/batch-code-txt-2013.docx
• Please remember to send in a mail with all necessary links or just your input to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com so that we can track your contribution and make sure that it is not inadvertently lost or something.
Some guidelines
1) Please precede the title of your post with CSAAM April 2013. Then add a hyphen and your title.
2) Please insert the badge html in your post. If you carry it on your sidebar for the entire month of April too apart from just within your post, we would be honoured.
3) If you refer to sources for information kindly italicise that part of your post which is taken from the source and provide the link to the original source in a bracket.
4) And finally please avoid graphic descriptions of the abuse. Stay as factual as possible if you’re doing first person accounts.
We need all your help to make this month a success, and are counting on your support.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Warm regards,
CSAAM team

Of a wrathful god and brat logic....

...the brat has, at the pool, a rather devout companion, who is all round bright and sparky, if a little earnest. The other day, the child, let's call him J for brevity, informed the brat kindly, that since he swam slowly and was at the fag end of the lot at the end of the laps, God would be very angry with him and punish him.
I was dutifully informed of this development by the brat. I have no truck with the concept of God as a hell and brimstone wrathful vengeance spewing power, but I spoke nothing of this to the brat. "Do you think that is true?" I asked him. He shook his head. And that was the end of the discussion as far as I was concerned.
This morning, at the pool, the discussion veered off to a wrathful, punishing God again with J leading the discourse. We watched on from the sidelines.
The brat's voice piped up loud and clear. "God has no bedder vurk to do? He has to make day and night and trees grow and food for everybuddy and he's going to be bothered whether I'm swimming fasht or slow?"
There was a hushed silence. The brat continued, "If God starts punishing everyone who swims slowly everyone will come fusht, no one will come second."
I wiped a tear of quiet pride. This is definitely my son.

Of being Pollution

The brat's culminating performance, an activity that happens at the end of every term, happened today. He spent the better part of yesterday grumbling intensively about bunking school and not attending the culminating performance. His reason? He was to play Pollution in a skit about the environment and was most disgusted at playing the villain of the piece. "Wai always I habtu be the bad person?"
Mamma gave him some spiel about how Pollution was integral to the skit and how without it the skit would have no purpose, etc.
This morning he swanned into the school premises encountering another pint size who was playing air. "Yer air," he said, inflated with self importance, "I am stronger dan you! I will defeat you!"

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"Each child, each parent, each family is different," says Tara Sharma

I first 'met' Tara Sharma on twitter, I have still to meet her in the real world. Of course, I knew of her, had seen her in movies, admired her levels of fitness, and her gorgeous long hair. Over the past year or so that we've been interacting on twitter, she's come across as a very focused person, a devoted, hands on mum and an all round nice, grounded person. She also does a show on parenting, which is great fun if you have young children, and are looking for practical tips, advice and accounts of how to grapple with things like travelling with kids for instance.
Here's a short Q& A with Tara about her show and about parenting.
1] How did the concept of doing this show come about to you?
 When pregnant and soon after our elder son was born I realised I was loving being a hands on mum yet slowly I wanted to get back to work. Having been an actress and prior to that having studied at LSE (London School of Economics) and worked in the corporate world for a bit, I racked my brains to think of what I could do to combine both and be with my family, that's when it occurred to me that I had seen cooking show, carpentry shows etc but never a realistic, maybe humorous and possibly helpful who about how to clean a baby's potty or give them and bath or take them on a plane! So was born 'The Tara Sharma Show - Diaries of a New Mum / Ek Nayi Ma ka Safar'.

2] How involved are you in the conceptualization and planning of the show, you're surely more that just anchoring it? Is there a lot of research/background work you get involved in?
I am involved in every aspect of our show. In fact sometimes to the point of possibly being a slightly annoying control freak to the people on the team! being the show's creator and writer, and as it is based on my diary I am extremely particular that everything in it is actually what I believe and want to convey. For eg I always say I am not an expert but just a mum who is learning. I am also co-producing the show with my husband Roopak's company The 120 Media Collective, so I am involved in the business side completely too. In fact it was me who walked into the sponsors offices for both Season's and pitched our show and touch wood got them on board! Johnson's Baby is a fantastic sponsor and a great fit. They also understand the concept of branded entertainment where the show has very subtle product integration and no pushing products so no compromise on the touch wood engaging content. I have superb team supporting me, but most of the main decisions come from me. So honestly to me the show is a work of passion and very personal and a great way for me to combine business entertainment and being a hands on Mummy! Also yes we research and ask lots of questions and as it is a multi platform show there is a lot of audience interaction and feedback. On FB, twitter, my blog etc. Also our team keeps me in check so I am so grateful to them!

3] How do you think parenting has changed for the current generation of parents? How do we differ from our parents? What are the new challenges we face?
I think parenting per say is the same. The aim of bringing up happy, good valued, healthy kids is possibly and has possibly always been every parent's wish. Each one's circumstances and values may differ so again I say there are no specific rules but rather generic processes. Also I always say no one gets more advice than pregnant women and new parents so I never want to appear to be sermonizing but rather jut sharing and learning from each other. I think most of us if we had happy childhoods, draw from what our parents did.I was and still am very close to my parents and find a lot of my parenting ways come from them And of course my husband's inputs too. But where my mum was a stay at home mum and though she worked managing my dad's career and studio, she called herself a housewife. I think all women have always been multi taskers but now we have more opportunity to work and look after our families so I guess balancing that is a new challenge but at the same time can be a huge opportunity to do both. Thanks to technology and changes of mindsets more and more women can work around their kids. Be it timings or even creating work around kids like me and my show! So there are huge advantages and also challenges to being a new age mum!

4] What have been the most enjoyable episodes you have done so far?
Cliched as it sounds all...as the nature of the show is we shoot over a long period of time and only edit and create the episodes later. So for eg we have footage form the day our younger one was born and that gets integrated in an episode. Or there are episodes shot on our holidays or our day to day life. Always trying to bring a deeper message out while showing life as it is. So all are v special. I guess the holiday ones are a lot of fun and in Season 2 ep1 is very dear to me as my dad who passed a while ago features in it too.

5] What is your parenting philosophy? And what are your parenting challenges?
Each to their own, with a few generic processes that we can share and learn from each other...is my parenting philosophy. Each child, each parent, each family is different so do what works for you, but certain basic things we all share. The interesting thing is whatever region, religion or culture love for our kids and a desire to be a good parent are common emotions we all share, So listen to your own kids, your own instinct and your own Docs and watch our show and lets learn and share together!

Of shower gels and being a chick magnet

The other day, whilst browsing the aisles at Hypercity, the brat was quickly doing his share of shopping, which generally comprised items that would promptly get redeposited back on shelves as they got put into cart. Some amount of plea bargaining happened with Appy Fizz, Slice and assorted junk. Then he picked up a humungous bottle of Axe Shower Gel and staggered with it to place it carefully into the trolley. "Why?" I asked, confounded, "Do you need this, when we have enough and more of the regular stuff including soaps and shower gels at home?' "Fer the swimming pool bag," he said, a little abashed. The pater decided to pull his leg a bit, knowing his current abhorrence towards all little girls. "Brat," he said, "If you use this, all the girls will fall from the sky on your lap or run behind you like the ad." "No," the brat replied, chirpily confident. "Dat only happinz wen you use Axe like Volini spray for ghutno ka dard. Nod fer d shower gel."

Of vada pavs

The brat spent time in the office the other day, and it being long past the lunch hour, hunger pangs were doing their growling thing within the stomach. Ergo, mamma, pappa and the brat set forth in search of solid nutrition. Mamma and pappa, being street food addicts, opted for the humble, easily accessible at the street corner, vada pav, a staple of any Mumbaikars regular diet. Vada pavs procured for the two adults and one for the brat who sunk teeth into the starchy deep fried item with great relish and chomped along happily for the better part of two minutes before coming up for air. "Did you like it?" asked the pater of the brat. "Yus," he replied, nodding enthusiastically. "Wot flavour you got?" Ah, my poor food chain familiar child.

Of teasing and complaints

The brat and frens at school have been teasing an unfortunate with a word that happens to rhyme with his surname. While the word is not abusive, it is definitely not something polite and I would be the first to tell the brat that teasing is not one, had I known of it. Unfortunately, the parent of the child, naturally upset, has sent in a long note to the school, listing out the names of all the children who are teasing her son, with the rhyming name, and with the consequent result that this becomes an official matter. For those who say there is a fine line between teasing and bullying, I agree. For those who say that when many kids gang up against one kid, it can be detrimental to the kid ganged up on, I agree too. But I also feel kids need to be talked to, rather than threatened. I can talk with my son, tell him that this behaviour is not acceptable and he needs to stop. I tell him to think of how terrible he feels when others tease him regarding his love for chicken, his little paunch and other stuff that they pick on. Kids are cruel. We've been in kid land before we grew up and became adults, so we should know. I grew up being called moti chasmis, thanks to my girth and my spectacles which weren't as common back then when I was a child as they are now. I lumped it, my mother was very clear that I needed to sort out playground or school issues right there and nothing was to be brought home. I survived the teasing, I learnt to channel my skills towards other things, to develop my self esteem not based on my appearance, given I was no oil painting through my childhood and adolescence. I tried to teach my son the same. To fight his own battles, to realise that what is good within him is not dependent on what others around him say, to have his sense of self worth intact and to not be cruel and mean. I might have failed a bit at the latter, but I'll rectify it. The brat, he has been bullied. Rather cruelly at that, in the past. We've worked on it, taught him how to fight back, to respond, to deal with it, perhaps a bit too well. For the parent, who feels the need to constantly step in, for the littlest things, who does not allow his or her child to learn to deal with the unpleasantness in the world, I worry. Every child needs to learn how to fight back, how to cope, to realise that they must be able to tackle teasing, unpleasantness, with the parents providing support and self esteem, not insulation. And there is this lovely letter by Abraham Lincoln to his son's teacher that I read everytime I need some reinforcement as to whether I'm on the right path. (Thanks @brownbrumby for reminding me of it today). I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. It contains, according to me, the essence of what parenting is all about. He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, all men are not true. But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero. That for every selfish politician, there is a dedicated leader. Teach him that for every enemy there is a friend. Steer him away from envy, if you can. Teach him the secret of quiet laughter. Let him learn early that the bullies are the easiest to lick. Teach him, if you can, the wonder of books. But also give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and the flowers on a green hillside. In the school teach him it is far honorable to fail than to cheat. Teach him to have faith in his own ideas even if everyone tells him they are wrong. Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with the tough. Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the band wagon. Teach him to listen to all men. But teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take only the good that comes through. Teach him if you can, how to laugh when he is sad. Teach him there is no shame in tears. Teach him to scoff at cynics and to beware of too much sweetness. Teach him to sell his brawn and brain to the highest bidders but never to put a price-tag on his heart and soul. Teach him to close his ears to a howling mob and to stand and fight if he thinks he’s right. Treat him gently, but do not cuddle him because only the test of fire makes fine steel. Let him have the courage to be impatient. Let him have the patience to be brave. Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself because then he will have sublime faith in mankind. This is a big order, but see what you can do. He is such a fine fellow, my son !

Of when mamma said A Very Bad Word

Mamma and brat went into a toy store to buy a gift for a fren's budday party. The gift selected and paid for, it was sent off to another corner of the store for gift wrapping purposes. Mamma and brat waited and waited, there was no sign of the gift emerging, wrapped and labelled, from the innards of the store.
The owner and the salespersons conducted a robust conversation in Kutchi amongst themselves over our heads. Mamma squeaked up a couple of times asking if the wrapping was done. She was roundly ignored. The brat took it on himself to ask each of the sales staff if the wrapping was done, and was also roundly ignored. Mamma pinched herself to check if she was physically present and hadn't morphed into a wraith. Then Mamma lost her temper. At most times, Mamma is placidly bovine no matter what the provocation but when she loses her temper, grown men have been known to quake in their shoes. Some shouting happened. Some sound ticking off. And a Very Bad Word escaped her lips. The brat stood mouth agape.
We reached home. The brat ran to the pater bursting with a tale he needed to tell. He narrated the entire episode to his father with much excitement. "And then you know mamma said C#@*@#*a. Now you have to clean her mouth with Harpic."
Errm.
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Parents and Facebook...

Here is an interesting graphic I was sent by OnlineEducation.net. Please Include Attribution to OnlineEducation.net With This Graphic

Of owning up to one's sins

The brat came out of school, face carved of stone. Through the short walk to the car he said not a word. All attempts to kickstart the conversation drew a blank.
"Whatever happened, brat? Did something happen at school?"
He nodded slowly, his eyes firmly fixed on his hands.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He repeated the affirmative head movement.
"I god cott by the vice prinspal. An I godda punissmint."
The voice was glum. Unseen violins playing funereal dirges were needed as background music for this one.
"Whatever for?" I should have known when I asked the question.
"I was faiding with S."
"Did S get caught too?" I asked.
"Nope. He ran away."
"You didn't run away?"
"Mard ka bachchas don run away. They stay and face the consikwences." Errm. Okay.
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Of the pool and training routine

The pool and training duty for the brat is primarily the pappa's but yesterday I decided to accompany them to see what the brat was up to. We landed at the pool, located a ten minute drive away from where we live to find the first hurdle that must always be crossed re anything that happens in this city--No Parking. Having done the panic panic hunt for appropriate parking space that didn't block a gate or a bus stop and such like, we finally managed to get the car in safe spot and moved towards the pool.
Many children, from as young as five to the twelve thirteen year olds, doing their warm ups and running around the ground, before getting into their swimming costumes, while we, at least me and some of the other moms present at the venue, shivered as the cold winds hit us, ah well, it was a chilly evening in Mumbai, I kid you not, and I am shamed to say I discovered a spot in the wall where the hot blast from a split ac positioned in the club, was and spent the better part of the evening toasting myself there, rather than get my blood frozen into icicles which would then slash the blood vessels resulting in internal bleeding...ah well, you get my drift.
Anyway, there I was, shivering in a cotton kurti while the brat swam for an hour and a half in an unheated pool. I need a spoonful of water to jump into the drown self in shame and such like.
The brat is right now the slowest in his batch. He has also just begun being professionally coached. What he was doing in the building complex swimming pool, with the lifeguard turned coach who haunts those premises, as I see it now, was mere, as they say it in the colloquial, timepass. This is the real stuff, the gruelling stuff. The continuous laps of an Olympic sized pool with no rest between laps, breathing exercises, the focus on technique arm movement.
I hope he is enjoying himself. He hasn't complained yet, though I've been grumbling to the spouse on the sly that his schedule is too rigorous, only to get slammed with the reply that children much younger than him are doing it. He goes 5.30 am to 7 am alternated days for swimming, and for dry land exercises at the same time on the days they dont have swimming. And swimming practice from 8 pm to 9.30 pm every single day. School 7.45 am to 2 pm. I haven't heard him whine, "I'm boredt wottudo." for a while now. He has no time. We stopped his karate post school activity because he wasn't enjoying it, he said and this was intensive a daily schedule enough for him. To his credit, he is awake bright eyed and bushy at 5 am and gets brushed, dressed and set without any grumbling, dragging feet, etc.
On the flip I think, it tires him out, keeps him busy and away from the mindless scrapping that is a daily affair down at the park. Also, respect to all the parents who put their children through the kind of rigorous routine required for them to make a mark for themselves in a sport. I honestly had no clue, not being a sporting person myself. While the child does the training and the workouts and the practice, the back up and the support needed is tremendous. I hope, if the brat takes to swimming well, I will be able to provide the kind of back up that will be needed. In the two weeks, he's been doing this training, I've already realised that life, as we all knew it, has changed irrevocably.