I want to start writing something new. But the tank upstairs is a little empty on inspiration. I’m toying with the idea of looking at my old stories and seeing if I can do something with them. But what if they’re awful? I haven’t read any of them in about 3 years. They might make me want to hide under a rock somewhere.
running rani
Last Sunday I ran the Dream Run in the Mumbai Marathon. It was a 6k run and not much when compared the full and half marathon, but it gave me a real buzz. The atmosphere, the crowds, the music. And of course the pleasure of being able to run down Marine Drive. It was fantastic.
I’ve never been in to sports or athletics of any kind. I was one of those kids who HATED sports day and despised having to do march past and try out for athletic events. I would cower behind my hands when the ball came hurtling towards me when we played dodge ball in school. My idea of exercise for the longest time was walking at a relaxed pace and a few ill fated dalliances with gym memberships. That’s it. The idea that I, hater of P.E and sports day would ever run or be physically active, and enjoy it even, would have been laughable to the me from ten years ago.
But ah. How life changes.
I started running in the winter of 2009 with the Couch to 5k challenge. I would drop my son at day care in the afternoon and then head off. A no doubt bizarre figure, running and walking in completely inappropriate running gear of red fleece hoodie, puffer gilet and tights under my running shorts. Oh and let me not forget my woolly hat and mismatched gloves.
Then spurred on by my dear friend and running fiend I took part in an 8k run at Windsor with hardly any practice. I was one of the last to finish the run, and the only people behind me were a group of senior citizens walking the route for a charity. As I ran the distance at an excruciatingly slow pace the only mantra going through my head was ‘do not get overtaken by eighty year olds. Keep running’.
The outcome of that run was this amazing sense of achievement. ‘Wow. I can run. And enjoy it’.
So after pushing Boot Jr. out in to the world and once certain internal bits were back where they were meant to be, I decided to start running again. The 6k dream run was a small goal that I had to work towards. And now I’d like to think that with the right kind of training, next year I can attempt a half marathon at least.
This morning I was reading Ammani’s blog and her piece on why she runs. It got me thinking about why I like run.
Running is mostly a solitary exercise. Sure you can run with a friend or with a running club, but, unless you want to start gasping for air and collapse after a few miles there really isn’t much talking involved. I run, because it is the only time of the day I am by myself, with my measly thoughts which though not earth shatteringly important, are well, my thoughts. For the rest of the day I am surrounded by people. Children jabbering and cooing and drooling and crying and singing and whining and complaining and arguing against the injustice of having to drink milk. House help advising, complaining and gossiping. Phone calls. Milk men, post men, lift men, veg and fruit men and paper men beseeching, greeting and haggling. Noise. I am surrounded by it all day long.
When I run I am alone for that one hour. Even though there are others around me walking or running, I am not expected to stop and say hello and smile.
I can just keep running. Trying to run more than I did the last time. Trying to run faster.
I wish I ran for a more meaningful reason. But I don’t. Even though my reason is a little… well lame, I’m glad it gets me out of the door with my running shoes laced up.
yesterday
Yesterday, my son’s class had their annual picnic. Both parents were invited to accompany the child, one parent’s attendance was compulsory. So my husband and I decided that I would attend the picnic while he stayed at home with the younger fiend.
It amazed me how many people (read, other mothers) came up and asked me where the baby was, and when I said that he was with his father, how all of them asked “Will he stay with his father?”
Well of course he’d probably rather be baby sat by a giant remote control or phone (his two current favourite things to chew on), but I’m pretty sure he’d make do with his dad, given the lack of access to giant remote controls and phones.
So when I say “Yes, he will stay with his father” I am bestowed with looks of wonder.
Why? Do other babies not like their dads? Do they crawl screaming to the door when left alone with them for more than five minutes? That’s weird.
Other weird things: 1. The term ‘hands on father’. Please note there are no hands on mothers. Only fathers.
2. Goat pellet poo. In a diaper. (of a baby. not a goat. a goat wearing a diaper would be weird too)
3, blogging at 5 am. That though is not so weird when your younger fiend wakes you up at 3am to play and then realises at 430 they’re sleepy. But by then you’ve had three cups of coffee so that you can stay awake to play with them. so now you can’t go back to sleep.
Please blame all lack of punctuation, grammar and coherency on the time and caffeine induced nervy fingers.
no crying over spilt milk
so you can put one child down for a nap and entice the other one to watch some tv (not that that was very hard) and sit down to write. but then you think to yourself well it would be nice to have some coffee so you cut open a packet of milk and then you’re not sure exactly how but there is milk all over the floor on the walls and on your clothes
goodbye notebook
hello kitchen rag
discipline
Last year, my word was trust. And I think I did pretty well with that as a theme. Even when the world around me was going in to what can only be described as hysteria over school admissions, we stuck to our guns. I trusted my choice.
This year my word is discipline. I realise that the reason I am not a writer yet (and I don’t even mean this in a ‘published’ writer sense, but more in a writer who just, well, writes sense) is not because of my kids. Or because I’m exhausted. Or because of my kids. Or because I have writer’s block. Or because of my kids. (As you can see my children have been bearing the heavy burden of their mother’s failed dreams for quite some time now). I am not a writer who writes every day because I have no discipline. And that is the truth as pointed out to me by my always better half in the aftermath of a new year, where is my life going meltdown (mine, not his).
So this year discipline.
In writing.
In running. (Half marathon 2013)
In staying in touch with my friends and family.
In doing the things I love.
DISCIPLINE.
no two days are the same
When there are two of them (kids I mean) every day is a wondrous new journey. No two days are the same. Sample this. On friday morning, I was woken up at 4am by the boot who was making gagging noises above my head. I won’t lie to you. There was some projectile vomiting. My hair is forever grateful that I got out of there before any of the barf landed on it.
Today morning I was greeted by the sight of thousands of tiny white beans from inside my son’s bean bag. All over the living room floor. He had discovered the zip at the bottom. And after emptying the bean bag, he tried very hard to zip himself inside.
Routines are nothing but meaningless lists you make up, only for them to be obscured by puke and bean bag beans.
Happy New Year folks.
I’m back.
I think…
Every time I sit down to blog I just feel annoyed. I can no longer say I blog. I sign in. Fiddle around with templates and then log out again. I want to blame the heat, the kids, the arthritic fingers (my fingers are fine), the kids, ok just one kid, the elder one in case you were wondering, but really I don’t care any more. so it’s good bye for now. see you when i see you.
one year later…
Well, almost. We’re close to the one year anniversary of our return to India. And while I miss parts of my old life sorely, there are many things about this new old life that I wouldn’t trade for anything.
One of the best moments of the last twelve odd months? My son coming home before August 15th with a hand painted tri-colour and informing me “This is was our national flag. And this is our National Anthem”. And then bursting in to a gloriously off key rendition of Jana Gana Mana. Yep, moving back home was worth it just for that.
what?
So my son and I are making a collage and I hand him a strip of paper and telling him to smear it with glue. He looks at the side offered and checks out the woman’s smiling face.
Son: Who is she Amma?
Me: Priyanka Chopra
Son: I don’t want to put glue on her face. (Turns the paper over and begins to glue the side with the Range Rover on it)
Me: Boot, we’re making a car collage. What are you doing.
Son: I want to see her face.
Me: Whatever.
After a few seconds.
Son (casually): Where does she live Amma.
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
why is it
that post baby all i seem to see around me are perky seventeen year olds with even perkier body parts with perky smiles in tiny perky clothes. argh. i can’t wait for them to grow up and meet their love handles.
