Life moves. At a pace. It’s all good. It moves. It’s like the good ‘ol southern drawl. It goes on… with no real goal, no end game.
There is no fighting self-righteousness, you know. There is nothing worse than middle aged people believing they are right and on the side of truth. At this point, there is no talking to them. There is just putting them on a pedestal.
It works. Barely survives. It is home. It is hell. It is ours.
He beckons me as I sit sipping my morning coffee watching the world go by from the kitchen window……
You know the feeling. It’s raining, lets deep fry something with hot chai or its cold, I want something robust that would fill me up and keep me warm.
…. Nope, not gonna see me wring a chicken’s neck and pluck its feathers, no siree. I have to hop in my heated seats, power doors, gas-guzzling much-bigger-than-I-actually-need sports utility vehicle, pick me up some nice, already dead, de-necked, de-feathered
If, by some miracle, despite all that, I end up successfully raising them gender-impartial, wouldn’t I, as a parent, still have made the greatest disservice of all to them, by not letting them be who they really are? Him, a boy and her, a girl.
I am standing outside of my tiny kitchen, bleary-eyed, wondering why the heck am I up, at an ungodly hour, to cook up traditional parbe jovan (Festival Meal) ? I mean, seriously, why?
Smart Toddlers and Desperate Mothers. There might be blackmail involved.
This Post was originally published on my now defunct blog Past, Present & Me ON WEDNESDAY, APRIL 4, 2007 Much as we prefer that the kids speak ‘konkani’ our mother tongue at home, we quite enjoy the American-isms they bring to the conversation. Some of the recent additions to his vocabulary,“It’s Trash” not garbage, not dustbin…