Mea Culpa

Sometime ago, I read an article about a Cambodian woman who survived the Pol pot regime. Even though she has a good job and all the securities associated with living in a western country, she still hides food (canned) in the nooks and crannies of her home. She said her past defines who she is now and that all the securities she has now can never take away the fear she endured.

I didn’t want my past to define who I am.

My mother is an incredibly smart woman and she wanted to ensure that I ate the lunch she packed. So she talked to the lunch room supervisor of my school and made a pact with her that I must show my empty lunch container to the supervisor each day before I leave the lunch room. It wasn’t an easy task. I didn’t want to eat the food amma send and I couldn’t escape the supervisor. But then Amma also send pappadam in a yellow colour round plastic container to keep it fresh. I transferred the rice and the curry to the pappadam container, victoriously walked to where the supervisor was standing, showed her my empty lunch container and once I was outside, I fed the crows from my pappadam container. The only hitch in the plan was akkachi, for she had to wash the pappadam container that now had the leftover lunch bits. Akkachi never told Amma the truth and when Akkachi left, I washed the lunch container as soon as I came back home in the pretext of being a wonderful and caring daughter who did her part to help her mother. I never ate the lunch that my mother packed.

But there was always this fear of getting caught. Each day I worried that Amma will find out that I was the reason the crows near my school were well fed. And then there was the guilt, for wasting the food Amma packed. On my way to the school, I had to walk by the illegal skip used by the restaurants to dump their leftover food and there were always people scavenging for the food. I even had a friend there. He must have been a year or two older than me and everyday he would harass me by asking for my name and  I ignored him and until one day the official branthan of kottayam ( he had dreadlocks that the nuns in their quest for moral and social duty wanted to cut while they gave him his annual shower ! they never succeeded)decided to scare and chase me. As I took off running shit scared, My friend shouted not to get scared because the branthan’s leg was broken and he can’t run. The next day I told him my name and I asked him where his family is and he said,he ran away from home and he never wanted to go back. He probably gave me the hope that one day I could really run away from my home. I know I was writing about the guilt and got side tracked. Anyway the guilt was that I didn’t have to scavenge for food and still I didn’t appreciate what was given to me, what if I was punished tomorrow for being so arrogant? What if I ended up in the streets, would I then regret all those days I never ate the good food ( sic) my mother send?

I didn’t want my children to feel what I felt. I told them from the time they were young, if you didn’t finish your lunch, you don’t have to toss it at school, bring it back home and I won’t scold you. Yet I did just that. Technically, I didn’t scold them, I punished them by not making their lunch because instead of tossing it out at the school, they brought it back home.

You just can’t run away from your past.


This is it !

Yesterday, I woke up at 6 am as usual even though I am not a morning person and six is very early for me. Even before making my tea, I started to get my kids school lunch ready. I always send something different each day and yesterday I thought I will send them hot lunch as it has been raining non stop the past few days and I imagined how happy my children would be to eat a steaming hot lunch on a cold and wet afternoon.

Yaya doesn’t like to eat beef and the other two likes beef very much. I  cooked beef vindaloo and teriyaki chicken in the weekend to make all three happy. I had even bought  lean veal from the butcher paying premium price, so my children won’t have to bite in to “chewy” meat.

I warmed the rice and the curry together making sure that it isn’t too hot. ( they only have 30 minutes lunch break and if the food is too hot, then they will end up wasting time while their lunch cooled and won’t have time to play). And for Yaya, I added a bit more sesame oil in her rice, so her teriyaki rice combo will be perfect.

I also had to send a snack and the night before I cooked potatoes, so I could make fresh aloo tikki ( all three like it very much)

While my tea was brewing, I made aloo tikki, packed tomato sauce in tiny containers, filled their bottles etc. At 6:55, the older two came in to the kitchen all ready for school, took their lunch bag from the counter, kissed me goodbye and by that time I still haven’t  had my tea.

I did all these for my children  not because I am a super mom, but because I grew up not having good/edible food even  though my family was very rich. My mother’s idea of school lunch was kappalanga thoran ( papaya) that she  cooked in bulk in the weekend with a pinch of coconut for flavour and mooru ( yogurt with worms). Amma liked cooking Papaya because it grew in our backyard and it was free. While my classmates ate rice and fish fry and all sorts of curries, I wished I had a different mother, someone who cared!

Yesterday evening, I came home tired and thought I would wash all the lunch containers before making dinner. And there it was, three thermos still full and the tikkis untouched.

Apparently, none of them had time. Yaya had science homework that she forgot to do and was doing it during her lunch time and my son had maths homework. I didn’t ask baby for her reason because by then I was really upset. Most of my colleagues do not pack their children’s school lunch. One who does, pack it the night before and the lunch contains an apple, a granola bar and a packet of raisins. She sends the same lunch every single day.

So this is what I did. I told my children, from now on they can pack their own school lunch and that I will not make lunch for them. Whatever that I cooked during the weekend will be in the fridge, they can pack it if they want to or they can come home after school and eat it. But as for me I am going to make my tea and drink it while it is still hot.

This morning, Yaya came casually and asked “mom, aren’t you making our lunch” and very casually I replied “no”

My son made maggi mee and packed it in the thermos and I know how soggy the noodles will be at lunch time. I feel bad for him.

The girls made nutella sandwich.

I do feel miserable that my kids will be hungry. But there comes a point where they need to understand that just because I care doesn’t mean that they can take me for granted. If they haven’t done their homework when they were supposed  to do it, It isn’t my problem. But if they don’t eat their lunch that I prepared with so much love and care, then they just have to live without a good lunch.

I thought I would enjoy a hot cuppa for the first time this morning , but I didn’t. I am so used to drinking tepid tea.



When the kids were studying in Canada, I was always there at the school 5 minutes before the bell rang. I didn’t want them to wait for me and worry what happened to me. A very dear friend of mine used to pick up her children within 30 minutes ( ie before the teacher supervision ends)after the bell rang. She used to tell me that I am spoiling the kids by being on time and that nothing will happen to my kids if they waited few minutes for me.

I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. And one day my kids had early dismissal and I forgot about that and to this day my children haven’t forgotten “the day mom forgot to pick us up on time and how we had to sit outside the office for 1 hour and 30 minutes”

Yaya has guitar lessons on Monday after school and ideally I should ask her to take the bus back home. But I feel sorry for her, carting the guitar, school bag, laptop and then having to walk to the bus station after a tiring day at school, so I offered to pick her up. The after work traffic in the evening is really unpredictable and much as I try I will end up few minutes late. 2 minutes after she finishes the guitar lesson, she will send a txt asking “where are you?” and every minute after that, more txt will arrive that reads ” I am hungry?” how far away are you? where are you? hello, anyone there?” etc.

She knows I will pick her up. She knows I can’t reply to her while driving and she knows I really get annoyed when she does this. But still she does it and when I hear the beep sounds informing me of a new txt, my blood boils. It really doesn’t kill my child to wait at least 10 minutes before wondering where her mom is?

But then again, I started all this, didn’t I?

Contracts for children.

Sometime ago there was an article in the paper about a mom giving her 13 yr old son an Iphone with a contract (18 points)

( ps, does anyone know why the link icon isn’t working on my wordpress?)

Anyway, when I read the contract, I felt pretty annoyed.

Yaya has a smart phone. I bought it for her when she was in grade 9. Until grade 8, she used something she calls a brick. ( apparently that is the name for any phone that isn’t a smart phone). Her brick was my old Nokia. The reason she was given a phone was that she could call me in case of emergency !

Joining high school was  a life changing event and I wanted my child to concentrate on things other than texting. I opted for a one year prepaid contract and paid 10$ and told her that I will not be topping up the phone for the rest of the year and the phone is only for emergency.

She never touched her phone and when I really had to call her ( the time the road near home was closed due to flood and the buses were getting diverted) I couldn’t get through her because the battery was flat ! It happened many times and I realized I needed to get her a phone that would tempt her to charge it and use it. So I bought her a smart phone in grade 9. She uses the phone as an MP3 and because she can’t live without music, she always ensures that the battery is fully charged.

I don’t know her password and I am not interested to know it. I have raised a responsible child and at the age of 14, I should be able to trust her.( if I can’t, then I failed as a mother!) I refuse to snoop on my children. I refuse to be a control freak.

When Yaya had a crush on one of her friends, she was texting all the time. ( I knew there would come such a day and opted for a cellphone plan that gave unlimited txt).

When I gave her the phone, I explained to her that it is her phone and she should be responsible. ( How do you tell a child that a gift given is not theirs but the mother’s because the mother paid for it. Every gift that I gave my children, I paid for it and they own it.)

Do I worry that my child will use the phone inappropriately? Again, wasn’t I the one who raised her the last 14 years? Did I not teach her what is right and what is wrong? Of course, she is a teenager, she is bound to make mistakes, but there is only so much I as a mother can do. However, I will still be there for my child, if she screwed up. That is my job !

And my wonderful darling too got a ‘brick’ when he joined grade 8.It was a new Nokia phone that I bought from Kmart for 10$. And he being my child, decided to see if the phone will work after he dipped it in the swimming pool. He didn’t drop it, he deliberately dipped his phone in the water. ( I haven’t forgotten how I tried to slice the strap of my ugly bata sandals in the hope of getting a new/better one!) My son could have told me that he accidentally dropped the phone in the pool, but he was truthful and I didn’t scold him. I did tell him that I was upset with him and he apologized. I tried all the known remedies to dry the phone, but it couldn’t be revived! So he got the same brick I gave Yaya when she was in grade 8, albeit without the back cover. He uses a rubber band to hold the battery in place.

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He will get a smart phone next year and he too will be the owner of the phone. I will not ask him for the password. Because the more my mother tried to control me, the more I rebelled and the more creative means and ways I found to escape her. The last thing I want for my children to feel chained and bound at home. My home should be a safe haven for them and not a place they are dying to get out from.

I hope my son will answer the phone when he sees my number. But if he didn’t, I will know that he is busy and he will call me back when he is free. At no time, my child should feel obligated to answer my call because he is worried that he will lose the phone because I paid for it and expect him to be at my beck and call.

It is every mother’s duty to raise children well, but you can do it without having a contract.



Teenage Crushes !

When I was about 12 years old, I had a huge crush on actor Rahman. I hadn’t watched any of his movies at that time, only read about him in the papers. All my classmates were talking about him too and I fell madly in love.
When you are a teenager, nothing really makes sense, especially this attraction you feel for the opposite sex. Until then my father was my hero.I needed to validate my feelings. I needed to know what I am feeling is not something abnormal and that I am really normal. The best way to find out if I am normal is to see if my mother went through the same when she was young. If she did, then I am fine and shouldn’t worry too much.

And I did the dumbest thing possible. I went and told my mother that I like Rahman. I didn’t say I wanted to sleep with Rahman. Just “I like Rahman”

I don’t know if it is just my mother or the mothers in Kerala, for them the words ‘like’,’crush’,’ love’ etc equates to sex.

She slapped me and told me “ahankari, mottennu virinjilla athinu munpe thudangi Ilakkam, allelum ninakithiri illakkam kooduthal aa ” ( she berated me)

I remember the confusion I felt. But more than the confusion, I felt ashamed, that there was something really wrong with me and well behaved woman do not feel like I did. as a 12 year old, I couldn’t blame my upbringing, so it was obvious that there was something wrong with me. I even thought I should join the convent and for years my sisters used to call me “Mother Sarah”

When Yaya was about 12, she liked “Cody Simpson” We had Cody Simpson for breakfast, lunch and dinner ( ie the conversation was always about what Cody Simpson did at that particular moment, how hot he is etc etc”

Amma was with me at that time and she wasn’t pleased. She couldn’t tell Yaya off because I wouldn’t let her, so she came after me telling me that I am a lousy mother and I should hold the reins to control my daughter.

But I had been a teenager once and I knew exactly what Yaya was going through.

Things went to peak when Cody Simpson came to Gold Coast for a free concert. I took Yaya for the concert and Amma told me “Kurichitto,nee oru divasam padikkum, ingane alla makkale valarthunne” ( Mark my words, you will learn one day that, this isn’t how you raise your daughters and by then it will be too late”

After the concert, there was never any mention of Cody Simpson. It was like Cody Simpson never existed. She moved on to Johnny Depp. ( And what was really odd was that when Yaya stopped talking about Cody,Amma went on asking Yaya about Cody Simpson, asking her “how is Cody? etc etc and Yaya went on ignoring Amma)

Yaya had to write a paper on “life changing moment and the lesson learned” as part of her HPE.

This is what she wrote. ( She hasn’t corrected the mistakes in the grammar, spelling etc, as the teachers here don’t really sweat about minor things)

I´d never considered myself to be the type of person who obsessed about anything. Not about school, not about money and not about image. I definitely never considered myself to be obsessed with the rich and famous. I´d always scoffed at those so called, self-professed ´beliebers´, those silly girls who waited in five hour long lines to get an autograph or a photo, the ones who fainted from the overwhelming excitement at the sight of their obsession. I blame it on my pre-pubescent hormones but others may disagree.

I suppose it started around a year after I had first moved to Australia. Things were going well; I had made great friends and was experiencing school life through the eyes of a senior. Yes I was in grade seven. My teacher at the time, Mr Collinson believed that the current events were an important factor to life, so at the start of the year he declared that each of us had to bring in a news article that we deemed important to share with the class. Failure to do so resulted in detention, so really, we had no choice. Now I never read the newspaper, ever. I, the young, naive, oblivious to the real world, head stuck in the clouds child that I was, considered it boring. I was more interested in reading Harry Potter and playing softball in the park with my friends, so this assignment came as bitter surprise.

I was flicking through the entertainment section of the newspaper one morning in a desperate bid to avoid detention when there before me lied the face of the most beautiful boy I had ever seen. I quickly scanned the article and learned that this was the now world famous Cody Simpson, teenage sensation, Australia´s answer to Justin Beiber. I quickly became obsessed. I started surfing his web page, reading his biographies, really just trying to collect as much information as I could. Cody Simpson morphed into a god in front of my eyes. He was perfect in every way and no one could compare. I believed with utter devotion that we were meant to be, that even though I’d never met him deep down inside Cody Simpson liked me too. Of course I realized later that that was statistically impossible. Finally my undying hope and fervent faith paid off. Cody Simpson was coming back to his home in the Gold Coast to perform a free concert. I was in ecstasy. That whole week before the concert I didn´t eat, I didn´t sleep and I brought up Cody Simpson at every point in conversation. Finally the day came and I was so excited I could barely sit still. We arrived at the concert to find it completely and utterly packed full of girls of every single age, I guess that should have been my first clue.

The concert itself was of satisfactory standard, it was really hard to hear him sing over the sounds of literally a million girls screaming, myself included but what I really wanted, with all my heart was to meet this teenage god and the only way I could achieve this was through the obtainment of an autograph. What I didn’t realize until after at least two hours of queuing was that you had to pay for the poster of which Mr Simpson could autograph. As I didn’t have any money with me I was unable to buy a poster, well that didn’t matter to me, I was sure that once Cody set eyes on me he would fall head over heels in love with me and whisk me away in his big, shiny limo. My world literally came crashing down around me when I walked on the stage and off again without earning a second glance from this so called godlike perfection in my poster-less state. I felt so miserable and nearly burst into tears.

Later on, in the cool depths of my sheets, as I lay on my bed, I realized that the perfection that is Cody Simpson was all just a figment of my imagination. You may think that this revelation was brought on by rejection and I agree. The emptiness of rejection finally brought me ought of my love-struck haze and I was able to understand that no one is perfect. No one. No matter how rich, or famous, or gorgeous. I also realized that it is always best to stay away from teenage musicians of the male variety.  Always.

I’ll be alright !

I became an aunty !

I found out that from the net.

Aside from the fact that I have reached another milestone in my life, the news did me no good.

It takes all sorts of people to make a family and most people have an ideal family where everyone loves each other and  for them such a news as the birth of a nephew is really good news. Some of us aren’t that lucky.

All my life I wanted a perfect family, I worked hard to create the perfect family. But all that I was getting out of this need to create a perfect family was emotional scars. ( I refuse to accept that there are no perfect families, because I see them everyday in my life, it is just that you just can’t make an imperfect family perfect)

One thing I remember the most is how Amma would make us fight with each other and then get us to forgive each other by saying “you have no one else, only each other, you must learn to forgive”. If there is one sentence that I hate the most, it would be saram illa, nee angu kshamicheru.There was never a conflict resolution, just deep seated anger and resentment. Amma played the role of the victim and the martyr with great flair and thrived on dividing and ruling us. ( yes, she did that along with feeding us and wiping our butt)

There comes a point in life where you realize that staying back is more detrimental to your health and well being and walk away.

It isn’t easy to walk away. First of all you have the rest of the society to deal with.

While I was away on holidays, I was worried about my house going under flood waters and couldn’t get through to my neighbours. ( phone lines were down). I then had to call a friend whose child is Yaya’s classmate. But she was away in Cairns and she asked “Don’t you have a sister in Gold Coast?” Obviously Yaya would have mentioned to her friend that her aunty lives in Gold Coast. How do you tell someone that “yes, I have a sister in Gold coast whom I haven’t seen for the past 3 years because my family is really screwed up?” You just don’t want to admit to others that your family is screwed up, it reflects badly on you because most people have good family and even those who don’t ( like me) have to pretend to the outside world that all is well in our family. I lied and told her that I don’t have a sister in Gold Coast. ( I feel bad for Yaya, surely my children end up paying the price for the mistakes of my family and I think may be it is true what is said in the bible ( Exodus 34:7 and no I didn’t suddenly start believing in the bible because of a single verse, I remember that verse from my childhood)

I was asked once if I hate my sisters or if I am indifferent. I don’t hate my sisters. I am just indifferent. ( Avarayi, avarude pad aayi, and life goes on)

Of course I am thrilled that I became an aunty. I wonder if the baby looks anything like his mother? Did he inherit his mother’s dimples? I wonder kochiney naal enthayirikkum? And I miss holding the baby close to me and giving him a million kisses and tell him that I love him to bits. I  miss the baby smell. I l miss singing lullaby’s. I will miss buying him a kasavu mundu, that he would be wearing for his first onam. I  miss shopping for baby clothes, the biggest joy of having a new born in the family is the opportunity to go back to the baby shops..something I don’t get to do anymore because my kids are older. Those sailor outfits for little boys have always been my favourite. Those little shoes, the drinking cups, the toys..the list is endless.

Surely, you would ask “Why don’t you pick up the phone and call your sister and congratulate her?”

It isn’t about picking up the phone, it isn’t about forgiveness, it certainly isn’t about ego.

It is all about knowing how toxic your family really is and taking a stand to protect yourself from further harm. That one phone call would lead to more miseries. The abuse that happens within the family is a never ending cycle. It doesn’t go away and you just can’t stop it. You can only walk away.

And I know that Amma always kept one of her daughters out of the family loop, it was my sister younger to me most of my childhood ( amma even send her to a boarding school to keep her away), then it was chechy, then it was me and then it was my youngest sister. Now that I am no longer in the picture, Amma will be at peace and will treat my sisters well ( for all her anger and frustrations are presently directed at me)  and hopefully my sisters will look after her. ( selfish I know, but I don’t want Amma to end up in an old folks home with none of her daughters taking care of her)

As for me, today is my neighbour’s grandchild’s birthday. I will not ever get to celebrate my nephew’s birthday, but that is a choice I made. I bought a pretty dress for the birthday girl and refused to look at the boy’s cloths while I was at the Pumpkin patch shop. It is the best I can do and I will be alright.

Hypocrites !

Hypocrites !

There is no race more hypocritical than Indians.

We claim to have a culture that are centuries old. Our men are so concerned about following the dictates of the said culture  that they even protest about a kiss in a movie scene. ( there were plenty of interesting comments yesterday! can’t find them today. Some of the comments were about how this Kiss will affect the future of the actress!)

For you see In India the belief is that passion and associated vices are part of western civilization. Indian girls don’t kiss and if your daughter kissed a guy then not only you were a bad parent to have raised such an immoral child, but also the future of your daughter is in jeopardy. Nobody wants ‘spoiled’ goods.

It is the responsibility of each member of the society to guard the virtue of our daughters, that is why you find  nursing colleges in India checking the virginity of nursing students,

In a country that cares so much about the purity of the girls, how do you explain this?


Confessions of the unashamed

Mallus are so so stuck up when it comes to their food. Avial ain’t avial if it didn’t have the standard vegetables as per the recipe the family followed the last few centuries.

I dread when my relatives come for a visit. I am a good cook and can whip up a decent meal normally..”Normally” here means anyone other than my mallu relatives. For them, a meal is a meal only if it is nadan. This need to confirm to all things nadan extends from carting Chadrika soap the size of eli kattam so they won’t feel bad leaving the soap behind ( as per the good manners guide) when they leave, for it was already very “small” when they brought it with them! and to everything else that makes them show absolute loyalty to their mallu compatriot still living in Kerala.

And I resort to cheating..

Let me explain..

Sometime ago, I had the misfortune of cooking for a Kottayam Achayan and his family.

He loved to drink kattan kappi .

“Nothing beat a glass of bed coffee first thing in the morning” Said the Achayan in such a tone as to ensure that I got the message loud and clear.

Normally one would think that if you are visiting someone, you adjust a bit and don’t make the life of your host a living hell. But that isn’t a trait you see in Mallus. For they always had kattan kappi and will continue to have it come what may.

As I wrote before, I was taught to treat my visitors well and though I am tempted to tell them off, I don’t.

I made a conscious effort to make my relatives feel at home. But trouble started the next day with the bed coffee..

Achayan wanted a second cup of coffee and instead of having the Achayathi mucking around  my well organized kitchen, I chose to make the coffee.

“What is that?” They asked

“That” was raw sugar. ( I don’t buy white sugar because I don’t see the need to buy something that is processed/bleached to make it look more aesthetically pleasing.)

“I only like white sugar, no wonder the coffee tasted bad” said the same idiot who asked for a second cup of coffee.

I was tempted to clobber him to a pulp, but didn’t. Instead, I found the sugar cubes (white) that I keep aside for camping and made the coffee. Achayan drank the coffee victoriously and pronounced ” this is real coffee”

The truth is over the next few days I ran out of sugar cubes and Achayan and his family drank coffee with raw sugar.

Did they notice the difference? Not at all.

Do I feel guilty? Not at all !


He, grew up in a cattle station in the Australian outback, was home schooled all his life, the nearest supermarket is 1500km away from his home, his idea of a meal is steak, steak and steak or if he has time he will fish for Barra or hunt for ducks. If there is one word I could describe his life would be “isolated”

When I was little, my grandmother too led a pretty isolated life. She couldn’t even afford newspaper subscription and if my father has forgotten to get her a calendar, then she wouldn’t even know the date. But her life in the farm continued without any interruptions. She followed the weather by looking at the sky and one evening she taught me

padinjarey manathu chemmanam kandal, annu mazha illenkil aa masathil mazha illa”

If you see a red sky in the west at sunset, then if it didn’t rain that day, then there won’t be any rain for the month.

I was 5 when she taught me this, but as I grew up, I learned more science and knew there was no way you could see anything but a red sky at sunset.

Clearly my grandmother was wrong, yet a part of me always wondered how could she be wrong?

I did ask all those learned ones whom I met over the years if they knew any reason why my grandmother thought that way?

It took an Australian, who has never been to India to unravel the puzzle.

“Which direction is the monsoon wind ?” He asked

“South west” I replied

“So obviously, if you have clear red sky at sunset, that means there is no storm lurking in the ocean on western side and there won’t be any rain”

I studied so much, yet I am so stupid..even my grandmother who didn’t even go to a high school knew much more than me.



My darling

I know lately I have been writing a lot about him, but the past few weeks have really been eye opener for me.

Last week, he not only bought flowers for his girl, he also send a flower for Yaya. The school gives the option of sending flowers anonymously and Yaya came home with a rose flower, all excited, telling me “mom, I got a flower from a secret valentine” That night my son came to my room with a sheepish smile and told me that he was Yaya’s  secret valentine. He said he wanted his sister to have a rose and so he bought her one. I was really touched. ( My oldest sister was in the same town when I got married and didn’t even bother to come for my wedding! Probably why I cherish moments like this)

Also last weekend I had a ‘friend’ over for lunch. This particular friend is well connected and I really needed his help in getting a project.  I warned my kids that I expect absolutely no screw up. But I forgot to warn my chooks to behave. One of them decided to check her wing strength and tried to fly over the little fence I built to keep them off my garden and ended up creating a huge ruckus. My friend was very amused by the fact I have chooks and asked

“So, how many chooks you have?”

Before I could answer, my son replied “4”

That was not correct, we only have three chooks ( we had 4, one died) and if my friend got up from his chair and looked at the chook cage, he could see for himself that we only have three chooks. How could my son lie? That is not like my son. He never lies. And I heard this

“Three of our chooks live in the chook cage and the fourth one lives with us inside the house” and he pointed to me. ( scaredy – cat = chicken)

I never knew an adult male could laugh this much.. but he did. And my son proceeded to tell him all my scaredy – cat antics.

This, from my neighbour who was in the bus when my son got on. According to her this is what my son did.

He stood at an angle, raised his left hand and with a magician like flair flipped his wallet using his right hand and touched the go card to the reader while saying “wapao” . Apparently, even the driver was amused. It is true that his mother never missed a single Rajnikanth movie, but I can tell you, I never thought my son would turn out to be like Rajnikanth. Everything he does lately seems to have a Rajnikanth touch!

Life as a mother is challenging, but then again, there are days, you are just happy because you got a chance to be a mom and see your children grow up. Today is such a day!