Going gracefully into the grey

Just a handful of years after hitting the fourth decade, I see what the big deal is all about.

Gravity is never kind to the big boned girls, and we certainly won't be facebook friends in the fourth decade. Lets just say, its all going downhill from here.

My eyesight was the first to go. After more than 3 decades of 6/6 vision and having the distinction of being the only Banerjee without glasses, I couldn't read anymore. I kept sending wrong texts to people, sending my boss my whole grocery list instead of directing it to my husband, who was double parked outside the depanneur. I needed to squint to work on my computer and much to delight of my daughter, often missed elementary math mistakes.
Next was this pesky double chin. It would crop up at every angle. no matter how much water I drank, how many neck extensions i did, it refused to leave my side. I gave up wearing necklaces, since it brought too much attention to the heavy jowls. So I hid behind the fashionable folds of heavy scarves and stoles. 

Black became my favourite color and seems to be the only color I wear everyday to camouflage my widening girth. Hitting 40 was like swallowing a balloon. If I wasn't actively losing weight, I was just gaining weight. My proportions started going out of whack in a not so good way. 
My makeup stopped going on smoothly and at the end of the day, mascara would have pooled in the most unbecoming of ways around my tired eyes. So, I bought retinol cream of course. I slathered it on day and night. It made my pillow all greasy sometimes, but I'd rather have non droopy eyelids than a clean pillowcase anyday.
Shapewear became my best friend. Sucking it all in as I hold my breath while slithering into a pencil skirt after having eaten oatmeal for breakfast...just try that on for fun one day.
Next is the gap in the buttonholes of the shirt. Really, how hard is it to put little hooks and eyes in between the gaping flaps? Have a heart on the not-so-slim, bordering-on-the-plus-side segment. I stopped going clothes shopping. It was seriously getting depressing to try on a mountain of jeans in all combinations of sizes to find that NOT ONE FIT they way it was supposed to. Online shopping is infinitely better...try on what you like in the privacy of your home and not get sympathetic looks from pesky sales people.

Aging gracefully in the times of social media is a whole another ballgame. I see so many oomph worthy, perfectly pouty, doe eyed photographs of people I went to kindergarten with, cropping up frequently on my news feed. Of course they will post pictures from Bora Bora or Hawaii or Fiji, posing in their itty-bitty bikinis or hot pants while i hastily pull down my diaphanous tunic to cover my ever-widening posterieur while scrolling down my smartphone.
Not one to be left behind, for my next post, I try the Kim K style duckface to take a selfie which makes me look like Cruella de Ville. I try lifting the phone higher at a more becoming angle to get an artfully perspective shot, only to drop it straight on my eye and have a manhole sized bruise for a week. Elegant.
Then there is the slew of slim fast and detox water concoctions crowding for space on my timeline. I don't remember having gone a single day without seeing a Garcinia Cambogia advertisment or a lemon, mint, cucumber, ox tail, rhino urine crap concoctions clamoring for my attention.
My hair is the last to go. The thick beachy waves have kind of taken on a limpid mousy sheen. I shed like a  Canadian sugar maple in autumn and the girth of my ponytail is inversely proportional to my waist size. The grey has crept up so stealthily that it can put a drone in Afghanistan to shame. I toy with the idea of lobbing it all off, maybe try the unicorn color trend that's so in and chic right now, but the idea of looking like a My Little Pony wannabe seriously deters me.

All this self doubt and trying to lag behind in the age race brought me to an uncomfortable realisation that I was sending out so many mixed messages to my beautiful, impressionable tween. Asking her one day if I should color my hair, she gave me a horrified look and said " But you are my mom and that's why you have grey hair, without it, you wouldn't look like my mom" Squirm worthy moment continued when she asked me "Maman, why do you want to look different?" I stuttered a noncoherent reply and took a step back to look at how damaging my behaviour has probably been for my daughter. 

To prevent any possible long term damage and therapy bills, I will happily resign myself to the chub rub and the flabby arms. Goodbye forever, smooth eyeliner and blemish free tight lifted skin. Self-esteem, confidence, tenacity and determination are the qualities I am going to focus on instead. I'm going to laud a beautiful heart instead of a beautiful face. I'm going to give integrity, grit and dreams more importance than success and resources.  Its going to be an uphill task in this insanely disposable and plastic world we live in, but i've never been afraid of a little hill ( or a couple) before. 
My skin may sag, but the eyes will twinkle. My girth may be a problem, but i'll position it in the audience when my daughter performs. Let the sun add a few more freckles and coats of tan while we chase butterflies in the sun and let the sweat drip off my limp hair while I go gracefully into the grey, holding tightly onto my daughter's hand.

FALL-en

The leaves outside shine yellow, offset by a deep grey sky. There's a cold wind blowing and leaves tumble, fall, rise up in the drift and settle down again. Here, the seasons march so distinctly and purposefully into one another. Each season is so well defined and makes its presence felt in all its hues and shades. Fall is however, my favourite of them all. 

When the schools reopen after the summer, when the rush in the metro makes me groan, when the fun seems to wind up after a busy summer and things seem to settle slowly into a rhythm, that's autumn to me. Its when I dust out my long boots, when my scarfs line the inside of the closet door, when I lock horns with my daughter about the wearing a hat or the thick fleece leggings. Its when the fingers suddenly go chilly after a short walk or the wind reddens the cheeks. When the makeup I wear does not puddle under my eyes and when I burrough down deep into my turtleneck as I brave the walk to work. 
Its when the festivals of home are celebrated with a much-anticipated gusto, its when the excitement of Halloween hangs in the air. Its potluck suppers, apple pie,  gossip and comforting wine, or curling up with a blanket on the couch to watch something really old on the telly.

Its watching the squirrels rushing to stock up for the cold, its crunching the leaves as I walk back home, its taking in the fresh gulps of air after spending the day in a heated office and its the smell of spiced pumpkin latte wafting from the cafe. Its craving soups and stews and warm cuddles, its turning up the oven as the lasagna bubbles away, Its grey one day, brilliant sunshine the next, its deep dark evenings and making plans for the winter. Its the feeling of slowing down, and gathering pace all at once. Its the feeling of letting go, of settling down, of starting anew and I Fall in love with this season all over again.

That gut feeling

May 27th, 2015, 5pm, My ma is here from India, visiting for the summer, helping me help Tia during her exams. Its a bright beautiful Wednesday evening. I come home from work to find my mother sitting on the balcony chair, looking white as a sheet. She is relieved to see me, opens the door, does not greet Tia, which is highly unusual and just lays down saying she is unwell. I don't ever remember seeing her like this. She's always taking care of others, masking her own discomfort. I worry, take her temperature, ask her what's wrong. She thinks its indigestion, says she's getting tingling in her arms and legs and her urine output has been negligible all day.

I call my husband, call my doctor friend Arpita to run her symptoms through her. When i don't see any change, I call my dad in India. He's not in Delhi, he's in Bangalore. He thinks, its indigestion too, but something gnaws at me, telling me its something more. Maybe I should take her to the ER just to reassure myself? I toy with this question a hundred times in 10 mins. I know, the wait time at the ER is unpredictable, I know as a visitor to Canada, it will be an very expensive trip if it is indeed something like indigestion, but i can't come to a decision.

I wait for my husband. I can't concentrate on anything. I barely listen to my daughter, barely look at her homework. Ma starts vomiting now, gut wrenching vomit and she's on the bathroom floor. I help her up, make her drink water and try to make her comfortable as i look for the hospital's phone number. She has her insurance papers out. I wonder why?
Yogi arrives, I toy again and again with the merits of the decision to take her to the hospital. I call my dad again, call my friend again. My mind is not convinced that its indigestion, fatigue or something like that. I have never seen ma like this, suffering, barely able to open her eyes, vomiting and shaking. At 7.30 pm, Yogi, Tia and I eat something that I just cant remember making or eating. I called Info Sante the health helpline in Quebec. I wait 20 mins and reach a French speaking nurse. I ask for an English speaking nurse and i am put on hold. The minutes tick by. Exasperated I hang up. I am so frustrated. I just want mommy to feel better. I want to make her better myself.

I try again in 10 mins and this time, Ma has almost stopped speaking or responding to my questions by now.I reach an English speaking nurse. I run ma's symptoms though her and she tells me in no uncertain terms to take ma to the Emergency.

I pick up my purse, her insurance papers, pack a blanket, a jacket for ma, I hold her hand as she makes her way down the stairs, In the dark, she makes her way to the garage and the last thing she says as I'm helping her down the stairs is "Have you eaten?" I give her an irritated reply. 

Its barely a 2 minute drive to the Emergency. We pull up at the Jewish Hospital and help ma onto a wheelchair. Yogi drives off with Tia. 

Ma goes even whiter, her eyes get glassy and she starts shaking uncontrollably. She makes these guttural sounds and I ask the security guard for a container in case she throws up again. Our number is 176. We have 10 people ahead of us. Ma continues to shake horribly. I am in tears. I stroke her head, make her lean on me. I ask the nurse again if someone could look at her since she is deteriorating very fast.
The nurse senses it, someone comes to take her, they try to take her pressure but she is far away, shaking more and her head is rolling back. Its a flurry of movements now..we are running down the corridor, there are people waiting in a cubicle and an army of people descend on ma. Stripping off her clothes, getting IVs into her hand and I hear the words "she is seizing" over and over again.

The resident doctor asks me what happened and i try and make some sense of it...i can barely speak. I am screaming and panicking too, so much so that i am being forced out of the ER. I tell them, I can't go, can't leave her...but she is coding. Its something out of the medical drama's I see on TV. This can't be real, can't be happening to us. They try to revive her and there is so much activity around her that I can barely see.. I plead with them to let me stay, I promise to stay calm. I can't think, my mind is blank. The orderly is mad at me. He says I am not helping and my panic is disturbing the doctors from doing the best for her. He escorts me out, promising me that someone will come to me as soon as they can. Then, the doors swing shut. I am alone, in a brightly lit corridor, Its 8.45 pm and i am paralysed with fear, wondering if I am ever going to see my ma again. 

Seven years

And with the day's sunset, Tia turns seven. In the blink of an eye, 7 years of motherhood, pure joy, heart wrenching emotions and hope. She's just on the threshold. Wants to let go of my hand, yet keeps looking over her shoulder to see if I'm there. She's no longer a baby, no more a child. She's my best friend, my comfort in a far and distant land. She's the one who teaches me, tests me, questions me and inspires me. I still hold her as her eyelids get heavy. I still inhale her fragrance. I still kiss the boo boos and the bruises and read her to sleep.  The difference is that now, seven years later, I do it for me.
One moment she is a tousled hair, pink cheeked and scraped kneed monkey, the other she is an exotic princess from the land of milk and spice. She dreams in French and speaks Bangla like me. Loves Hindi music and Katy Perry. Watches Frozen for the  umpteenth time and sings her heart out when she thinks no one is about. She loves sushi, wants to speak Spanish and sit on the beach somewhere sipping lemonade with an umbrella on it. An artist she is as her talent is growing, her keen observation showing in every squiggle and shape she draws.
She's kind and sensitive, she holds doors open for everyone around her. She rushes to share every big and small achievement with her nana and namma, and uses tech effortlessly to connect with her baby cousin in Singapore. She lends a helping hand whenever she can and loves to play the big sister to all the kids she knows. She's a fantastic swimmer, is great at Math and has a keen mind. Each day, I see her turning into this beautiful, smart and sensitive human being, full of compassion, observation and spirit. She likes to be independent too, likes to try things out before making up her mind about it. She likes to skip ahead of the crowd. I try to hold her hand but she likes to move forward with confidence and ability.
My heart fills with pride when I hear her teachers praise her presence, her personality and her kindness. I try to believe that I had something to do with it, but I know in my heart that's it's all her.
Lately our battle lines are getting darker. Our arguments seem to be getting longer and obstinate. She's testing the waters now for the future years. I try oscillating between being a friend and an authority figure and find myself really struggling at both sometimes. Many a times, I snap, I falter, I slip up and I make mistakes. I tell her that mom is human too. It's ok to mess up sometimes. I hope she understands and will not judge me as harshly as I judge myself.
Seven is the time for friendships to form, for spirits to rise, for dreams to take shape and make a path towards the future. It's the time for carefree days in the sun, playing in the water fountains, dripping strawberry ice creams cones, swinging high on the swings and really feeling the wind in your hair. It's the time to build snowmen, sand castles and still believe in Santa Clause. It's the time to be fascinated with science, find a sport to enjoy and dabble in music and art. It's the time to be a big girl and learn about chores and responsibility too. I want to push her forward towards new and exciting adventures yet want her wonder and innocence to stay untouched forever.
Tomorrow morning, she will run off to join her friends in the school yard. I'll yell and tell her that I love her, but she will be busy talking to her friends. I'll rush home early to hear how her day went and spend an extra 15 mins of mommy time with her, but she will have her mind full of so many different things. The brand new shiny scooter waits for her to take it for a spin and when she wakes up in the morning to find balloons and streamers filling the house, she will be my precious little 7 year old all over again.

40 ROCK

I'm 40 today. 40 times around the sun, 14,600 days gone, 4 decades lived, half my life spent. So I asked myself what exactly is 40 supposed to feel like? I took a good hard look in the mirror and other than a handful of grey hairs, crows feet, sun spots and a couple of dozen extra pounds, it felt exactly like 39! Woah!

Flip as I may be from time to time, I know its going to be hard making the transition. No more checking the 30-something age bracket on forms and documents. No more following my dreams, experimenting and dabbling. No more 'finding myself"  The 40's are supposed to be living my best life. Its supposed to be being comfortable in  my own skin, being who I am un-apologetically and speaking my mind without fear. Or so all the magazines tell me.

For me, the 40's spell the beginning of letting go. Its the beginning of the biggest changes in my life since my teen years. My body has changed and not in a good way. I'm still growing everyday just more horizontally than ever before. Its that much harder to get my skin to look smooth, my hands to stop drying and to get my eyeliner on smoothly every morning. My idea of a relaxing evening comprises of wearing my rattiest of pajamas and watching back to back episodes of Mad Men. Spicy food has started giving me heartburn and I am terrified of slipping and falling in snowy weather. My temples have started to turn grey. Cellulite and gravity are wrecking havoc on whatever curves I have on me and when buying lingerie I gravitate towards the Shapewear section of the store. I roll my eyes when I see heavily tattooed folks out and about and pray with all my might that my daughter will not scar her perfect skin in any way or form. I cant stay up very late anymore and loud music and cigarette smoke gives me a mondo headache. I am slow at catching up to the latest gizmos and gadgets. I like to stay on the periphery and look in rather than jump headlong with gusto into the unknown. I try not to take things too seriously but worry incessantly that I am being too light sometimes. I worry about the weather, global warming, and even about the Bill 101 of Quebec.

I worry that my most productive years are over and its all going to go downhill from here. My body will change, ovaries will shrink up, eyes will give up on me and my memories will blur. My daughter will soon accuse me of "not understanding" her and my husband and I will reach a point where words will not be necessary for communication. Just rolling the eyes will do.
It may just be a number to some but its still looming large on me. There is so much I wanted to do before reaching this number. So many places I wanted to see, so much wiser (and thinner) and patient (and thinner) I wanted to be.

Maybe my best years are behind me, maybe I lived my life and did not take time out to appreciate it really, but I have been blessed in every way possible. Its only now that I realise what an amazing set of parents I have. Everything i wished for and wanted to do was made possible with the love and support of my parents.
Being a mom who is doing everything by herself now, I have a new found respect for what my parents have been doing for the last 40 years and making it look so effortless.
My husband has been my rock and my anchor. He rescued me from the storm, and is the wind beneath my wings. He loved me in spite of it all and gave me the greatest gift of my life, our daughter Tia.
I watch her sleep sometimes and wonder how I could have got this lucky. She struggles to get up at 6.30am each morning, cracking her sleep swollen eyes just so that she can walk to school with mama. She makes me delightful pony-unicorn-princess cards and labels them Maman. She draws me as a twiggy thin figure sporting short skirts and long lustrous hair, making me realise that children see from the inside. Sigh!now, if only the inside me could be equal to the outside me.....
The other days she asked me why I put on makeup, when I told her she replied "but mama, I love you just the way you are." Now, that's been the highlight of my years as mother so far. Give me sloppy kisses, chubby-armed hugs, sleepy cuddles, bath time tickles and playground squeals any day over all else and I will show you a happy 40 year old.
Never thought, in my wildest of dreams that I would be spending my 40th birthday in cold Quebec, talking halting French, so far away from my family and loved ones  in Montreal. I miss my mom and dad and my brother like crazy. Its been 11 years since my brother made me a funny card for my birthday and I miss it so much now thinking that those days will never be back again. Ever.
This will be the first time in 40 years that I will not be having payesh or sweet rice pudding made lovingly by mom and dad for my birthday. Every year, it has been the one thing that has been a constant. Even when my mom was travelling or away for work, my dad used to make me this rich thick creamy payesh standing in the kitchen till late at night. Being away from them, that's going to be the hardest.
There are these moments when  I start to feel sorry for myself and begin to tear up but then I log right on to my favourite shopping sites online and order a dress here and a top there and I feel much much better.

The focus is now going to be on the next 40 years. With my imperfect body, wrinkles, paranoia et all, I will move headlong. I will live and laugh with my daughter. I will learn to skate, maybe even ski, I'll paint my heart out and color my dreams psychedelically. I'll pick up when I fall, laugh and try again. I will embrace my curves and encase them in shapewear and tummy trimmimg jeans when needed.
My 40 rocks and here is raising a glass to it.

Six is the sweetest age

Six is the sweetest age. Not yet ready to leave the lap of childhood yet independent strong and vocal. Chasing butterflies one minute and looking longingly at high heels the next. Six is what my precious is today. She is saying goodbye to her toddler years, preparing to begin her education in earnest, starting to read, write and be enraptured by the joys of discovering things for the first time. Six seems like just yesterday. Six seems like the clock is racing. Six is one last morning cuddle before wake up time, six is choosing her own outfits no matter how mismatched they are. Six is pink, soft and fluffy. Six is ponies and Barbie. Six is having imaginary conversations with her dolls. Six is the immense pride in getting dictation words right. Six is friendship one minute, tears the next and six is one last swing or one more turn on the monkey bars. Six is peer pressure and wanting to wear what her friends are wearing to school. Six is a hasty wave before she rushes off to greet her friends each morning and complaining at 5.00pm that its too early to go back home from school. Six is resisting her bath each day, but once inside, refusing to come out. Six is questions and more questions about each and everything all around.

I hope the rainbows and ponies stay for as long as they want. I hope you never outgrow your princess pink phase. I wish for you to always see the world as you see it now, clean, pure, innocent and happy. I wish for you to laugh like you do now over the silliest things and take comfort in the fact that a hug from mommy will make the boo boo better.

I love to watch you sleep you know. I love to breathe in your scent. I sometimes hold your hand and just feel how soft you are. I pull up the covers for the hundredth time just for you to kick them off again and I never tire of picking up your tutus from the floor. I love Owly-Owl, Pinkie pony and Bambi too. The giant pink unicorn sheds its fur all over the bedroom floor and after you have gone to school I pick up the threads and smile thinking of how tightly you hugged it the night before.
Your choice of pink, pink and more pink for everything drives me crazy sometimes, yet isn't that what year 6 is all about? My heart swells with pride when you explain how the earth goes round the sun and I get teary eyed when you sing Jan Gana Mana in your baby sweet voice.

I realised how much you have grown today when you cried your heart out on getting a beautiful card from your grandparents in India. The depths of your feelings completely took me by surprise. You said you missed them and wanted them close so you could hug them and say thank you. That told me you were so much wiser than your six years. I have to let you go on your own paths soon. I need to let you find your way, overcome sorrows and heatbreak, triumph over disappointments and be tenacious enough to realise your dreams.  I am not ready yet to take that leap. Not ready to miss out on each and every moment of your life and certainly not ready to let go of your hand, but at 6 my love, you are readying to do just that. The meadows are still full of flowers and butterflies abound. Find your paths but still be the happy little girl you are now. Happy 6 years to you my precious, for six is still the sweetest age.

Extraordinary

I came in contact with someone really extraordinary recently. I didn't think they made people like her anymore. She's one of a kind, all smiles, heart and soul and exuding an energy I cannot describe. I had heard about her for a while. She was supposed to be a very dynamic, talented, and gifted teacher, but my experience with her was really so much more.
She walked into our class the very first morning with a little bit of intrepidation. We were anxious, nervous, eager and raw. She sensed that and put the sweetest salve on our rawness. She smiled, looked into our eyes and within minutes she had all our names memorized. With something just as simple as that, she put us ease and we began in earnest. I found myself challenged at first. Was I really cut out for it? My level of French didn't even come close to what some of the others had in my class. I found myself excited at the prospect of going to her class each day. Her manner was simple, clear, precise and well thought of. It was as if she knew my handicap, anticipated my questions and had simple practical solutions to offer. She transformed a language course into something visually understood. To remember some of the prepositions she told us to correlate it with @2%..à,de, pour, sans ... Elementary and effective. To remember participe passé, we used DrMrsVandertramp! I felt like a child in school again, but hey, then again, that's exactly what I was. To remember the verbes pronominal, we used Josephine and Napoleon as an example. I am sure these things will stay on with me forever.
She was very forthcoming with encouragement and praise. She chose to look at the positive side of things even when some situations bothered her. She welcomed the students with open arms and gave advise like an older sister. Instantly, she had my attention, my motivation and above all my respect. The French language is difficult for me. Being a high academic achiever all throughout, I wanted to be ahead academically, yet at the same time I did not want to let her down. The effort, the thought and the hard work she put in surely deserved more than a half hearted try. I pushed myself a bit more each day. I read the french newspaper, watched French tv and made more of an effort to face my handicapped oral French. She made me dig deep in appreciating the little and not so little things in life when I read "Le petit prince". Many a quote from the book caused tears to flow forth. She even shared her favorite books with me. It went beyond the ordinary and became just that much extra.
Days slipped by silently and weeks simply rolled. With laughter, reminiscence, anecdotes and advise, she transformed our class with unspoken dynamics. She was passionate, patient and most of all she put us at ease. I eased into accepting French and talking French naturally. She was never overly strict with rules, always there to help in a crisis, often overlooking tardiness and extremely generous with her marks. She shared her hot ginger tea with me when she saw my discomfort with a dry irritating cough and helped others in their life issues, career choices or simply by recommending a doctor to someone in need. She guided us in the exam, corrected us gently, encouraged us and made us love her subject as much as her in the process.
To me, her work seemed so much more than a profession. It was something she did with her heart. After I wrote the first essay in her class, she moved me to tears when she came up to me and told me that I write like a québécois. That was perhaps the only time I have ever felt validated by my teacher. Just those words gave me the added impetus to conquer my fears of a new language. The more I embrace it,  the more it loves me in return.

It's funny sometimes how the universe conspires to help us when we are ready to learn. Nicole was just that. She came into my life when I was most challenged, lost and unsure. She helped me transform vulnerability into triumph and made me believe in the future. She treated us like people before students, respected our limitations yet pushed us ever so gently in the right direction without expecting anything in return. Like she said, we are really her children. I learnt more than the correct French from her, I learnt about the goodness of the heart. I hope to one day, carry forward what I learnt from her, I hope to aspire to be a better human being and I hope to try and find the Nicole in me to continue this circle called life.