Having two kids is great, but having three could have been better.
Coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.
Coulda, had I been younger.
Shoulda, because when both kids ganged up against me, it would’ve been nice to have the third one on my side.
Woulda, had I given birth to a nanny surgically appended to the third kid.
As it was, I returned the ayah back to India after my son turned four.
It was wonderful to have had help for four and a half years. There have been advantages and disadvantages, the former outweighing the latter by a few hundred degrees. A good comparison would be owning a Maytag, as opposed to going to the dhobighat to wash my clothes.
My lucky stars kicked in when my daughter was born. Along with a congratulatory silver cup, I got Janiben, an elderly Kutcchi lady, who was my father’s gift to the new mother and a substitute for Zoloft for postpartum depression.
It was a big relief to unload the eight-and-a-half pound baby off the 120-pound mothership. What I didn’t unload was the fanny-pack size of flesh around my middle. And if that didn’t depress me enough, the baby started crying non-stop, every evening, for no discernible reason. Colic is what it was and it started at eight and ended on the dot at eleven, with the kind of precision the Swiss set their watches by.
Anyone who has held a screaming baby for three hours will understand my fervent desire to throw her in the diaper pail. "Open it!” I told my husband as I stood over the plastic bin. “You don’t mean it,” he said. “Watch me”, I answered. (In addition to postpartum depression, I admit there was a touch of insanity.)
And that’s where she would have ended up, were it not for Janiben ... and my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, my sister-in-law, and let’s not forget the doting father. Talk about a support system. Why would I have even wanted the Three Magi when I had five pairs of eager, loving hands to snatch the Divine Infant from (the frazzled, neurotic) mother?
All I did was feed her. The rest was up to my posse.
But six months later everyone was gone - to Bombay, to New York, back to work. I was handed my baby with no instruction manual.
As they say, everyone survives, and so did my baby. I learned the ropes - and even how to bathe her. Long story. The short of it is that I didn’t bathe her for three days, because Janiben wasn’t there. And I didn’t know how. (Surprising how my daughter still holds a grudge against me for this till today.)
But then I got pregnant again.
This time no silver cup, but I did get another ayah - this time from Bangalore. And after her visa was up, I took Sabina back to India and decided to bring Janiben back with me.
Except this time, she came on a visitor visa. As my ‘aunt’. Upon landing at LAX, we were hauled into the Immigration/Interrogation Room. A severe-looking lady-officer in uniform wanted to ask some questions. Sure, I said, but my aunt doesn’t speak English, nor Hindi (wink, wink) and we would need a Gujarati interpreter. A voice boomed over the intercom for a Goo-shaa-rate-ee person, but Gujjus apparently find other professions more lucrative, and no one showed up. Or else they had no idea what a Goo-shaa-rate-ee was.
Ms Stony-Face Officer asked me to translate. Sure, I said agreeably.
“Ask your aunt how long she is here for”. I translated with due diligence, except with a little addition of my own. Ketla vakhat matay avya cho? Beh mahina kaho (Say two months). “Beh mahina”, answered Janiben obediently.
“Ask your aunt why she has come here”. Kem avya cho? Bhana na lagan matay kaho (Say for my nephew’s wedding). “Bhana na lagan matay,” continued Janiben.
And so it went. The officer would have caught on, if she had even heard the answers.
My two-year old son, who had just about enough of the 22-hour flight from India and of the small, stuffy room, was busy shrieking his head off, and throwing a full-on tantrum on the floor, complete with fist-pounding and leg-kicking.
There are few times in my life when I have been prouder of my son. Ok, so maybe when he got straight As all through school, awards in high school, scholarships in college, a Master’s degree and a great job - the last two in the offing, but still...
“Whose baby is this?” the Capo of Immigration came in, furious at the ruckus.
There are many times in my life when I have been reluctant to claim my son. When he lost his credit card, banged up the car, got caught for underage drinking ... But the moment the Capo barked out an order to pick the brat up and get the hell out of the office, we complied and scrammed before I could say Nyah-ni, Nyah-ni to Ms Stony-Face.
We sent Janiben back after two years, and since then, I have been nanny-less. Sure, I miss her baby-sitting skills, but she was also an awesome cook. I miss having garam-garam rotlis - heck, I miss having rotlis, period. (Tortillas are a good enough substitute).
But with a wonderful husband who helped (without asking), and obedient children who did their chores (without nagging), life went on without a hiccup.
My only regret is that it ruined any chances of my career as a politician. Just ask Zoë Baird and Meg Whitman.
Coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.
Coulda, had I been younger.
Shoulda, because when both kids ganged up against me, it would’ve been nice to have the third one on my side.
Woulda, had I given birth to a nanny surgically appended to the third kid.
As it was, I returned the ayah back to India after my son turned four.
It was wonderful to have had help for four and a half years. There have been advantages and disadvantages, the former outweighing the latter by a few hundred degrees. A good comparison would be owning a Maytag, as opposed to going to the dhobighat to wash my clothes.
My lucky stars kicked in when my daughter was born. Along with a congratulatory silver cup, I got Janiben, an elderly Kutcchi lady, who was my father’s gift to the new mother and a substitute for Zoloft for postpartum depression.
It was a big relief to unload the eight-and-a-half pound baby off the 120-pound mothership. What I didn’t unload was the fanny-pack size of flesh around my middle. And if that didn’t depress me enough, the baby started crying non-stop, every evening, for no discernible reason. Colic is what it was and it started at eight and ended on the dot at eleven, with the kind of precision the Swiss set their watches by.
Anyone who has held a screaming baby for three hours will understand my fervent desire to throw her in the diaper pail. "Open it!” I told my husband as I stood over the plastic bin. “You don’t mean it,” he said. “Watch me”, I answered. (In addition to postpartum depression, I admit there was a touch of insanity.)
And that’s where she would have ended up, were it not for Janiben ... and my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, my sister-in-law, and let’s not forget the doting father. Talk about a support system. Why would I have even wanted the Three Magi when I had five pairs of eager, loving hands to snatch the Divine Infant from (the frazzled, neurotic) mother?
All I did was feed her. The rest was up to my posse.
But six months later everyone was gone - to Bombay, to New York, back to work. I was handed my baby with no instruction manual.
As they say, everyone survives, and so did my baby. I learned the ropes - and even how to bathe her. Long story. The short of it is that I didn’t bathe her for three days, because Janiben wasn’t there. And I didn’t know how. (Surprising how my daughter still holds a grudge against me for this till today.)
But then I got pregnant again.
Except this time, she came on a visitor visa. As my ‘aunt’. Upon landing at LAX, we were hauled into the Immigration/Interrogation Room. A severe-looking lady-officer in uniform wanted to ask some questions. Sure, I said, but my aunt doesn’t speak English, nor Hindi (wink, wink) and we would need a Gujarati interpreter. A voice boomed over the intercom for a Goo-shaa-rate-ee person, but Gujjus apparently find other professions more lucrative, and no one showed up. Or else they had no idea what a Goo-shaa-rate-ee was.
Ms Stony-Face Officer asked me to translate. Sure, I said agreeably.
“Ask your aunt how long she is here for”. I translated with due diligence, except with a little addition of my own. Ketla vakhat matay avya cho? Beh mahina kaho (Say two months). “Beh mahina”, answered Janiben obediently.
“Ask your aunt why she has come here”. Kem avya cho? Bhana na lagan matay kaho (Say for my nephew’s wedding). “Bhana na lagan matay,” continued Janiben.
And so it went. The officer would have caught on, if she had even heard the answers.
My two-year old son, who had just about enough of the 22-hour flight from India and of the small, stuffy room, was busy shrieking his head off, and throwing a full-on tantrum on the floor, complete with fist-pounding and leg-kicking.
There are few times in my life when I have been prouder of my son. Ok, so maybe when he got straight As all through school, awards in high school, scholarships in college, a Master’s degree and a great job - the last two in the offing, but still...
“Whose baby is this?” the Capo of Immigration came in, furious at the ruckus.
There are many times in my life when I have been reluctant to claim my son. When he lost his credit card, banged up the car, got caught for underage drinking ... But the moment the Capo barked out an order to pick the brat up and get the hell out of the office, we complied and scrammed before I could say Nyah-ni, Nyah-ni to Ms Stony-Face.
But with a wonderful husband who helped (without asking), and obedient children who did their chores (without nagging), life went on without a hiccup.
My only regret is that it ruined any chances of my career as a politician. Just ask Zoë Baird and Meg Whitman.
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