Ah, the joys of summer vacation.
Blue skies, sandy beaches in the Caribbean, thrilling rides at Six Flags, road trips to anywhere necessitating a minimum seven-day stay at a ritzy hotel with a pool, sauna and Jacuzzi, and plenty of endless fun-filled activities...
I would keep dreaming but ever since I graduated from childhood to parenthood umpteen years ago, I know all too well that the 60-plus days of classwork- and homework-free days for kids are a ticket to hell, not paradise, for working parents.
Since my kids were old, and bold, enough to ask me what we had planned for the summer, I’ve told them: “This is your brain on summer vacation.”
My message, year after year, has fallen on deaf ears. But in a recent column the venerated “Time” magazine stated its “Case against summer vacation. About time. “All that downtime is making our kids fall behind” in school (“especially for those who can least afford to”) the writer says.
Now that I have “Time” endorsing my long-held theory, I would take this message to school administrators but my campaign wouldn’t stand a chance in a school district that never fails to pass a school budget.
I must say this summer’s been no picnic in the park for me. For a good month and a half now, my primary duty, aside from holding on to a full-time job and keeping the home fires burning, has been to keep my three kids from sheer boredom and “summer learning loss.” Quite a mental and physical workout for their dad and mum.
Hence the numerous trips to the library, ice skating rink, tennis court, swimming pool, shopping mall, movies, day trips, camp for one kid, and other family excursions. Throw in their day parties and sleepovers, time for them to catch up on all the “new episodes” and reruns on TV, and play video and Wii games (yes, we plead guilty). And to make it a really hot exciting summer break the kids can rave about, we even fired up the grill a few times.
So, I asked the kids the other day how their summer vacation’s going so far.
“It’s the B-O-R-I-N-G-est vacation.” Brief pause. “EVER,” the three whined in unison. This was followed by a litany of all the things their friends and cousins did (sandy beaches, ritzy hotel stays) and they did not.
“Really now kids?” My budget just can’t fancy a posh vacation. Nor can it fancy daily private tutorials that some other kids in the district can afford. And getting the kids workbooks as I did last summer are a waste of my hard-earned dollars. No amount of bribery, or threats, can get them to complete their worksheets, I’ve learned, unless I want to hear for the zillionth time: “It’s our summer break, after all, MOM!” Plus, hubby and I have learned, you can take the kids to the moon but if their friends and cousins are not going, it’s still “B-O-R-I-N-G.”
So, I suggested that my more-or-less bright kids slack off a little bit during the next school year so they can go to summer school. My kids, so far, have been pretty good students (I am an Asian-American parent, so deep in my heart, I’m sure, I feel they could always get an A++).
They may still have the “B-O-R-I-N-G-est vacation ever” but I won’t have to fear the damage wrought by “dull summers.” And, perchance, I can catch a break.
Right. “Yeah, mom, G-R-E-A-T idea,” the kids responded emphatically, rolling their eyes. I was shocked my idea got an “F.”
I concede I’ve run out of ideas. It must be the result of all the “summer learning loss” I experienced as a kid.
Thankfully, there are only 19 more days before kids go back to school. But who’s counting.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
What’s eating Mr. Hubby?
So, I’ve miserably failed the test of a real desi wife – by several pounds.
Hubby left for the doctor’s office for his annual physical exam the other day feeling peachy and robust but came back looking pale and thinner. He had passed the physical exam with flying colors, no need for concern there thankfully, except in one matter. The good desi doctor was taken aback that hubby had shed a few pounds he didn’t really need to.
Weight loss is a big issue in America, the land of plenty, and everyone wants the skinny on how to look trim and fit without moving a muscle, so doc quizzed hubby, “What’s the secret?”
Hubby, blushing with shame, I’m sure, at the mere thought of divulging family secrets and the fact that he now had a little less of his weight to throw around the house, muttered: “Oh, my wife feeds me brown rice and quinoa these days.”
The highly experienced and friendly doc lost it at quinoa, and being a modest desi knew better than to prod further into the details of the healthy estate of our marriage.
“OK,” he said cutting short the conversation.
“Keep doing whatever you are doing. See you in a year and regards to the wife,” doc said, I’m sure feeling shame for my hubby’s diminished stature, and sent him home, where his late breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and raisins awaited him.
I knew hubby was losing it as he pushed away the bowl of oatmeal and said he needed to beef up and asked for hash browns, eggs and sausage as he narrated what transpired at the doc’s office.
“What?” I steamed, “How could you blame me? Shouldn’t I get some credit? Couldn’t you at least tell the doc I make healthy meals with my own hands, not serve you some frozen TV dinners.”
Now, any Indian knows that the test of a real desi wife is not based on the whether the couple loves each other, how many children the blessed union has produced or even how long the marriage has lasted. The true measure of a real desi wife is based on how round her man is, which is based on how many square meals he is fed by his non-westernized Indian wife. And, sadly, after nearly 19 years, the state of our blissful wedded life has boiled down to two non-exotic grains: brown rice and quinoa. The scale has shifted, but not in my favor.
But I am determined to restore my hubby’s honor – and mine – before he goes back for his next annual and before my in-laws get whiff of baked quinoa and sail across the oceans to rescue their son. Because this is America, the land of milk and honey, and we are Americans of desi origin, we will do it the American way: celebrate hubby’s weight loss with cookies and ice cream.
P.S. As they say in America, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings. We are on family vacation next week. That will give me ample time to chew on this weighty matter and find ways to fatten up hubby. But I will need to take a break from my weekly blogpost. Ciao!
Hubby left for the doctor’s office for his annual physical exam the other day feeling peachy and robust but came back looking pale and thinner. He had passed the physical exam with flying colors, no need for concern there thankfully, except in one matter. The good desi doctor was taken aback that hubby had shed a few pounds he didn’t really need to.
Weight loss is a big issue in America, the land of plenty, and everyone wants the skinny on how to look trim and fit without moving a muscle, so doc quizzed hubby, “What’s the secret?”
Hubby, blushing with shame, I’m sure, at the mere thought of divulging family secrets and the fact that he now had a little less of his weight to throw around the house, muttered: “Oh, my wife feeds me brown rice and quinoa these days.”
The highly experienced and friendly doc lost it at quinoa, and being a modest desi knew better than to prod further into the details of the healthy estate of our marriage.
“OK,” he said cutting short the conversation.
“Keep doing whatever you are doing. See you in a year and regards to the wife,” doc said, I’m sure feeling shame for my hubby’s diminished stature, and sent him home, where his late breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and raisins awaited him.
I knew hubby was losing it as he pushed away the bowl of oatmeal and said he needed to beef up and asked for hash browns, eggs and sausage as he narrated what transpired at the doc’s office.
“What?” I steamed, “How could you blame me? Shouldn’t I get some credit? Couldn’t you at least tell the doc I make healthy meals with my own hands, not serve you some frozen TV dinners.”
Now, any Indian knows that the test of a real desi wife is not based on the whether the couple loves each other, how many children the blessed union has produced or even how long the marriage has lasted. The true measure of a real desi wife is based on how round her man is, which is based on how many square meals he is fed by his non-westernized Indian wife. And, sadly, after nearly 19 years, the state of our blissful wedded life has boiled down to two non-exotic grains: brown rice and quinoa. The scale has shifted, but not in my favor.
But I am determined to restore my hubby’s honor – and mine – before he goes back for his next annual and before my in-laws get whiff of baked quinoa and sail across the oceans to rescue their son. Because this is America, the land of milk and honey, and we are Americans of desi origin, we will do it the American way: celebrate hubby’s weight loss with cookies and ice cream.
P.S. As they say in America, it ain’t over until the fat lady sings. We are on family vacation next week. That will give me ample time to chew on this weighty matter and find ways to fatten up hubby. But I will need to take a break from my weekly blogpost. Ciao!
Friday, July 23, 2010
Teen can have her cake, and make it too
It’s a good thing I’m on the ever-popular see-food diet since my teen has been cooking up a storm these past two weeks.
Not in my kitchen, of course. Any mom who is a cook and worth her salt knows that the kitchen is the only place where she reigns supreme. Never mind that she, and hubby, work night and day to pay the mortgage and all the assorted bills that keep the home and three kids running on all burners.
But teen being typical teen is always on the quest to usurp my rightful place in the kitchen. She wants to show off her culinary skills while I want her to show off her dish-washing skills.
Still, when teen announced she wanted to take culinary classes at the district’s expense for two weeks, I figured she was one smart cookie. It was her ploy to worm her way into my territory, but, at least, I didn’t have to pay for the class.
The first day at school, teen got her hands rolling in dough and brought home a tray of cinnamon rolls. Just the sight of those sweet streets had mom and the younger two kids salivating. The next day, she came home with even more goodies. Chocolate chip muffins and chocolate chip cookies. As I savored the soft and chewy cookies, I wondered out loud why mine were always dry and crumbly. And I have many more years of experience in the kitchen.
“Jealous, huh?” said teen sweetly.
Petty jealousies aside, we were in sugar heaven. And like Pavlov’s dogs, we were anticipating our next day’s treats.
Now that teen had proved herself and risen to the occasion, I asked her, “So, when are you going to bring us home some real meals?” Feeding three kids breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks during summer vacation is no easy task. And what good mom would feed her kids sugar for all three meals and snacks. So, it was about time for teen to be a real cook and learn to whip up some real meals. Plus, shouldn’t teen be learning to cook from the bottom of the food pyramid and not at the top, which would only add fuel to the rising epidemic of childhood obesity.
Teen must have relayed my message to her teacher, because the next day the class got their hands rolling in dough again to make the all-American dish, pizza. The day after she brought home penne pasta with, um, vodka sauce, which teen couldn’t really stomach (see my previous post on teen’s sobering thoughts on alcohol use). Teen also learned how to whip up a Monte Cristo sandwich, macaroni salad and a tray of Philly cheese steak mac and cheese. For two weeks we have been a well-fed family.
I’ve allowed teen to sign up for fall cooking classes and I hope this won’t turn out to be a recipe for disaster. But should she consider applying her classroom skills to real life, I’ll be more than happy to let her be the kitchen queen for a day or two, but she still has to do the dishes.
Not in my kitchen, of course. Any mom who is a cook and worth her salt knows that the kitchen is the only place where she reigns supreme. Never mind that she, and hubby, work night and day to pay the mortgage and all the assorted bills that keep the home and three kids running on all burners.
But teen being typical teen is always on the quest to usurp my rightful place in the kitchen. She wants to show off her culinary skills while I want her to show off her dish-washing skills.
Still, when teen announced she wanted to take culinary classes at the district’s expense for two weeks, I figured she was one smart cookie. It was her ploy to worm her way into my territory, but, at least, I didn’t have to pay for the class.
The first day at school, teen got her hands rolling in dough and brought home a tray of cinnamon rolls. Just the sight of those sweet streets had mom and the younger two kids salivating. The next day, she came home with even more goodies. Chocolate chip muffins and chocolate chip cookies. As I savored the soft and chewy cookies, I wondered out loud why mine were always dry and crumbly. And I have many more years of experience in the kitchen.
“Jealous, huh?” said teen sweetly.
Petty jealousies aside, we were in sugar heaven. And like Pavlov’s dogs, we were anticipating our next day’s treats.
Now that teen had proved herself and risen to the occasion, I asked her, “So, when are you going to bring us home some real meals?” Feeding three kids breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks during summer vacation is no easy task. And what good mom would feed her kids sugar for all three meals and snacks. So, it was about time for teen to be a real cook and learn to whip up some real meals. Plus, shouldn’t teen be learning to cook from the bottom of the food pyramid and not at the top, which would only add fuel to the rising epidemic of childhood obesity.
Teen must have relayed my message to her teacher, because the next day the class got their hands rolling in dough again to make the all-American dish, pizza. The day after she brought home penne pasta with, um, vodka sauce, which teen couldn’t really stomach (see my previous post on teen’s sobering thoughts on alcohol use). Teen also learned how to whip up a Monte Cristo sandwich, macaroni salad and a tray of Philly cheese steak mac and cheese. For two weeks we have been a well-fed family.
I’ve allowed teen to sign up for fall cooking classes and I hope this won’t turn out to be a recipe for disaster. But should she consider applying her classroom skills to real life, I’ll be more than happy to let her be the kitchen queen for a day or two, but she still has to do the dishes.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Happy hour? Not on tap in this house
Apparently, summer vacation added to the usual joys of motherhood is driving some fine ladies to drink. My kids never need to worry that their elegant and mature mother will ever take to the bottle since my 14-year-old, long before she entered the impressionable stage of teenhood, had determined that I, and she, will never be the life of the party.
While still in elementary school, my oldest child had well imbibed the doctrines of a group called DARE — Drug Abuse Resistance Education. The highly acclaimed substance abuse prevention education program, according to the group’s website, “gives kids the skills they need to avoid involvement in drugs, gangs, and violence” (and alcohol). I proudly witnessed my child, then a mere 9-, or 10-year-old, at the DARE ceremony at her school, place her hand on her heart and pledge never to involve herself in activities that would harm her body, mind or soul, and bring shame on her household.
Little did I know that the pledge applied to her mother, too.
Now, in our family, we’ve always been under the Prohibition. Given our austere, traditional cultural and religious upbringing, we’ve been under a long, dry spell. (No Lindsay Lohan-style issues here yet.). But I discovered that my child had taken a vow of abstinence for me as well during a wine-tasting trip in Amish country in Pennsylvania two years ago. As I prepared to raise my glass to appreciate the bouquet and full body of whatever wines I was supposed to sample — heck, I’m still bitter about it — my sweet child had the clarity of mind to burst into tears. Her message to me was champagne clear: I was doomed to be a teetotaler.
I am of a legal drinking age but since I was determined to act mature and not brew any trouble in the house, I decided to become an addict of another sort to survive these heady, tension-filled motherhood years. So, I’ve mostly been under the influence of java beans.
I can’t benefit from a drink or two that some studies say could benefit my health, but fortunately for me, I have some sobering news. A study published last week says beetroot juice can lower blood pressure levels. “The research,” according to hindustantimes.com, “is a welcome news for people with high BP as they can now use a 'natural' approach to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease (including stroke and heart attacks) - the world's biggest killer.” Now, I can drink to that! Raising three kids, without the benefit of alcohol, keeps my blood pressure boiling most of the time. But I don’t want to fall victim to any cardiovascular disease. So, beetroot juice is the perfect drink for me. It’s natural, fresh and deceptively wine-like in its robust coloring — and, most importantly, palatable to my teen’s sensibilities.
Living a teetotaler’s life these many years has taken its toll. So, please pour me a glass of beetroot juice. But, could you please make mine spicy?
While still in elementary school, my oldest child had well imbibed the doctrines of a group called DARE — Drug Abuse Resistance Education. The highly acclaimed substance abuse prevention education program, according to the group’s website, “gives kids the skills they need to avoid involvement in drugs, gangs, and violence” (and alcohol). I proudly witnessed my child, then a mere 9-, or 10-year-old, at the DARE ceremony at her school, place her hand on her heart and pledge never to involve herself in activities that would harm her body, mind or soul, and bring shame on her household.
Little did I know that the pledge applied to her mother, too.
Now, in our family, we’ve always been under the Prohibition. Given our austere, traditional cultural and religious upbringing, we’ve been under a long, dry spell. (No Lindsay Lohan-style issues here yet.). But I discovered that my child had taken a vow of abstinence for me as well during a wine-tasting trip in Amish country in Pennsylvania two years ago. As I prepared to raise my glass to appreciate the bouquet and full body of whatever wines I was supposed to sample — heck, I’m still bitter about it — my sweet child had the clarity of mind to burst into tears. Her message to me was champagne clear: I was doomed to be a teetotaler.
I am of a legal drinking age but since I was determined to act mature and not brew any trouble in the house, I decided to become an addict of another sort to survive these heady, tension-filled motherhood years. So, I’ve mostly been under the influence of java beans.
I can’t benefit from a drink or two that some studies say could benefit my health, but fortunately for me, I have some sobering news. A study published last week says beetroot juice can lower blood pressure levels. “The research,” according to hindustantimes.com, “is a welcome news for people with high BP as they can now use a 'natural' approach to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease (including stroke and heart attacks) - the world's biggest killer.” Now, I can drink to that! Raising three kids, without the benefit of alcohol, keeps my blood pressure boiling most of the time. But I don’t want to fall victim to any cardiovascular disease. So, beetroot juice is the perfect drink for me. It’s natural, fresh and deceptively wine-like in its robust coloring — and, most importantly, palatable to my teen’s sensibilities.
Living a teetotaler’s life these many years has taken its toll. So, please pour me a glass of beetroot juice. But, could you please make mine spicy?
Thursday, July 8, 2010
If only this idea could take flight…
My teen inadvertently gave me an idea the other day during one of our noontime chats, an idea that makes this veteran mom want to flock with birds of a different feather.
“Mummy,” said teen unwittingly, as I was chowing down my second full meal of the day and she was just breaking her fast with a bowl of cheerios, “did you know there are birds that leave their eggs in other birds’ nests and let other birds take care of their eggs?”
“Really?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, isn’t that mean?” she said disdainfully and took flight, thankfully. Heaven forbid I should let on that she had just launched me on my flight of fantasy.
Now, I’ve been a parent for only 14 years, 2 months and some odd days, so you’d think I’d be an expert in all kinds of parenting techniques. But how this idea had eluded me thus far I have no clue.
Deadbeat human parents have the reputation of being such louses and scoundrels, but I wondered if deadbeat European cuckoos and brown-headed cowbirds (called “brood parasites”) --- I had to Google to verify my teen’s claims --- can lay their eggs in another bird’s nest and let the unwitting host birds feed and raise their chicks, why can’t human moms get a free pass. Deadbeat cuckoos and cowbirds are not scandalized and they don’t end up as jailbirds. If Mother Nature sanctions this parenting method, why the flock (remember this, Toni V.) can’t human mothers do the same.
Consider this: If only I could drop off my three chicks in another human nest, I could fly around the world in 80 days (or less), explore the caves of South Africa or Maharashtra, climb Mount Everest, write the sequel to “War and Peace,” and, most importantly, reclaim the zillion hours of sleep I’ve lost in the past 14 years.
Of course, my three chicks are not mere eggs that I can drop off with just anyone, and since I’m not half as devious as a cuckoo or stealthy as a cowbird, I may as well abandon my fantasy and let my kids roost in my own nest….until and unless I can find an unwitting host.
Grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends….Any takers?
“Mummy,” said teen unwittingly, as I was chowing down my second full meal of the day and she was just breaking her fast with a bowl of cheerios, “did you know there are birds that leave their eggs in other birds’ nests and let other birds take care of their eggs?”
“Really?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, isn’t that mean?” she said disdainfully and took flight, thankfully. Heaven forbid I should let on that she had just launched me on my flight of fantasy.
Now, I’ve been a parent for only 14 years, 2 months and some odd days, so you’d think I’d be an expert in all kinds of parenting techniques. But how this idea had eluded me thus far I have no clue.
Deadbeat human parents have the reputation of being such louses and scoundrels, but I wondered if deadbeat European cuckoos and brown-headed cowbirds (called “brood parasites”) --- I had to Google to verify my teen’s claims --- can lay their eggs in another bird’s nest and let the unwitting host birds feed and raise their chicks, why can’t human moms get a free pass. Deadbeat cuckoos and cowbirds are not scandalized and they don’t end up as jailbirds. If Mother Nature sanctions this parenting method, why the flock (remember this, Toni V.) can’t human mothers do the same.
Consider this: If only I could drop off my three chicks in another human nest, I could fly around the world in 80 days (or less), explore the caves of South Africa or Maharashtra, climb Mount Everest, write the sequel to “War and Peace,” and, most importantly, reclaim the zillion hours of sleep I’ve lost in the past 14 years.
Of course, my three chicks are not mere eggs that I can drop off with just anyone, and since I’m not half as devious as a cuckoo or stealthy as a cowbird, I may as well abandon my fantasy and let my kids roost in my own nest….until and unless I can find an unwitting host.
Grandparents, uncles, aunts, friends….Any takers?
Friday, July 2, 2010
Bits & Pieces
Thanks a bundle to all my readers for your kind blog comments, Facebook posts, emails and words of encouragement.
In particular, I want to highlight two blog commentators.
One was not the least embarrassed to identify herself as my niece and has given me full license to keep on blogging. This young lady commented:
“…This is such a cool blog! Just saying, you are embarrassing
your daughter even MORE!!! I hope you blog even more!..”
I'm sure my niece is still on my teen's Fave list.
Also, thanks to the anonymous commenter who wrote:
“i'm enjoying this, immensely, and appreciate your candor!
i know a tiny bit about parenting - and thus, there may be a
bit of “schadenfreud" involved...”
Your comment made me smile, and yes, I know all about schadenfreude. I engaged in it – before I became the parent of three. Now the tables have turned, and I must grin and bear it all.
But, I do have a classic wimpy mom WMD in my arsenal. I’ve warned my kids: “You better behave, or else, you know what my next blog entry will be about.”
Not sure if they heard me. Two are busy playing a Wii game and the other is still fast asleep.
In particular, I want to highlight two blog commentators.
One was not the least embarrassed to identify herself as my niece and has given me full license to keep on blogging. This young lady commented:
“…This is such a cool blog! Just saying, you are embarrassing
your daughter even MORE!!! I hope you blog even more!..”
I'm sure my niece is still on my teen's Fave list.
Also, thanks to the anonymous commenter who wrote:
“i'm enjoying this, immensely, and appreciate your candor!
i know a tiny bit about parenting - and thus, there may be a
bit of “schadenfreud" involved...”
Your comment made me smile, and yes, I know all about schadenfreude. I engaged in it – before I became the parent of three. Now the tables have turned, and I must grin and bear it all.
But, I do have a classic wimpy mom WMD in my arsenal. I’ve warned my kids: “You better behave, or else, you know what my next blog entry will be about.”
Not sure if they heard me. Two are busy playing a Wii game and the other is still fast asleep.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Hats off to mom, er our graduate
In anticipation of my teen's graduation from middle school this evening, I, the mom, woke up at the crack of dawn.
After all, there was much work to be done before we delivered our teen at 5:30 p.m. sharp to the auditorium of the local high school, which she will be attending in the fall. Manicure, pedicure, hair and make-up, all of which take just about the whole day for a teen. And it falls on the mom, not the dad (who being the dad had to put in a full day at the office although his first-born was reaching a crucial milestone) to schlep the teen around to get all these done in an orderly and timely fashion.
So to avoid any unexpected dramas from marring an otherwise beautiful moment in our lives, teen and I agreed (or rather, I agreed for the both of us) that we'd need to leave home at an appointed time in the a.m.
Of course, teen being a teen missed my deadline and overslept. In retrospect, she did need to catch up on the 200 hours or so of sleep she missed during the past school year.
Meanwhile, I got the ball rolling in the kitchen about 7 a.m. with a quick breakfast. I glanced at the clock. Got the younger two kids on the bus. Peeked at the clock again. Got things rolling for dinner since time would be tight later, but teen was intent on getting her beauty sleep. (Now, in my days, my very strict dad would have dumped a cold bucket of H2O on my face...and God forbid I should have even fancied any beauty treatments.) But this being America, and my teen being a second-generation Indian-American, corporal punishment can be more injurious to a parent. Moreover, it is every parent’s moral obligation to ensure her child receives the appropriate beauty treatments lest she appear any less groomed than her peers and be shunned from beauty school.
Morning totally wasted for the teen (but quite busy for the mom), and after a quick lunch, teen, younger sister, brother and I set out for our first stop: the nail salon for a manicure/pedicure for the teen and sister, and just a pedicure for me, thank you, since I still had much work to do before the graduation and needed the full function of my hands.
Second stop: CVS. To pick up a hair straightener gadget that also has the capacity to curl the straightened hair. (Now, in my days. the only hair treatment I benefited from were soap and a generous application of coconut oil (done dutifully by my mom, much to my chagrin) to keep it silky and shiny. Kids’ demands these days, as I said, are hair-raising.
Third stop: Grocery store to pick up some ice cream and miscellaneous stuff. Since dad had to put in a full day at the office (did I say that?) and couldn’t be home in time for dinner, and since the graduation ceremony started just as families in America would sit down to eat dinner, we scrapped the plan for dining out. No dining out after the ceremony either since dinner after 8 p.m. for the younger kids is not a palatable idea. So the plan was to dine early at home and to have brownies topped with a healthy dose of cookies and chocolate ice cream for dessert after the ceremony. Of course, since time was of the essence here, I had to resort to making brownies out of a box. But, it was still work.
Home, at last, teen had to get her normally wavy hair combed, straightened and then curled. (Thankfully, we took care of the haircut a few days earlier.)
Brownies in the oven, I had to rush upstairs as teen needed help with her dress. (Note: It took two trips to various stores for teen to settle on a couple of dresses, neither of which appealed much to her now). The yellow-brown floral summer dress, which she finally decided upon, looked perfect in my eyes, but looked just not right to the teen, which necessitated the use of safety pins and other tricks by mom to make it look just right. Then, just a touch of lip gloss (thankfully, she is not much into artistry yet).
Now my teen was ready for prime time but there was no time for dinner. We rushed to have a quick snack to tide us over till late dinner, and dad, I’m sure, broke a few traffic rules to deliver teen at school just in the nick of time.
As the graduate walked toward the stage up with her head held high to receive the official document that certified her competence in all subjects, I couldn't help but wonder when I would get my certificate. After all, didn’t this mom (and dad) do all the hard work to get teen to this memorable point?
P.S. As I saw my teen march toward the stage with 350 or so of her peers, I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes watered. It was literally a back-breaking, grueling three years in middle school for her and for us, but teen survived and did great. She graduated and received the honor of President’s Academic Achievement Award. Teen, we’re proud of you babe. Now, graduation dinner is on you!!!
After all, there was much work to be done before we delivered our teen at 5:30 p.m. sharp to the auditorium of the local high school, which she will be attending in the fall. Manicure, pedicure, hair and make-up, all of which take just about the whole day for a teen. And it falls on the mom, not the dad (who being the dad had to put in a full day at the office although his first-born was reaching a crucial milestone) to schlep the teen around to get all these done in an orderly and timely fashion.
So to avoid any unexpected dramas from marring an otherwise beautiful moment in our lives, teen and I agreed (or rather, I agreed for the both of us) that we'd need to leave home at an appointed time in the a.m.
Of course, teen being a teen missed my deadline and overslept. In retrospect, she did need to catch up on the 200 hours or so of sleep she missed during the past school year.
Meanwhile, I got the ball rolling in the kitchen about 7 a.m. with a quick breakfast. I glanced at the clock. Got the younger two kids on the bus. Peeked at the clock again. Got things rolling for dinner since time would be tight later, but teen was intent on getting her beauty sleep. (Now, in my days, my very strict dad would have dumped a cold bucket of H2O on my face...and God forbid I should have even fancied any beauty treatments.) But this being America, and my teen being a second-generation Indian-American, corporal punishment can be more injurious to a parent. Moreover, it is every parent’s moral obligation to ensure her child receives the appropriate beauty treatments lest she appear any less groomed than her peers and be shunned from beauty school.
Morning totally wasted for the teen (but quite busy for the mom), and after a quick lunch, teen, younger sister, brother and I set out for our first stop: the nail salon for a manicure/pedicure for the teen and sister, and just a pedicure for me, thank you, since I still had much work to do before the graduation and needed the full function of my hands.
Second stop: CVS. To pick up a hair straightener gadget that also has the capacity to curl the straightened hair. (Now, in my days. the only hair treatment I benefited from were soap and a generous application of coconut oil (done dutifully by my mom, much to my chagrin) to keep it silky and shiny. Kids’ demands these days, as I said, are hair-raising.
Third stop: Grocery store to pick up some ice cream and miscellaneous stuff. Since dad had to put in a full day at the office (did I say that?) and couldn’t be home in time for dinner, and since the graduation ceremony started just as families in America would sit down to eat dinner, we scrapped the plan for dining out. No dining out after the ceremony either since dinner after 8 p.m. for the younger kids is not a palatable idea. So the plan was to dine early at home and to have brownies topped with a healthy dose of cookies and chocolate ice cream for dessert after the ceremony. Of course, since time was of the essence here, I had to resort to making brownies out of a box. But, it was still work.
Home, at last, teen had to get her normally wavy hair combed, straightened and then curled. (Thankfully, we took care of the haircut a few days earlier.)
Brownies in the oven, I had to rush upstairs as teen needed help with her dress. (Note: It took two trips to various stores for teen to settle on a couple of dresses, neither of which appealed much to her now). The yellow-brown floral summer dress, which she finally decided upon, looked perfect in my eyes, but looked just not right to the teen, which necessitated the use of safety pins and other tricks by mom to make it look just right. Then, just a touch of lip gloss (thankfully, she is not much into artistry yet).
Now my teen was ready for prime time but there was no time for dinner. We rushed to have a quick snack to tide us over till late dinner, and dad, I’m sure, broke a few traffic rules to deliver teen at school just in the nick of time.
As the graduate walked toward the stage up with her head held high to receive the official document that certified her competence in all subjects, I couldn't help but wonder when I would get my certificate. After all, didn’t this mom (and dad) do all the hard work to get teen to this memorable point?
P.S. As I saw my teen march toward the stage with 350 or so of her peers, I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes watered. It was literally a back-breaking, grueling three years in middle school for her and for us, but teen survived and did great. She graduated and received the honor of President’s Academic Achievement Award. Teen, we’re proud of you babe. Now, graduation dinner is on you!!!
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