Why My 7-Year-Old’s Hard Bargains Mean I’m Doing Something Right

I think the greatest disservice we can do while raising the current generation of kids is to micromanage them. They are, in fact, not mini-mes—however nice that may sound while captioning Instagram photos. They are themselves. 

To have a child who raises their voice back at you and gives you utter hell at home starting from 6:00 AM is a child who is fiercely independent. Congratulations to you; this means you have not suffocated your child with your archaic thought processes.

Let’s accept for a moment that our thought processes are archaic. We didn’t grow up with Peppa Pig, Cocomelon, and Minecraft to keep us company after school. So no, we, in fact, do not understand their brains as much as we want to believe we do. 

Don’t want to play badminton after two months of coaching? That’s fine. Don’t want to learn swimming officially but just want to splash around inside the pool? Perfectly alright. Want to make exactly ten friends with one best friend who hasn’t changed since L.K.G.? Wonderful. Struggling with languages and still think you’re a boss? Um, that’s where I draw the line. But I’m learning to let go of his limited language knowledge.

We cannot cling onto our children as an extension of our identities or lives. We have to let them fly and fall, make their own decisions, make mistakes, correct them, and so on. 

Empty nest syndrome is anyway going to hit all of us hard the moment they leave our houses for academic or career aspirations, so why make it harder on ourselves by clinging onto them? 

In the words of my 75-year-old father, “We always knew you’d fly away with your wings, girl,” he says with arms flapping on both sides. Easy for him to say considering his grandson visits him every weekend and I live less than a kilometer away from him.

But forget us; this next generation is bolder, stronger, sharper, more opinionated, and has stronger personalities. Let’s just watch them fly with pride in our eyes. I’m proud of my seven-year-old, even if my pooja room is currently his very messy toy corner, even if he doesn't sleep in his own room yet, and all the more because he stares me down like we’re in a courtroom and hard-bargains on his weekend outings and toy purchases. 

Now, this kid needs to be a lawyer. But, I’ll let him decide, of course. I’m choosing not to be a helicopter parent today or any day.

What kind of parenting style are you following?

Zero Bandwidth for Fake Energy

Perhaps I'm perimenopausal, as my nighttime sleep is absolutely light. Or maybe it's the fact that I've lived half my life on Earth, assuming I live until 80. The point is, my tolerance for bullshit is so low now that I can actually feel multiple veins snapping in various parts of my body (I like to call this the Hulk phenomenon) when I have to put up with fake conversations, fake smiles, and basically just about anything fake.

My patience levels are at an all-time low. I'm busier than ever, just like any hassled millennial parent, and I simply don't have the emotional bandwidth for garbage. So, if you don't have a kind word to say, you can either choose to recycle yourself or maintain silence and keep a mile away from me.

Close friends and family, of course, know how to get their message across in a diplomatic manner without mincing words. I hear them, I see them, and I choose to agree or disagree with their point of view. 

The energy and time we invest in people at this juncture in our lives are so important. I want to surround myself only with those who uplift and inspire. I don't have the patience for petty gossip or talk about large world problems that do not concern me or my child.

It is strange how I have such epiphanies during 3 AM sleepless nights like this. But it's a good epiphany to have, I think.

Oh No! It's Monday

Oh no! It's Monday,

The day that flies the fastest has to be Sunday,

What makes this particular morning worse,

Is a radiating shoulder blade pain, like an excruciating curse,

I just want to sleep,

Go back into my slumber, nice and deep,

Why do the weekends fly?

In my bed, I want to lie,

Sleeping all day and night,

With no work in sight,

Perhaps I should,

For another two hours, I really should,

I'll wake up less crabby,

And hopefully feel far from shabby.

No Nanoships and Definitely No Walking Tsunamis

With the advent of dating apps and sex being indulged in by all and sundry like we're back in the Stone Age, the sanctity of marriage and relationships has been reduced to a very large, well-fed horse taking a gigantic dump and saying, "Aaah! When's my next feed?"

So I give up on trying to explain my stance. I give up on talking about the beautiful marriage and relationship I had with a gorgeous man who really leveled up the playing field for all men in general.

When friends and family ask why I'm still single after 5 years, I look no further than my dearest poopie. Imagine, a grown 21-year-old let me call him poopie until the day he died. He called me poopie right back. There was so much love, we made a mini-version of him, who looks like him, sounds like him, and is probably more him than me.

So when people ask, "Are you over your husband?", my answer is a resounding no. How can I be over a man who shaped my early adulthood, who made me a wife, a mother, and now a widow? No, sir. That's one man I can never forget or get over.

"You're never going to get married again," said my late husband's best friend, quite bluntly to my face two nights ago, and I immediately retorted, "What rubbish! Of course I will! Just not with the walking tsunamis and Hurricane Katrinas I'm meeting now."

Love has never been trivial for me. The greatest ambition in my life as an 8-year-old was to get married and have lots of babies. "I want a beach wedding," I'd tell my grandfather, and he'd reply, "But the crows will eat all the pappadam from the sadya, that may not work, mole."

"Okay, appuppa. What about a mountain wedding then?" I'd persist. "I'll be too old then, Gayu, to climb up and see you get married," he'd reply. "Don't worry about all that, appuppa, I'll get a helicopter just to bring you to the top," I'd insist.

Needless to say, I've byhearted every cheesy Hollywood romcom dialogue by heart, starting with Julia Roberts' one-liner in Notting Hill: "I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her." And, "Never lie, steal, cheat, or drink. But if you must lie, lie in the arms of the one you love. If you must steal, steal away from bad company. If you must cheat, cheat death. And if you must drink, drink in the moments that take your breath away," from Hitch. Or, "Take it with you so you'll always have a way to look back... and remember me," from the Beauty and the Beast.

My brain is mush. Tiramisu mixed with chocolate mousse, to be exact. I loved intensely at 21 and that's the only way I know how to love. I'm either all in or not at all. There are absolutely no shades of grey for me when it comes to love.

I understand how important it is to have a loving, supportive partner and how to nurture that relationship over time. So no, I don't do nanoships, situationships, breadcrumbing, ghosting, or benching.

I'm a modern-day Belle looking for my beast, and until I find him, I'm happy to remain single because I'd rather explore the world alone and eat all my meals alone than spend my time trying to fix a 'beast' who refuses to grow up. Also, I already have a mini-beast at home who needs raising. So my hands are quite full. 

My Soulmate Gynaecologist

It's so important to have a good gynaecologist by your side, whatever stage of life you're in. I've been blessed with some great gynaecologists over the years who made my pregnancy and motherhood experience as smooth as possible.

Fast forward to five years ago, my PCOD was worse than ever. Every cycle made me nauseous, more weepy, and left me in unbearable pain. That's when I stumbled upon my present gynaecologist. 

She looked my mum straight in the face and said, "Yes, you're a very supportive family and you've stood by this girl through this very difficult time, but none of you are her husband. Never forget that. She's just lost someone who was a very vital part of her life. So, this pain she's experiencing is nothing but the trauma in her head."

I think for me, in that one moment, I knew that Dr Narassa Narayani was my soulmate gynaecologist. She was empathetic, empowering, encouraging, and no-nonsense all at the same time.

The conversations we have had range from PCOD problems to parenting, to all my hair colours over the years, and what kind of man I should marry if I ever choose to get married again.

With Dr Narassa, the conversation about my ailment lasts for exactly two minutes. The remaining consultation time feels like I'm in a coffee shop, meeting an old friend after years.

She's warm, friendly, and super fun to talk to. I've never met a bad gynaecologist in my life, to be honest. They just understand women on such a deep level; even our partners (in the past and going forward) could never understand us the way they do.

I'm blessed to have Dr Narassa in my life. Find yourself a good gynaecologist if you haven't already. Otherwise, I highly recommend Dr Narassa for any and every issue you may be facing. 

My Make or Break Point

Everyone's life has a make-or-break point. You can choose either to be defined by that moment and remain there forever, or to move forward bravely, learning valuable lessons from the past.

I reached this point five years ago when my world collapsed. I could do nothing about it except stand and watch helplessly. In that moment, though, despite the grief, the anger, the sadness, and the sense of betrayal that I felt, I only saw my toddler's sweet, round face. 

I knew my job was to protect him from every evil in the world. I'm grateful for the fact that he was only two when his father passed, so he'll hopefully never remember me as that broken widow who woke up screaming from vivid nightmares every other day and night, or who broke down at the sight of a plate of food. 

I was half in the world of the living and mostly in the world of the dead. I wondered why God had kept me alive and what my purpose was. The pain was unbearable, both physically and mentally.

I was a shell of a person for a very long time. Nothing I did made sense. The skies looked different. I couldn't understand how people were just continuing to live, doing mundane things like eating out, working out, or bragging about a promotion. Everything seemed meaningless.

Four months into that insanity, I decided to pick up the pieces of my life and contribute my tiny skills to the world. I remember that job interview very well with a very senior HR leader, alongside my good friend and colleague of over a decade.

"Why do you want to work, Gayatri?" he asked.

I don't remember my reply in that moment. I just knew I had to get out of the house and do something with my mind and body. Months later, I thanked her for helping me land that opportunity. But, being the wonderful woman she is, she assured me that I was in that organisation because of my skills and knowledge. I don't believe her to this day, quite honestly. I know I got that job only because of her.

Over the years, my grief has taken various forms. Five years later, I can safely say I'm still heartbroken but never defeated; still cut up, but never losing hope in good people and miracles; still feeling a sense of betrayal, but trying my best to be cautious moving forward.

The immediate support system you have in the form of family, friends, and colleagues during such dark phases in life is so important. Each person has pushed me out of my grief and encouraged me to excel without looking back. I wouldn't be the person I am today if it weren't for such wonderful people in my life. You know who you are.

Did I Miss My Calling?

I saw System yesterday, a powerful, woman-centric movie about the battle between good and evil. The movie shows in detail the lives of two women from different strata of society, struggling in their own ways—one professionally and the other personally. 

What attracted me to it were the lead actors themselves: Jyothika and Sonakshi Sinha. Both women outdid themselves and did a fantastic job on-screen, as always. What really stood out for me was Sonakshi Sinha's role as a lawyer.

Throughout the movie, my late grandmother's words kept echoing in my head. "Make this girl a lawyer. She talks too much," was the direct and almost constant advice she would shower my mother with.

Funnily, in my last organisation, our entire team was introduced on a video call to the new CBO. When he asked each of us about our personal and professional journeys, I mentioned my grandmother's words: "My grandmother wanted me to be a lawyer. But there's too much studying in that field, so I chose the next best thing that would keep me talking and connected to people 24/7—corporate communications." 

He chuckled along with the rest of my team, who already had to bear with my overwhelming barrage of chatter.

Coming back to the movie, all the court scenes and cases that Sonali won on-screen gave me goosebumps. Did I, in fact, miss a great career opportunity? Should I have been a lawyer instead of a communications professional? 

Perhaps that is for another life. Or maybe I can pursue it as a side hustle. Time will tell. As for now, my child is my side hustle, and that hustle really hassles me! 

Cheers to lawyers everywhere! You make talking sound cool, and you make the world realise how important talking is. Keep doing what you're doing, and fight the good fight like Sonali Sinha in System and Matt Murdock, aka Daredevil.

The Chatbot Parent

The greatest dilemma of every working parent, regardless of gender, is not spending enough time with our children. Mine needs constant reassurance on an hourly and daily basis. "Maaamaa, do you love me?" "Maaamaaa, do you hate me?" I answer at lightning speed like an AI-generated chatbot.

Post-bath-time, soaking-wet hugs? Immediately accepted. Smelly early-morning baby breath along with "Lie down right now!" Immediately accepted. Post-school mindless screen time for half an hour along with body-crushing slam-hugs? Accepted. 

And that’s all we can do as working parents.

There’s no point feeling guilty. When they grow up, they’ll have to fend for their families too, and then they’ll realize why maaamaa or daddy had to stay glued to their laptops. 

Do I feel the guilt of prioritizing work more than juggling school homework on working days? Yes. Do I feel the guilt of not having longer playtime and cycling time on working days? Yes. But that does not mean I’ll stop doing whatever I’m doing which brings food to our table.

So when I hear the occasional, "Ufff maaamaa, you’re always working" or "You love your laptop more than me," I don’t even blink or bother to respond. I’m doing the best that I can, just like any other hassled working parent. 

So let’s not feel the guilt or the shame of prioritizing a bright future for our children and opening doors for them—doors which they will have the opportunities to open if they choose to when they’re 18+.

On that note, it’s Friday. Let’s hope to quickly shut down and run into the weekend, with and without our kids. Peace!

The Friday Exhaustion is Real

The Friday exhaustion is real,

Your mind and body just want to heal,

There's a soul-level tiredness,

That's clearly visible on your face,

And your generally aggressive Gen-Z trainer, finally showers you with some kindness,

There's giggling and smirking, of course,

But she takes pity on you because your voice is hoarse,

"What is hurting, ma'am?" she asks,

"Inside, outside, and every part of me that has a side," I honestly unmask,

Between grunts and semi-sobs,

She semi-successfully completes her job,

To make more chutney of my tired soul,

Into a fine little paste, similar to colourful eye-kohl,

Is her mission for the hour,

By the top of the hour,

I've had enough, and so has she,

I'm ready to collapse on the bed, while she flees.

Kudos to energetic Gen-Z trainers,

Who manage to drive away our work blues and act as unhappiness drainers,

Off to work I go now,

Just 9 hours to go before I bid this week ciao.

Baby Detox

Two months away from my little bun,

Who hates it when I call him a bun,

What a wonderful baby detox I've had,

Life minus the hustle of school is not so bad,

I've missed his sweaty cuddles,

Along with his 100-odd questions that have my brain in a muddle,

My house is quieter,

Much more neater,

I've been hyper-productive at work,

Not really wanting to take a break,

The silence is both peaceful and deafening,

June is soon beckoning,

And my baby monster will be back to create havoc.

Summer Sore Throats

Summer sore throats are different from winter sore throats,

The summer ones don't make us bleat like goats,

In the battle of the scorching sun vs. our tonsils,

We're left feeling like fossils,

But as I always say, it's mind over matter,

Let's dust this silly ailment away like it does not matter,

A couple of salt water gargles,

An ayurvedic goli or two, we can easily overcome this minor hurdle,

It's so important to have our vocal cords intact,

I feel very sad when I momentarily lose my voice and that's a fact,

To be in the pink of health,

Is the greatest wealth,

Let's gift ourselves well-functioning body parts,

So that we don't sound and look like big fat farts.

How I Stole My Late Husband’s Best Friend

I met Madhatter aka Ritesh Nagpal for dinner last night at Southern Spices. He let me order whatever I wanted for the table and enjoyed it. Green flag number one. A man who lets you decide and doesn't complain. 

Funnily, Madhatter was never my friend. He was my late husband's school classmate from DPS RK Puram, the most notorious school in all of India when I was growing up. I suppose you could say these men were bad boys of their time, which is why I married my late husband after all. He was a good boy, pretending to be a bad boy. I simply loved the appeal and couldn't resist. 

Anyway, I just had to steal Madhatter from my husband and convert him into my friend. But Ritesh being Ritesh, never took a stand and chose to be a cat on the fence, because he is in reality a cat lover and also a very diplomatic well-raised mostly politically correct (except with me, because he calls me fatso every opportunity he gets) gentleman. 

I've known Ritesh for as long as I've known my late husband - a total of 18 years to be exact. We met on the same day, in the same house, in the same city. 

I've seen Ritesh get married, becoming a father, raise a family and slowly and steadily growing into a very competent marketing leader. 

When my family broke, Ritesh and his family never left my side. The weekly calls, the monthly calls, the birthday presents and the once a year meet-ups never came to a fullstop.

He's a rock solid friend to have because he tells you things as they are, very bluntly and to your face. From financial advice to very hesitant love-life advice, this man is a pandora's box of exploding knowledge.

There are two kinds of 40 year olds in this world - the sane and the insane. Ritesh acknowledges both sides in me and tries his best to give me the most objective advice, until he gets really scandalised and says, "I don't want to know Gayatri. Please stop talking. Don't take advantage of my silence." 

Ritesh, I'm so happy to have you as a friend and confidant. Cheers to another two more decades and beyond of friendship together. 

Happy 49 Years of Marriage

For every child, his or her parents are always considered to be the two most special people on earth. Mine are extra special though because at the ages of 70 and 75 they've never made me feel the brunt of being a single mother.

They quietly took on much more than parental duties and decided to raise my little devil of a child while I decided to build my career, heal my grief and throw myself into my 10,000 plus hobbies.

When people ask how I was able to quickly get back on my feet with a 2 year old boy in tow, I look no further than my parents.

They told me to wipe my tears and keep moving forward. They've always just let me be and allowed me to make decisions without suffocating me, whether it was choosing my life partner or settling down into a particular field of work.

It's their 49th wedding anniversary today and I sincerely hope my son doesn't lock either of them up in the bathroom or steal ten-rupee notes from their wallets. 

To my parents, who never once made me feel like a defeated widow and who tolerate their little villain of a grandson, happy 49th wedding anniversary amma and daddy. 

Riaan and I are grateful to have you. May you both live for 100 years.