Adi’s Birth Story

4 days had passed since he was born.

Kumar, Grandpa and I rushed to the hospital for the first week doctor check up.
We were running late….with a wailing baby in the car seat. Kumar pulled through to the clinic’s driveway to drop me off. I jumped off the car and rushed to the front desk.

The receptionist asked me “Who is the appointment for?”.

I responded “I have an 8.30am appointment for my son. His last name is spelt – K – U – M – A – R”.

As I said it, I realized it was the very first time I had said “MY SON”. Suddenly there was a new relationship with a new person. That new person…that was my son. MY SON. As, I said it, my heart became stronger and weaker all at once.

The last few years have been a wild ride with the boy who holds my heart strings in his hands.

Today, he is 11.

10 years ago he was 1. And, we were “one”.

He has a mind of his “own” now.
He and I don’t see eye-2-eye anymore.
He and I blow smoke off our shotguns every day.

Despite the “differences” his adolescence brings, we are still tied together at the hip. And, I hope that togetherness will last a lifetime.

Whether you are near or far, thank you for being in Adi’s life. Thank you for coaching him, sharing a laugh with him and wishing him well. Thank you for guiding me with your parenting tips.

Thank you for saying “Ambal, it is such a short time. Come on, hold it together, will you?”

Flying a Kite on a Hill

Beautiful evening. Clear blue sky. Windy hill. 1 kite. 2 boys. And lucky me.

A Tamil song:
En Pattamae Para Para Para
Vaanam Thaandi Para Para
En Nenjamae Para Para Para
Ellaigal Illai Para Para

(Rough) translation in English:
My kite
Fly fly fly
Fly beyond the sky
Fly my heart
There is no limit
Fly fly fly

First day of Kindergarten

First day of Kindergarten.
Drop off done.

Son inside the Kindergarten classroom.
Possibly having a blast.

Dad outside the Kindergarten classroom.
Peering in to ensure “all is well”.

“No matter how calmly you try to referee, parenting will eventually produce bizarre behavior, and I’m not talking about the kids.” – Bill Cosby

Viewing the world through a 4.75 years old’s Eyes

Walking Ari to school in the morning during spring makes me slow down.

He looks at this yellow ball and the bright sun.

Ari – “Amma, If I throw up this yellow ball, will it touch that yellow sun?”
Me – “We won’t know until you try. So, why don’t you try?”

He points to the snails and the rollie-pollies on the ground.

Ari – “Amma, stop! Don’t step on that rollie-pollie. He is going to school just like me.”
Me – “Ok, Ok…I will be careful.”

He points to the tulips and the roses.

Ari – “Amma, can I open up that unopened tulip? I want to help it.”
Me – “No, let us wait for it to bloom by itself.”

He points to the green rolling hills, clear blue sky and the chirping birds.

Ari – “Amma, LOOK…LOOK..there is a humming bird.”
Me – “Where? Where? Oh! I missed it.”

The joys of looking at the world through a 4.75 years old’s eyes…it never ends.

I hope you are slowing down to smell the roses and enjoying spring in its full glory.

Your children are Not Your Children

Thank you to my dear friend Anu Singh for sharing this beautiful poem with me.

On Children
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

—- Poem written by Lebanese-born American artist, philosopher and writer Khalil Gibran.