The Diaper Dilemma

Yes, our little Madam is still in diapers. And no, we are not yet ready to change that. But we do face a certain dilemma: pink kittens. That is what a leading diaper manufacturer has seen fit to print on some of their products. Some I say. Not all of them. If there were pink kittens on each and every diaper, there would be no diaper dilemma. But for reasons best not explored, someone up at the diaper drawing board has decided that it would be so much fun to print different animals on their products. Fun for the kids. Definitely fun for the manufacturer. But no fun at all for harassed parents, who face a peculiar problem: their child has decided that only diapers with kittens are fit for use. All the others are basically trash, packed in there only to fill the packet.

So picture the situation as this: It is time for a new bum-wrapper, so Madam marches into her room and sorts through the equipment. Wipes. Check. Bum cream. Check. Diapers? Kittens… where are the kittens?? Darling, the kittens are over, but we do have adorable little cows, a pair of very cute dogs, sheep and even a chicken. You do love chicken on your plate, so why not try it out on your little diaper?

Needless to say, it is usually entirely superfluous to attempt reasoning with a two-year-old. Which is why we do not usually indulge in it.

In reality we use the one magnificent power invested in us: I am the parent! Wear the sheep!! This is accompanied by much howling on Madam’s part, while the unanswered question hovers in Mama’s mind: Why, oh why could they not print the same darn animal on each and every nappy? In fact, why is there a need to print them at all? Has no-one considered the repercussions? …that a two-year-old would rather stalk around with 2 kilos worth of jelly-fied pee around her hips just because there are two pink kittens printed on the diaper???

More thought needs to go into this subject. Much more thought.

And a Happy New Year to everyone. Except the guy in the diaper development department.

Just shy of two years, Madam has discovered her great love for puzzles. She has a small pack of six puzzles with two pieces each, showing animals such as a horse and a dog and a sheep. Most of the times she gets it right, sitting down to puzzle with expert speed, name the animals, look at the finished work. All the while talking important stuff no-one would understand but her. Every now and then there would be a hideous creation of a sheep-bum pasted to the rear of a horse, which appears to give her great joy if only to explain to us how that really could not be. But most of the time, the game takes a mere ten minutes, including opening the box, solving the puzzles and keeping them all back very neatly.

Then, one day, GrandMa decided to ship over a parcel containing puzzles from my time, including such which are not yet fit for her at all! Ever since that fateful day, all my personal joy in puzzles is gone, for Madam takes a delight in unpacking those puzzles, strewing the pieces all over the place and then – - nothing. She just tosses them around. Since I am naturally eager to retain each and every piece so as not to render them useless, I descend on such a scene to hoard them all together.

Madam permitting I might put a few of them together to show her which pretty image they may make up. This – however – is beyond Madam, who has no patience for my activities. Sometimes she watches on for a few moments until I have gathered together five or more pieces, secretly hoping that today, yes, today I shall be able to complete the darn thing. Madam watches… and then she lets a destructive paw descend upon my work.

  Thus puzzling has ceased to be any sort of fun at all.

Madam keeps coming back every half an hour with a new pack of puzzles and I think it is high time I should hide them somewhere, else none will be left intact by the time she is actually able to understand the point of puzzling something more complex than her two-piece-sheep-bum.

Until then I shall collect the pieces.

Conversations: The Jam

During one recent trip by car the less than cheerful traffic conditions prompted me to observe to Bentley: Tch, that’s some heavy traffic!

Bentley shot me sidelong glance: Darling, we’re on a highway!

Mrs. Bentley: Does it not look just like the Western Express Highway in Mumbai?

Bentley (somewhat exasperated): We’re moving at a speed of 100km/h!!

Mrs. Bentley (surprised): Oh. Well, I hadn’t noticed. It feels slow.

Both fell into a comfortable silence, Bentley calling to mind the endless hours spent trapped in his car while on the way to office at excruciating 13km/h, Mrs. Bentley examining quite a different speed: that of re-adjustment.

From which crisp conversation the reader may gather that we have indeed arrived. No longer is a trip to just-about-anywhere stipulated with a minimum of one hour travel time. No longer is a blaze of red taillights ahead of us the crimson reality of any given Sunday. No longer is the average speed calculated with two digits only.

Lo and behold the comfortable aspect of re-adjustment.

The IKEA FanGirl

It’s somewhat embarrassing. But it is true and must be admitted: I’ve been a regular at IKEA for a while now, checking out stuff to furnish our flat. I know the catalogue by heart. And I think for the amount of time I have spent on their website they must think I’m trying to hack the place. Or maybe they are inching a bit closer toward the truth by believing me to be a FanGirl.

However, I have a serious reason for compulsively checking out everything that is on offer:

We need everything.

We are without a-ny-thing. Bed. Table. Chair. Cupboard. Sofa. That’s the obvious stuff. But almost more important with reference to planning and choosing is the tiny stuff. We need everything from scratch right down to cushion fillings, seat covers, can openers, toothbrush holders, hooks and kitchen towels. The kind of stuff which – without careful budgeting – can easily cost as much as the furniture and cost double the amount of time collecting.

Enter IKEA. The blue and yellow drug for start-up interior designing has it all under one roof, and that’s why I like it. It is not fun to drag a two-year old around a zillion malls, furniture stores and my best friend’s secret tip in a tiny alleyway to pick up that awesome decorative item.

Mr. Bentley and I have very little time together to choose things – considering we must choose it all -, and we must of course lug around Madam as well. So I just can’t be bothered about special, out-of-the-way, trendy or unique. I want comfy, fast and economical. Preferably with almond cake and freaky-good hot chocolate.

…which is why we made yet another trip today and have now almost finalized, and as D-Day is coming closer, we are strategizing how to get the loot over to our empty-empty flat in G-Town. I am dreading it and looking forward to it all at once, and I think the only thing that may tip the scale toward sheer bliss is a slice of yellow yumyum.

 

The Last Breath

We’d been thinking about it for years. Ten years, to be precise. The day we would leave India, that is. But that day never really came. We just kept thinking about it. Could we? Should we? How to? But India kept a tight hold on us, she wouldn’t let us leave.

Then came the day Madam was born. The thing is, according to the Doc, Madam was supposed to be a Master. I was never happier in my life to see a few essential details missing there *g* but raising Madam in India just wasn’t an option for us. So the day we would leave India became a real thing.

We began planning. We wrestled the 7392-headed monster called Bureaucracy. We packed. We planned some more. We purchased plane tickets. And off we went.

We thought we would spend the last few days in India lounging at our favorite places, eating our favorite food, soaking up the lovely India. Instead, we spend those days getting blisters on hands and feet from all the running. We were going to be flushed out off India on a tidal wave, literally, because it had been raining for hours. Not that pretty little drizzle one takes along on a pretty little walk with one’s pretty little umbrella. It was torrential rain, leading to a full-city-jam and a maddening unavailability of cabs. They came over an hour late. Most radio cabs in Mumbai have been converted to CNG, which is nice for the environment, easy on the pocket of the driver and a nuisance for anyone wanting to transport anything in the boot. CNG-cabs have no trunk to speak of, as it is stuffed with the cylinder. Which is why we hired two cabs. Mr. Bentley and the luggage sat in cab 1 while Madam and I sat in cab 2.

We were so late, there was not even time for tears when we said Goodbyes to our friends.

It was only one hour time before boarding when we reached the airport. By the time we cleared the Security Check we had only 10min left. Blessed Monsoon, boarding was late. Take-off was late. Dinner was late. For the first time on six short and seven long-haul flights Madam screamed. She screamed. She wailed. She drove everyone nuts. She was too tired to sleep. And when she finally did sleep, a feeling of deep exhaustion crept in.

Only there was no time to be exhausted. This was only the beginning!