Father's Day

What would indiapapa be without an entry on Father’s Day? Well, since I spent the day by myself, getting an ayurvedic massage with gallons of oil, away from Kaia, there isn’t so much to write.

Why I Love this Time: He now, sometimes, calls me by my first name.

The Simplest Seuss for Youngest Use 

Dr. Seuss

It seems almost as if, from the time they exit the comforts of the womb, as much as a child is growing and developing, they are on a collision course with certain, truly inescapable, cultural icons. Like death and taxes, so is the inevitability of Dr. Seuss and over the last few weeks, our home has been filled with Wockets and Zeds and Zingers and Gacks, bouncing off the walls and back.

Actually, one of the first books that I ever read to Kaia was Dr. Seuss’s ABC. For the baby shower for Kaia that our friends held for us, we asked people not to being presents, but rather to come with their favorite childhood book to help build Kaia’s library. In addition to being a great way to bring out people’s “stories about the stories”, it also made for a lot of fun and we received some great books that we might never have known about. Of course, most of the books we had heard about before and Dr. Seuss was expectedly the most popular author. ABC was in “board book” form and I started reading to him when he was just a few days old….Aunt Annie’s Alligator, A a A.

Kaia has always had a love for books and for reading, yet for the longest time the Dr. Seuss books were not moving from their place on the bookshelf. Books about Curious George and Pigeons Driving Busses (anything about busses for that matter) were well worn and I will forever be able to recite those stories by memory. Yet something happened a few weeks back and Kaia pulled out Hop on Pop and thrust it into my face, ‘bap ban bap, bap ban bap’. My tongue hasn’t been the same since.

In fact, I like Dr. Seuss quite a bit. I can imagine how radical it must have been to the stogy old-school children’s literature establishment to have these maddening and elliptical rhymes accompanied by such hybrid creatures as Yinks and Gox. Recently an Indian friend told me that he doesn’t ‘get’ Dr. Seuss. I suppose that on many levels, there isn’t a whole lot to get…perhaps this is the point, and most certainly the fun. However, as much as I appreciate how Seussian writing changed the genre, I must say that, from a parent who is being asked to read these over and over, I am quickly growing tired of it. I am not ashamed to say that, after a few readings of Fox in Socks, I am exhausted! Think I’m a lightweight? Try this out, and these are only a few pages:

Well then... bring your mouth this way.
I'll find it something it can say.

Luke Luck likes lakes.
Luke's duck likes lakes.
Luke Luck licks lakes.
Luck's duck licks lakes.

Duck takes licks in lakes Luke Luck likes.
Luke Luck takes licks in lakes duck likes.
I can't blab such blibber blubber!
My tongue isn't make of rubber.

Mr. Knox. Now come now. Come now.
You don't have to be so dumb now....
Try to say this, Mr. Knox, please....

Through three cheese trees three free fleas flew.
While these fleas flew, freezy breeze blew.
Freezy breeze made these three trees freeze.
Freezy trees made these trees' cheese freeze.
That's what made these three free fleas sneeze.

But, I suppose that I have no one to blame but myself. You see, children’s books are so inexpensive in India (all books for that matter), and the Random House line of Dr. Seuss and other Cat in the Hat labeled ‘beginner books’ (written and illustrated by other people, like the classic ‘Go, Dog. Go!’, which Kaia calls ‘Dog, go, go!’) are less than half the price of what you would pay in the U.S. It is the same book, in fact the price in US dollars is inscribed on the back, so of course what ends up happening is that you just spend the same amount of money and buy twice as many books as you would in the States. Funny how this bit of consumerism works. So what has happened is that Kaia’s interest in these books has led me to the bookstore with him, where we proceed to fill our basket and, in just over two weeks, we now find ourselves with 14 different stories, each with its own maddening poetic meter. If you don’t see any posts over the next few weeks, know it is from Death by Seuss that I perished.

Stop it! Stop it!
That's enough, sir.
I can't say such silly stuff, sir.

Amen.

Why I Love this Time: His growing love for animals.

Our First Day

Out First Day

Kaia and Valli Aunty 

The Kids Central Playground 

First Day

There are certain moments as a parent where you become acutely aware of the rapid passage of time and, as a result, vibrations of emotion well up so that it requires a deep breath just to remain composed. Of course, there are times usually associated with rites of passage and ceremony—birth, marriage, etc.—where containment is not possible, but it is these lesser events that truly enrich your life. For me, often these moments come in tension as I can find myself savoring the beauty of a moment while mourning its passage. The first few months after Kaia’s birth, I was experiencing these on a regular basis, almost everyday finding all my love and attention directed at this beautiful little being, while at the same time being sad that I would never have this moment again with him. It is truly a gift when you can be aware enough—even more so have the headspace as we are so easily consumed by this or that--to recognize the significance of a particular time or moment. Today was one of those times as Kaia went off to his first day of pre-school.

You may recall that, in an earlier post, I talked about a not-so-nice experience in a playgroup that led to our departure. Fortunately, just as one door must close for another to open, a spot opened up in a terrific school called Kids Central, most certainly the best in the city for his age group. Kids Central was started by my good friend (and fellow dissertator) Muthatha’s cousin, a woman named Valli. Over the last 5-7 years she has succeeded in creating a wonderful place for kids to learn and explore in a very positive learning environment, and also built, without any doubt, the best playground in the city. The fact that we can use a playground and not fight turf wars with packs of stray dogs, step over sleeping men, and be wary of razor sharp, rusting edges on every slide and monkey bar, is alone worth the enrollment fees.

While we started going to Kids Central back in April, the official term did not begin until today because the months of April and May are summer vacation for children in this area. Kaia and I would go together and play outside or, when it got too hot (and it could be up to 105 sometimes!), we would go inside and play with the hundreds of toys waiting to be used. Over the summer, Valli encourages new children to come to Kids Central as much as they would like, so that they can get used to the place and the transition can be less traumatic for them. We took her up on the offer and probably ended up going on the average of about 2 times a week. Since there were rarely any other children there when we would go, Kaia had the run of the place and all of the attention of the many teachers who were there preparing for the next term. It was a really great experience for him (and I) and by the end of May, he was waking me up at 6:30am asking to go to “Kids Cee”.

Starting from yesterday evening, I had telling Kaia that we would be going to Kids Central, but that this time “papa would be away for one hour while Kaia played with his ‘Aunties’ and new friends, is this OK with you?” Usually he’ll grunt something resembling a yes when I ask him questions, but sometimes he’ll not say anything, which I interpret as him saying, “I’m no so sure if I like that idea Papa”. I had seen and heard enough to expect that he would have a severe reaction if I just left him without saying anything, but his response left me wondering what kind of ‘kid being left at school for the first time’—the Crazy Screamer? Mr. Ambivalent? The Naughty ‘Acting Out’ boy? I would know soon enough.

So we made our way to Kids Central, our road passing parallel to the just-under-construction “IT Corridor”. They have put up fiberglass sheets to separate the road from the area that they presumably are going to build, and just last week painted them a crisp shade of sky blue that will lose its gloss faster than you can say “dirt, urine and betelnut”. If you look just to the other side of the road, also running parallel to the road and the future “IT corridor” you will see the skeleton of a partially finished (or is it begun) project in connecting this part of the city to the train system. It is truly a strange sight to see this massive partial project, replete with dangling re-bar and piles of concrete shards, and usually there are one or two guys doing work on some minor pylon. But I digress.

Jumping forward to the arrival at Kids Central and it was clear that Kaia was thinking that something was rather different with this visit. Whereas we would usually come and have the run of the place, there were dozens of children and mothers (all mothers), each in their own varying stages of separation anxiety. We made our way to the entrance and found his new cubby hole, labeled with his name, to place his shoes. For some reason, seeing the little “Kaia” written on the sticker made me a little choked up, but it soon passed as we moved inside.

One of the things that made me laugh in preparation for this was how I had to prepare a change of clothes for him to keep at school, that had his name on each item. When I ran a summer school for K-5 children, I found it to be very helpful to know who’s shirt was who’s after a dip in the pool or a swim at the beach. But this time I was on the other side, scrawling “Kaia Yamamoto” into the collar of his ‘beetle’ t-shirt and wondering if I was the only one using a marker and if most other moms sewed a label in.

Once inside, there were already two or three kids crying and calling for their ‘mommies’. Expectedly, Kaia clung a bit tighter to me but he was ever watchful, his inquisitive and thoughtful look betrayed by the stream of drool coming down his chin. We sat down to play with some puzzles that had been put out for the children, and he had no interest—what were all these kids so upset about? He had to know. Within a few moments, Valli came up to Kaia and asked him if he wanted to play. She held out her arms and he went to her. It was time for me to leave.

Now I cannot say that I shed any tears as I slipped out of the room and headed out for a drink. However, it is certain that I could feel the passage of this moment with complete clarity. We have never used babysitters and Kaia has always been with either my wife or I, outside of a few times when we saw a movie and left him with my parents. Granted, this was just one hour, but I was now experiencing trust on a different level—trust that he would be cared for, trust that he had everything he needed, trust that I would be able to let go. For any others looking in, this is such a minor issue, but for a first-time parent this is a major milestone. There is a lot of truth to the statement that it is, ‘harder for the parents’.

When I came back one hour later, I was greeted by Valli, who was carrying Kaia. I braced myself for news that he struggled through the 60 minutes, but before I could open my mouth, she said that he was ‘as happy as can be’. Apparently he spent most of the time observing the other children cry and fuss over their mothers, probably in shock as to how all of the sudden Kids Central had been transformed from his personal playground into a house of raving mad toddlers. I don’t blame him, I would have done the same thing.

On the car ride back I was feeling a small sense of satisfaction that he had not cried or gotten overly upset. Was I really proud of such a silly thing that next time could be just the opposite? As I held his water bottle and he took a long drink, we came to a stop light. Immediately, a spindly woman clutching a small child, probably around Kaia’s age, started to rap at the window. Over and over she pleaded ‘please, please’ and made a point with her fingers and brought it to her mouth. The small child did the same, but with a slight grin, the same kind that Kaia gets when he successfully apes my actions. It must have been close to 100 degrees outside, even more in and around all of these vehicles. Seconds later, the light turned green and we joined the mass of humanity getting from here to there, passing by the now.

Why I Love this Time: Dr. Seuss and goo-goo goggles.

Mango

Without question, one of the most enjoyable things about being in Southern India is the year-round availability of regionally cultivated, tropical fruit. Currently we are at the height of mango season and wherever you go, there are mangoes being consumed. Wiry men with bare feet push carts loaded with yellow ripe fruits around the neighborhood, restaurants tout their ‘fresh mango juice’, and visitors arrive with two or three large fruits in tow. This is the time, as many home gardeners know, that creativity trumps all as you struggle to find different ways to beat the race to spoilage. Just in the last week, belying our ‘rookie mango status’, we accumulated over 10 without even trying! Fortunately, we all like it…and it’s nothing like the other Mangos that we like.

I can remember my grandfather telling me stories about his time in the South Pacific when he was in the military, eating mangoes and reacting with a severe rash, which he likened to coming into contact with poison ivy. Fortunately, for Kaia and I, this allergic reaction was not passed along. If you have ever tried to cut a mango, they are not so easy to slice up, especially the ripe ones. After paring off the skin, you end up with all different sized strips or chunks and, as the large seed clings tightly to the flesh, you are often left with a sticky, juicy mess—perfect for a two year old with impatient hands and a love for fruits to amplify ever the more.

Yet, if you were to watch me finish off a mango after slicing it up, you might think that I was the toddler, considering how I suck and slobber all over the large seed, gnawing off what I think is the tastiest part of the fruit—that which has clung to the seed. Kaia has often watched me with the kind of look of disbelief that is reserved for children when their parents do strange and/or embarrassing things. There will be more of these looks, I am sure.

Why I Love this Time: A small stuffed animal cat, which he has named “Jaggie”.

mangos!

all mine!

Temper

For me, to say that one ‘loses their temper’ is a misnomer. In fact, what is much more accurate, albeit a subtle difference, is that you FIND it. Tucked deep away under the multiple layers of socialization and discipline, it is rare to find a situation where this emotion emerges without some degree of associated damage that you later feel terrible about—an unwelcome visitor, the vestige of some unresolved issues, and ripe for armchair psychoanalysis. As someone who has a closer relationship with their temper than most (read: I certainly haven’t lost it, as I know exactly where it is), one aspect of my parenting has been to try and demonstrate to Kaia a more calm and peaceful way to approach problems and situations. As many parents know, children learn so much from just watching you behave. Sure words matter, but young kids really get the adage, “I judge not by what you say, but by what you do”. For me, one of my fears is that Kaia will find that his temper is often close at hand as well.

Part of what substantiates my belief that this is a behavior that is learned at a young age, from watching close adults, is that my parents are very level-headed and calm people. If you were to fill football stadium seats with descriptive words and phrases about both of them, anger and temper would be sitting in the upper loge alongside Bob Uecker. But, if you look at my grandparents, especially my grandmother, there you can find the dictionary entry for temper—and someone who can re-find (and unload it) at any time. I suppose that, since I spent a great deal of my formative youth at their home while my mom finished school and my dad worked, that I picked up a few skills in irrational behavior and illogical frustration. Such is the supple mind of youth.

Over time, of course, like any good subject ruled by the panopticon, my temper made like Smeagol and ran from the light of good behavior, driven down into the bowels of a forgotten land. Of course, from time to time it would emerge, fed by impatience and lack of sleep, but for the most part it was controlled and in its place. That is, until I came here and, like Bilbo Baggins, something in the cultural winds has blown the tempers’ core out of hiding. It has been refound.

The incident that catalyzed the re-emergence was the culmination of a series of frustrating episodes that were lathered up from a 100 degree heat. Kaia has never been able to nap without being carried or driven in a car and, because our ‘new’ car (notable for its selling feature of being ‘good at dodging cows’) decided to crap out a few weeks ago, this has meant that, around 130-200pm every day, I have to carry him around outside for 15-30 minutes to get him to go down. Not so bad if you’re living in Seattle, where you can enjoy the gentle breeze and 75 degree temperature, but here, where the 100+ degree heat and 80% humidity beat and squeeze you of all energy, there is little to be enjoyed. This particular day I had also been attending to a few different domestic repairs, which in this country are not a simple, nor peaceful event.

From the gas repairman who used our kitchen scissors to cut and refix the gas cable, to the mechanic who wanted to drive across town to get a Phillips-head screwdriver, to the plumber who shorted out the electricity repairing the watertank, I have come to learn a few truisms about home maintenance here: One, there is no such thing as a simple repair—I’ll repeat that again—there is NO SUCH THING AS A SIMPLE REPAIR. By this, I mean that what should take 5 minutes, might take 3 days because they forgot to bring the right parts, if any at all—that is, if they decide to show up at all. Number two, often fixing one problem creates two more—take for example the aforementioned water tank repair, which led to a shorting out of the electricity AND a hole in the door from when they removed the false ceiling to get to the tank. Number three, expect a lot of people. When I saw the electrician(s), plumbers and AC people come on the same day, and it started looking like a tea shop inside the flat, all I could think was that there was some joke about ‘how many Indians does it take to change a lightblub’ in there…

But back to the situation, the entire morning had been dealing with home repair and the car had just broken down for unknown reasons. It was hot and humid and Kaia was fussy. It was the perfect storm. All that was needed was the nudge over the tipping point.

The unwitting victim of my avalanche of temper (which is really just a conduit to anger, isn’t it?) was the driver of a compact Tata Indica car. Kaia and I were walking (I was carrying him) on the side of this very (relatively) slow street. We walked by the black car and just after we passed, I felt the bumper butt up against my left leg, causing it to buckle. It was hardly a strong impact, but enough to throw me off balance and put a minor scare into Kaia. This was the second time that I had been hit by a wayward driver (the first was a motorbike where Kaia and I were the only other people on the road), and I told myself after the first one (because I was a bit shocked at what had happened) that, if it happened again, I would be sure to let the other party know how I felt. Safe to say, it was a temper explosion.

I have never gotten that upset and started screaming at someone like I did with that person. I was yelling at him and swearing in, of course, a language that he could not understand, but I am quite certain that he felt my wrath. I slammed my hand down on the hood of his car and kept pointing at Kaia to say that I was holding a small child. To his credit he was trying to apologize, but after I slammed my hand on the car, he too got a little upset. Yet, this just made me more mad. I was not aware that I could elevate my voice and get so angry, but the fact that it put Kaia in danger pushed me to unfamiliar territory. I don’t know if it was some deep-seated, primal instinct but whatever it was, this guy felt the full brunt of it.

I continued walking, and Kaia eventually went to sleep, but there were two things that stayed with me beyond the event. The first was that how I did not regret, in any way, what I had done, or how I treated this other person. I was talking to a friend the other day about this, and I explained it as being a clear line in my mind that was crossed and that, being a parent, has really defined where these lines are. To not feel regret is to know that they do exist. The other thing was that Kaia had been there to witness the entire spectacle and, surprisingly, he did not start crying or get upset, when he most certainly knew that I was. I have no idea about what must have been going on in his head, but this definitely was papa ‘losing his temper’. Of course, in 99 out of 100 times, reacting the same way would result in more problematic consequences, and I do not/did not want to show him that this kind of behavior is normal or even acceptable. But this is a true challenge as I encounter these moments when I find my temper. How to best respond and parent at the same time? Maybe in the same way that this place has led me to re-find this temper, it will eventually lead me to a state where there is nothing left to find. Such would be par for the course in India.

Why I Love this Time: Unprovoked, big, wet kisses.

evening puja at temple

Cake #2--Steaming!

Cake #1

Dinosaurs!

Birthday Morning

Birthday

Today Kaia turned 2. Probably the day meant more to me than him.

Why I Love this Time: The best 24 months of my life.

Kaia and the Ambassador 

Here to There

There are many ways to get from point A to point B in this city, and how you make that journey most certainly shapes how you see and experience this place. Take for example, the auto-rickshaw. In this low-riding, open-air, three-wheeler, you feel every pothole, inhale every belch of exhaust from neighboring cars and busses, interact with every stoplight beggar, and haggle over the fare with each and every driver. The buzz of the engine, the sheer amusement of swerving in and out of traffic, and the personality of each auto is something not to be missed when visiting India, however, when I am riding in one with Kaia, I often wonder if I am committing some minor form of child abuse…or at least pushing my luck that he’ll not develop some acute asthma or funky rash. After any ride longer than 10 minutes in an auto and you’re tasting the Indian streets with each breath, wearing the grime of modern transport, and left feeling the bumps of the road. Usually Kaia responds to such rides in the most appropriate way: he falls asleep.

Another common mode of transportation is the ever present Ambassador taxi. Ideally suited for the Indian road, it runs in all seasons—from the monsoon’s flooding to the high temperatures of summer—and can be repaired quickly and cheaply by just about any mechanic. While you would never confuse the tight suspension and annoyingly low ceiling with anything luxurious, it is nevertheless a good way to get around in the heat of the day. But unlike the way that being in an auto rickshaw puts you in intimate contact with the road, the Ambassador is just a bit more separated. Dark tinted windows and the positively chilling air from the AC (not to mention the padded walls and ceiling, sometimes with flashing lights!) effectively shield you from much of what goes on outside of the vehicle. Beggars take less time to try to look in through the windows and you can hardly smell anything, what with the sub-zero air swirling around the cabin. Yet, the sturdy and resilient Ambassador is typically not well equipped for city travel with an infant. Kaia enjoys sitting on my lap and, when parked, playing around with the Ambassador’s dashboard and steering wheel, but the lack of seatbelts make it a poor solution for day-to-day travel.

Because we need a vehicle on a regular basis, and we have child safety concerns burrowed deep into our outlook, we decided to purchase an Opel Astra. I wont get into the crappy situation that we got ourselves into with the purchase of this vehicle (although, replete with adultery, deceit and swindling, it does make for good conversation over a beer), but for the purposes of this entry, it was a smooth, safe option that (at the time) made good sense. Now, with the purchase of this car also came a full-time driver with over 15 years of maneuvering the madness of the Madras street. A very kind and quiet man, Lingappan—or at least his ability to avoid accidents—reminds me frequently why I have no interest in getting behind the wheel in this country.

Perhaps what symbolizes more than anything the way that having a nice, private vehicle in this city does to your interaction with what is going on around you, is captured on your glasses, in the moment that you exit the car. After being ensconced in an air conditioned environment, with padded seats and a nice suspension, it seems far away from the visceral experience in riding in an auto rickshaw. But the moment you open the door, the temperature difference surrounds you and your lenses become as foggy as can be—you cannot see anything but blobs of color, effectively you are blind to what is happening around you. This is one of the tensions that you grapple with here on a regular basis as a foreigner who can afford certain luxuries far out of the reach of most Indians. For us the decision was determined almost entirely on Kaia’s safety. After crossing my fingers every time I stepping into an auto, to see him buckled into his Britax Roundabout, overcomes any sort of guilt that might creep in. Yet, this is not to say that it isn’t there. As I said to open this piece, how we get from point A to point B in this country says a lot about who you are. I guess in my case it I am telling others that I am obsessed with Kaia’s safety….if they only knew what they tell us in the States….

Why I Love this Time: Puppet shows.

Joyce and Kaia