What is your taste of winter?

For me, it tastes like spicy Pudina and muted Paalak. 

The winter has finally (FINALLY) started in Mumbai. In a la Ratatouille scene, the first chilly wind that hit my face immediately transported me back by 23 years, to a December morning in Delhi. The chills had just set in then, and my sister and I wanted to soak in the heat (Sigh!The Sardi ki Dhoop). So, we had set up two chairs in our terrace and encapsulated it in a huge bed-sheet to form a tent. We had settled in and were reading our comics, when our mother came in with the lunch: Pudina Thuvaiyal (Chutney) and Paalak kootu (Daal).  
I can still recall the steamy combination and the exact taste of the lunch – and the memory is crystal clear everytime the winter sets in. None of us would have foreseen that more than the big things, the smaller events would remain indelible in our minds; that without warning, we would get hit strongly by a wave of nostalgia so unexpected in its vividness that it would require a literal stopping in tracks and a moment of appreciation! My most significantly insignificant memories include- 

• The keerai koottu; 
• Paati telling the story of Ahalya while giving us lunch;
• The tasty (and as yet, unbeatable) Delhi’s shani bazaar’s chole bhature, and the accompanying carrot pickle; 
• The first scooty accident with sister, while I was having ice-cream; 
• The first trip to Chills-Thrills-Frills and having a thick shake with sister;
• Eating Mumbai Masala Sandwich with sister for the first time at Egmore;
• Having Spring rolls with Suba at Raahat Plaza;
• Seeing the completed Katipara junction from an Airplane; 
• The first ice-cream outing with the person I eventually ended up marrying; 
• The first view of Mumbai; 
• The first time my son (and niece for that matter) came running to give a hug; 
• and the first time he finished his lunch and said “Amma? Nalla irundhudhu” (It was good.). 

I wonder if I am creating an equal amount of good big and small memories for my son – the kind that would hit him 23 years later, tug his heart, and make him smile wistfully like nothing else can.

Cold Wars

“It takes about 1 week to get over a cold if you don't take medicine, but only 7 days to get over a cold if you take medicine.”

 I am sure you have heard that adage. I can actually see you smirking and smiling knowingly thinking about how some idgits take medicines.
Now, give yourself one tight slap. 

So, the common cold does not, apparently, have a cure. There are hundreds of viruses and no one knows which virus does what and how it can be attacked. Yada Yada Yada. That logic took a major extrapolation to that obnoxious phrase above – a phrase that I took so literally for four years, that I ended up with two nose operations, and put my son through a lot of trouble. 

So, I get this feeling that many people want to punch when I smile knowingly like I have been through worse and their nose problems are paltry by comparison, but I am such megalomaniac like that. Moving away from my character issues, if you have a cold, don’t be a loser, and think of a way to cure it. 
Are you averse to allopathic cures? Welcome to the hundreds of thousands of the members of the paranoid family, who think that all medicines- eat-into-the-stomach-walls-and-weaken the body-and-make-the-bones-brittle-and - OMG I CAN'T BREATHE! I am right there with you (Paranoia is my chief characteristic trait, followed closely by, yes, megalomania. *word of the day*). 
But cold, as much as it is common, can actually be tackled in the simplest of ways: 

1. Do Pranayam: My worst bout of nose-block was during pregnancy, and my yoga instructor told me to do the Pranayam to “channel the energy of the sun through one nostril and moon through the other. The former will ensure that the child is intelligent, and the latter will ensure that he/she is wise”. Now, I have no idea where my son is in the scales of wisdom and intelligence, but way to make one feel guilty for being unable to breathe in either sun or the moon! 
I digress. Do it. Nothing like Pranayam to clear up the depths of your mucked up castle walls (and rooms if your sinuses are into the act as well). Imagine giant cobwebs full of dirt, and infected with fungi, which can be killed only by clean fresh air. 
2. Clean that nose: No, not by nose picking *rolls eyes*. That’s like cleaning the chowpatty with a tissue paper. Take some saline water and a pump. Pump in the water in each nostril, while holding your breath (or you daredevils can breathe it in – the sting is enough to keep your eyes wide-open for hours). Bend down, and all the water comes out. You wouldn’t think this is much, but this is like spreading a disinfectant in the ruined castle.
3. Cave in and use some drops: And again, make sure they are saline. If you have to do step 1 and 2, you need to create some space – and saline drops work well (unless you have a more serious issue – go to the doctor you lazy person!). 
4. Try the Ayurveda route: Now, the recommendation-post is going to take a slight historical detour. 
In all my maternal wisdom-glory, I strongly refused to give my son ANY medication for his cold except the usual hot water, drinks etc. The result? In about a week, he developed a chronic cold, a very bad chest congestion (I could feel the congestion when I kept a hand on his chest – nightmare I say), frequent vomiting out copious amounts of mucous and a lethargy that was painful to watch. Quite by chance, one of my friends suggested ‘Bal Gutti’ – which is, a packet of some 20 actual jadi-bootis, that have to be extracted in limited quantities and mixed and given (it’s an interesting procedure – ping me, and I will share the rest). The jadi-booti required for each problem was different. Fascinated, I got to work (I am sure all our grandmothers did the same – but we are such a screwed up generation). Within two weeks, the son was back in form. 

But all this happened after around 6 nebulising sessions, and 2 months of strong antibiotics and steroids. 

So, if you have a cold, don’t sit down, close your eyes and say, “sigh, no medicine will cure it”. Or take a painkiller/analgesic and take a nap. Get off your rear and do something, before it becomes worse.

Know Thy Neighbour?

I am awkward and socially inept.
So, when I was a teen, I was sure that I would grow out of it and blossom into this lovely, graceful and assertive woman, who would be every woman’s best friend and every man’s secret desire. Instead the dangly teenager grew into a dangly woman. The tripping-over-my-own-feet traits carried on well into the late-twenties, and the brain-freeze during conversations continued unabated.

So, like Project Presentable, I decided to take up ‘Project Social’. I had a shorter list to adhere to this time:

• Smile at everyone.
• Make an effort and know the neighbours.

For a week at least, all seemed well.  On the 8th day, it all came crashing down. All because of two back-to-back neighborly incidents.

Case I: Distracted Dads
On one of our usual Mother-son walks in the building compound, I ran across this father playing cricket with his 9-yr old son and 3-yr old daughter. Deciding not to chicken out now, I introduced myself and asked about his children, school etc. His son, getting impatient. started talking to his father, giving no heed to my lame conversation attempts.

Son: DAD! Are you attracted to her?
Dad: No, But I AM distracted.
Son (nodding sagely): Me too Dad. Me too.
And they resumed playing.

I am sure there is a compliment hidden here somewhere, but in the face of the blunt rebuke; I can’t seem to find it.

Case II: Mistaken Identities
As all festivals are wont to do, we were making the expected neighborly rounds for some gossips and some blouse pieces (When you think about it, it all comes down to that). One of these visits involved an old Paati, with whom we had conversed via the balcony a couple of times.In case you are wondering, yes, such things still happen. She lives with her son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter- who we didn't have the fortune to meet or converse with.
When we went to her house, there was another couple present. Considering that we didn’t know much about the family, we were relieved when the lady introduced herself as the daughter-in-law’s mother. Conversation flowed freely thereafter, but, I really wanted to see the daughter-in-law.  So, I asked the man,

Me: “Has your daughter gone outside?”
Man: Who?
Me: The grand-daughter's mother. Has she gone out?
After a moment’s silence,
Man (Smiling): “She is not my daughter. She is my wife. I just didn’t have time to dye my hair today. And yes, she has gone outside.”

As my dad succintly put it, "That's a nice way of ensuring that they never call you again". But there was a silver lining in this - the next day, I saw him with freshly dyed hair.


So after ‘distracting’ one man and creating confusion in the family of another, Project Social has also been parked indefinitely.

Sock Up!

The tiffin boxes for son, spouse and self are ready and packed. The morning ablutions are done and a half hour Yoga session has happened. The kitchen has been marginally cleaned. I leave home on a relatively high note. Much much later, I note the white socks.

Considering that the outfit of choice today was a steel grey shirt, a black pant and brown (men’s) shoes, the white socks are an abomination; even I can’t ignore the flashes of white my feet provide as I half-run to catch the train.
That took me back by 15 years, to my last year in school in Gujarat, which, unfortunately, believed that skirts made for ideal uniforms for girls. Some of them, even then, looked pretty or charming or plain hot. Some, like me, looked like a scarecrow. The skirt, however, was the least of my worries. The socks were a different issue altogether.

My parents invested in quality socks – there was always a lot of importance attached to neatness at home. Shoes were polished almost every day, and the loose socks were immediately discarded. Despite that, we all liked to make statements with our socks:

Socks Types
Source: Google Images and musingsanddoodlings.blogspot.in

• Prim and Proper: Ideally ironed, the socks were pulled to their maximum capacity to let no crease show.
• Baggy and Sloppy: An attempt to appear cool and sloppy at the same time, the socks were purposefully made baggy by lowering the elastic band.
• Rolled and Strong: This was usually ideal in making strong statements, especially during the Sports class.
• Folded and Neat: I cringe when I realize that this was my favorite version, my dangly legs ending in this bow-like thing I created lovingly every morning.

So, I never knew what statement to make, and ended up making one every day (A Psychiatrist would have had a field day with me).
Now that I have grown wiser (Stranger things have happened), I realize that we need to don all the four roles at least once a day;

• Prim and proper to run the family on clockwork,
• Rolled and Strong to get through the daily challenges,
• Folded and Neat to manage a schedule, and
• Baggy and sloppy to remember to have fun while doing it all.

Of course, this does not add any value or provide consolation to the fact that I look like Michael Jackson with two left feet today.

Girlish Cars and Boyish Flowers

So, the 2.5 year old offspring of mine has been going to school diligently for about a month now. A lot of compromises and rearrangement of priorities later, things were finally falling into place.

That is, before I realised that pre-school was more for the parents’ benefit rather than the child’s. In Ahaan’s own words, he goes to school to play. For us however, the school has taught us time management, wardrobe management, lunchbox planning and alarm clock dependencies. It has been an interesting experience to say the least, and we were becoming experts in that… until the school decided to throw a curveball, in the form of a “Hawaiian day” (cue: Eye roll). Secretly, I was very excited about my first mommy-assignment, and started planning strategies and counter-strategies. 2-days before the D-day, we go shopping, just to find that there are no shirts with flowers (or leaves or trees) for boys. No as in NONE.

After almost 3 hours of running unsuccessfully from one shop to another, I called for reinforcements. My sister (while she was first in line when the lords were distributing imagination, innovation and creativity, I was in the ‘talking without thinking’ line) listened patiently before asking why I can’t make it myself. She gave a lot of ideas and sent me multiple photo-sets, and a bit of an effort later, the shirt was ready.

Tada! My version of the Hawaiian Shirt!

So, apart from being an egoistic post showing off my borrowed creativity, I was very upset about what we are doing to our children. To put it succinctly,

Characteristics	Boys	Girls
Colors	Black, Blue, Grey, Green, Red, White	Pink, Yellow, Orange, Red, White
Tailoring	Loose and Baggy	Tight fits with frills and fluffs
Designs	Vehicles (2-wheelers, 4 wheelers, trains, aeroplanes) , Fierce Animals, action figures	Dolls, pretty girls (& fairies), Domesticated animals, flowers, lot of lace and glitter
Messages	Macho and Muscular (I am strong!)	Cute and Feminine (Daddy’s little girl)
Toys	Vehicles, Animals, Mind Games, Action figures	Dolls (and lots of it), Doll houses (and other sets) and handicraft kits (jewellery, pots, sparkles etc)

 

We as a society either have a zero tolerance for uniqueness or don’t have the patience to nurture it.  To be fair, a change is tantalisingly around the corner. Men are wearing skirts now and two of the most admired characters on TV include Jassi (from Jassi Jaisi Koi Nahi) and Tyrion Lannister (Game of Thrones).  The boy-who-wanted-to-be-Sheila was one of the best stories to come up in Bollywood (Bombay Talkies) in recent times (if ever). As parents, we can contribute to the change too, by remembering some basic points:

·         Blue does not make a boy, and pink does not define a girl.

·         A girl likes kitchen sets, but given a chance, she would also like a toy-truck.

·         A boy would love to cook, clean the house and say hello to plants.

·         When (and that’s a giant When) you catch yourself stereotyping people, give yourself one tight slap.

That ought to do.

Note: This is a hypocritical post, and I know I stereotype as well. But well, to modify the Stark motto: Change is coming.

 

It started in 1853..

1853 was arguably one of the most memorable years in the world history. It was the year when Levi Strauss and  Tissot were founded. It was also the year when the Potato Chips were first prepared. Closer home however, 1853 was important for a wholly different reason - It was the year when the first railway train ran from Bombay to Thane. Crawled would be a better word - the train, Aag Gadi (How apt is that?!) covered 34 kms in 57 minutes.

160 years later, the Mumbai train system has expanded at an extraordinary pace; running 2343 trains  and carrying 6.94 million passengers daily. If the numbers don't add up, kindly feast your eyes on a typical Mumbai local:

Just another day at the station

 While a metro system and a monorail are in progress to diffuse this accident-waiting-to-happen, the love for Mumbai locals can seep into the staunchest of hearts. Even if it does not, prolonged exposure to locals can change you irrevocably - either make you stronger or break you completely. The local also happens to be a very good teacher. Some of the best lessons that can be learned in the process of travelling include: 

1.       Strategic Analysis: I learned my first truly practical strategy generation and application through trains. Train journeys have their own SWOTs with slightly varying definitions:

·        Standing: This involves a lot of planning. The bag has to be taken care of, the sticky hands and faces have to be avoided, the sleeping-lady-on-your-shoulder has to be gently nudged, and most importantly, the ones-who-come-to-fight must be pointedly ignored.

·        Weaning: A gradual weaning from lady-like whims occurs. After few months ( or years), someone's foot on top of your own does not elicit the necessary cry of pain, nor does being crushed to death, or being sandwiched in the middle of four thick skinned ladies.

·        Opportunity: The seating opportunity is a difficult one to grab, especially by the genteel personnel. The steps involved are: Barge in - > Poke everyone asking where they will get down -> Stand right over their head until they get up -> Get into a mini fight to occupy that seat.

Or you can take a loser's way out and stand in a corner like I do.

·       Tension diffusion: The approach of a station can send everyone in a frenzy, even if they aren't getting down. It's palpable. People hold their breath, laugh nervously, get into position and start pushing the ones in front - just to let go of all that pent-up energy.

2.       Need for Speed: The amateurs see a train which has reached the platform about 200 metres away and decide to let it go. The seasoned ones run. They push, scream, shout at the oncoming traffic and plead with the driver to wait for at least one or two more seconds. Invariably there is an Shah Rukh Khan-heart girl inside the compartment, leaning and holding out her hand for you to latch on to.

3.       Ignore or Procure: The most interesting part of the train journey is the shopping opportunity. There are trinkets, books, home supplies, flowers and snacks. Sold at about 1/3^rd of the market price, the wares are tempting, and the journey is an important lesson in controlling one’s wayward desires.

4.      Respect (or Callousness as the case may be): Local trains brings out the true character of a traveller. It hit a particular low when a college girl was periodically kicking a 60+ year old lady sitting down, asking her to move a bit so that she could stand. There are very few (less than 5%) who get up for a pregnant woman/mother and none of them think twice before lashing out at older, tired or diseased women. Fights are started with little incentive and swear words are used in abundance.

Mumbai locals are an enriching experience. There are unwritten rules and counter-intuitive codes of conduct. There is always a temptation to be a little less human and a little more cruel. However, there are people who overcome that by making lasting relationships and singing old melodies at the top of their voices. Conversation flows freely ranging from books, music and recipes to weather, politics and cricket. There are beautiful eunuchs coming in, singing and teasing everyone mercilessly providing the much needed frivolity. There are kids who enjoy the variety of the company and the novelty of the journey ( I can vouch for one at least!). The local trains are that and much more; for they are an exact mirror of the city they run in.

The Real Parent

The WTF quote of the day which prompted this post

A “selfless parent” is a myth. They exist only in public – where there is sweet talking, blogging and overt praising. See them in action 24X7, you’ll be surprised. There may be a lot more fighting, strong words, whining, crying, breakdowns and/or hitting than you would have imagined.

This does not mean that they are hypocritical. A parent faces too much pressure – from the society which is judging their every single move (you lose your cool once in public and you get the tag), from the spouse who takes minimal, equal or greater load than you do, the internet with its gyan on what is right and what is not, and more importantly, from the child, who keeps looking at him/her with adoring and trusting eyes (and pulls all your heart strings in the process). Add the professional and/or house work-load into the equation and it’s a brimming pot full of emotions. Parents have their own way of dealing with it – they either become mule-headed in their beliefs or putty to other people’s opinions. Whichever path they take and however much they try, they also end up being judgemental and hypocritical.

Unfortunately, they forget to be selfish (Yes, I think it is a good trait, and a difficult one to master). It is easy to forget everything and make your world revolve around one tiny tot. It is easy to forget one’s hobbies, health and friends to do so. But slowly and steadily, these things are missed. Tempers run short and self-pity attacks in full force. Emotional blackmails are uttered inadvertently (“I sacrificed EVERYTHING” for you). From being the source of dependency for the child, one becomes dependent on them.

Since being a mother brings out all the advise-giving hormones to forefront, let me add my bit here – if you are a parent, make an effort and be selfish. Selfish makes you happy, and that’s what makes a real parent. A child wants a content parent, not a selfless one.

Bimbo-ed

On one of the hottest days in Mumbai, I happened to travel by taxi to work. Since he had to stop the vehicle about half a km away from the building (road block or some such), the driver asked if I could walk from there.

Of course, I said confidently and started walking. After passing a couple of similar glass-and-concrete buildings, I was confused to see a long stretch of under construction properties. I was about to ask for directions, when I noticed my building behind this property. I took a right. Reaching a fork, I took a right again, and then another right.

I reached the exact same spot I was in about 45 minutes back. Furthermore, tantalisingly ahead, the name of my office gleamed merrily. I was 100% sure it wasn’t there when I had started on this merry-go-round around some random office complex.

If you are assuming that I am one of those bimbo girls who cannot understand directions well, who stares blankly at maps, who goes glassy eyed once she is out of the bus, who is mortally scared of driving, who throws up her hands helplessly while travelling and leans very heavily on her partner to lead her to light, you are absolutely right. To my credit, I have well-developed radars and intuitions every girl is blessed with – they just go haywire the moment I step out of my house.

Now, this was never a problem in Chennai, the land of the buses. With an amazing public transport like that, I could easily reach any destination I wanted. But with Mumbai and my affinity to its trains, I started getting lost way too frequently to be comfortable.

So, I did what any girl would do - I went shopping, and got a phone with google maps.

The maps opened up a whole new lucid world to me – despite my hazy glasses and vague outlook towards directions ("Take right.. uhh.. left...uhh.. (touch shoulder to determine direction)... right only anna"), I could actually talk coherently to auto-wallahs, and could reach places on time. I could confidently rattle names of places in cities I had never visited before. Life was simple and smooth again, until I realised that the maps, like humans, were not dependable. Take the following sample cases:

1.       Case 1 - Zeroing in: Travelling in an auto in Pune, I was diligently following his progress through the maps, when I realised that we had crossed the destination. I asked him to stop (despite his protests that it was further down), and start walking around trying to figure out where I had to go.  I was either crossing the spot or moving away from it. About half an hour later, I finally thought about zooming in the maps, found that it was indeed further down, and located the company  – about 45 minutes late.

2.       Case 2 - No Man’s Land: My heart belongs to Chennai buses ( and I am sure I have drilled that information down my readers' throats way too many times already) . So despite all the travel concessions available, I decided to take a bus to Ambattur Industrial Estate. I reached the place within 15 minutes, opened my maps and searched for SIDCO industrial estate – straight ahead apparently. So, I start walking.

20 minutes later, I realised that the sun was right above my head, I was near collapse, and in the middle of nowhere. I was beginning to slightly panic, since the spot was still about 1 km away. The Lord, working in his usual Aalavandaan (smug ruling) ways, thankfully sent an auto-wallah, who after ominous sentences ("You have left Ambattur long back. Girls like you should not be in such roads ma”) dropped me back. I got lost again after that, but that would make this post way too long. 

3.      Case 3 - Multiple lanes: I was supposed to go to the 1^st main road in Ambattur (different day, same location – this industrial estate defeated my energy and soul – so much so that I vowed to never go back without a guide and multiple moral boosting personnel). So, on came my maps, and I started giving directions for the 1^st main road – we went through mud roads, grass & shrubs and railways crossings to reach a road barely wide to let a man through. After about three more similar results, I gave up and came back.

I realised then that the Lord, with his divine abilities, created all of us with a purpose. Some of us have to start a revolution and bring about a change. Some have to be corrupt for the good to shine through. Some are great architects forming a city, and some have to destroy it. It takes people their whole lifetime to find the purpose of their lives and their role in the universe. About a week back, I finally found mine.

My purpose is to meander aimlessly – to perennially search for my destination and finally give up and ask for directions.

What Next?

I had just boarded the almost empty 10-pm train from my office area, when I saw her – a very old and unkempt lady sprawled over the pathway – exposing most of her body, and too tired to cover herself up. The train stopped, and she made half an attempt to pull her saree down and go back to sleep. I had forgotten about her by the time I took my seat, staring blankly at the passing stations and the dwindling crowds.

About a couple of stops before the last one, she got up and hobbled to the seat next to mine. Everyone immediately got up and left. I remained, a tad uncomfortable but doggedly ignoring her. She was leaning towards me, eyes closed, which was when I saw that most of the other passengers were giggling and motioning me to sit next to them. I did, and that’s when I noticed that she had urinated all over the pathway.

To my utter embarrassment, I started crying. This was one of the few moments where I had no idea what to do – go to her and give her some money, ask her what she needed and where she had to go, call up some authorities or just let her be.

What would you have done?

Fancy Bottles

Mornings are exhilarating as well as challenging - Getting up at 5, making breakfast and lunch, cleaning the house, getting ready, rushing to catch the bus and then, hopping on a Mumbai local to reach office by 8.30-9.00. Exhilarating! (ya, I am sort of short of words today.)

If it isn’t obvious, I love my morning routine, to the point of obsession. But if you notice carefully, there is a crucial element missing here - looking presentable. Everyone who has known me for a while (or has seen me before 1100 AM) knows that that is not one of my priorities. Woes betide the day the comb touches my hair before 8 AM in the morning. It’s a miracle that I brush my teeth or take bath at all.

Yesterday, I decided to change that. I got up slightly early (04.57), completed the rest of the work and got to work. I combed my hair with a vengeance, wore earrings, put on some eye liner and stepped into my pointy heels. As expected, just before leaving, I realised a crucial mistake – the moisturiser! So, I rushed back in, got one of these fancy bottles my sister had given me and generously applied it.

Needless to say, I missed the bus. To top that, some of the said fancy cream had got into my eyes, making the bystanders wonder why I was crying for missing a 10-minute frequency bus (On an unrelated note, I have bawled my eyes out on missing a train which had a 5 minute frequency.) I got in the next bus with tears streaming down my cheeks, got in the train with half-closed eyes ( with a lady gently patting my back in sympathy), and walked to office with heads down trying hard to not let the pain show. (and before you ask, no, I don’t carry water, tissue paper, wipes, or other useful things).

Finally, I reached office, rushed to the washroom and cleaned my eyes. The pain abated almost immediately, but I was furious – at all these cucumber-green tea containing, sexily-named creams which don’t take sensitive eyes into consideration. What sadistic, maniacal person would have created such a monstro………..

As it turned out, the ‘cream’ was actually a shower gel. I had travelled for 1.5 hours with soap applied on my face, hands and legs.

Suffice to say, the Project: looking presentable has been indefinitely postponed.

The Lion Amma

So Ahaan, in one of his profound moments, looked at a lion and said, “Amma”. My attempts at gently correcting him proved futile, as he was convinced that the ferocious, beautiful (Ahem), intimidating and scary cat was indeed me.

Few days later, I had to admit that he was bang-on. I did possess some liony-qualities:

1. The Violent streak: After locking up the house for a week, I come home to find that it has been taken over by mini cockroaches (the inspiration behind this post). So, I went on a rampage – using the insecticide, broom, utensils and sometimes, even bare hands, to kill them all. 
   Apart from the murders, in one of my less-lucid moments, I showed Ahaan how toys get broken if you throw them - by throwing some myself. (Yeah yeah, save the advice).
2. The budding Snarkiness: I have become one of those colony-aunties who shouts at kids. Correction, at budding bullies who think they can get away with “BOO”-ing Ahaan or otherwise scaring him. And of course, it is only prudent to mention the teens I shouted at (Pagal Ho Kya??) for trying to crush a little dog between the colony gates.
3. The Roar: And needless to say, I have an enviable roar. Especially when Ahaan decides that the middle of the road is the perfect resting place and the uneven pavements are ideal dancing spots.

To the little man’s credit, he is his mother’s son. So, when I roar, he promptly closes his small ears with his smaller fingers and gives me a serene smile.

If that doesn’t work, he throws whatever he is holding like a javelin.

My Son. Sniff.

Note: Photo credit to this awesome website.