Just Another Brick (in the) Wall

Old school books (Photo credit: justmakeit)

So, we've been in Houston now for one month and life is slowly starting to take shape. The house thing seems to be working out and stars are pleasantly aligning. The school thing is slightly more problematic and I'm going to have to bite the bullet soon and make a commitment to home schooling. So what's my resistance? For B1, it's chemistry. Seems like a small thing huh? Nothing too dramatic, something that could be easily negotiated. But it's my sticking-point. How do I go about accessing chemicals? How do I set up a functioning lab? How do I break him into a local school for chemistry classes? And the worst part is that I'm suffering a migraine today, so it's all just that little bit too hard, little bit overwhelming.

But that's not the only thing holding me back. In the state of Texas, home schooling is an interesting adventure. There is no registration and no accreditation. Home schooling is considered in the same vein (legally) as private schooling, and in Texas that means you can pretty well do anything you like, including nothing at all. There is no monitoring, no moderating and no registration of home schoolers. If I wanted to fill the school days with making balloon animals, that would be ok by the state. Now I know what you're shouting: but you would never do that! You'd have a riot on your hands from the kids! Both you and the boys would be bored senseless in seconds!! Yes. You're right on all counts, but here's my point, that's the home school community I'm working in; unregulated, unmonitored and in the most part unqualified. The majority of people in Texas who are home schooling are doing so for religious reasons - because the school system isn't providing enough (or orthodox enough) Christian education for their children. That's not our primary reason for home schooling. It's not even waaaaaayyyy down the bottom of our list of reasons. It doesn't even make the list.

 So? I hear you ask. Well, it raises the issue of who my children would socialise with. I don't want to isolate them here. That defeats the purpose of bringing them all the way here. I want them to make friends and build a community. But if the community of other home schoolers has almost nothing in common with us, how do I effect those friendships?

Perhaps I'm being overly pessimistic at the moment. Perhaps that's a reflection of my own lack of community here. It's hard to make bold moves like home schooling when you have no social support systems, no clue of curriculum and little idea of where to obtain resources… and you have an impatient personality. I have always been the kind of person who has an idea and wants to effect it IMMEDIATELY. The notion of slowing the pace down is an anathema.

For now, we wait to hear … and my nails get chewed to the quick… and my migraine gets worse...

I knew him

Penny (Australian) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Old Harry lived in a house near the end of the car park of the doctor’s surgery two doors up from our house. I don’t remember anymore what his surname was. But he was old. We moved to the suburb when I was 7, and Old Harry was already a shuffling old man, perpetually in his chequered house coat and slippers, suffused with the smell of old age. You know that smell. Dead skin cells and unwashed hair. It defines old age. As a child, my nose seemed particularly attuned to it. Like a bloodhound, I could smell when Old Harry was near. My nostrils would prickle and I would curl my nose and top lip with the pungency of it. Recently, I noticed my own hair has begun to emit the same odour. But I digress.

Harry was a friendly and lonely man. His only son had attained some prominence as a minor politician and was busy making a life for himself with his own family. I know so little about Harry. Children are rarely privy to the mysteries of old age, and it had never occurred to me to ask him what had happened to his wife. The egocentric world of childhood doesn't encourage that kind of curiosity about people. Those questions are for the socially aware and curious middle-aged. They are the questions I would ask him now.

Back then, I was content to know that Old Harry was the friendly old man who would periodically shuffle across the blistering heat of the bitumen car park to our back door. That was enough for me. That and the fact that he called the neighbour who lived behind us “Girl Gallagher”, despite the fact that she must have been well into her 50s or 60s by that stage. Mrs Gallagher was also on her own and had spent most of her life in that suburb. She may well have spent most of it in that house. I don’t remember any more. Old Harry remembered her as the child she must once have been and insisted on referring to her as a girl. I recall hearing him talk for the first time of “Girl Gallagher” and the sense of shock as I realised who he was talking about. For a 7 year old, a woman in her 50s or 60s is as far removed from girlhood as the Earth from the Sun.

Harry would wrap his dirty chenille housecoat around him, slip his house slippers on his feet and amble painfully over to our back door step. He would wait at the bottom of the steps that led to our back door till he could see someone moving around inside. Our back door would invariably be open. This was in the days before home invasions and burglaries. It was a more innocent time when doors were rarely closed, let alone locked, cars were never locked and you knew everyone in the street. It was a time when children played in the dirt lane way till they were tired and hungry, then landed at any one of the houses in the neighbourhood for a glass of milk and some afternoon tea. It was a time when the two old ladies who shared a house at the end of the lane way, whose children were married to each other, would take in playing children to feed them cake, teach them a little piano and send them home with armfuls of silver beet.

Old Harry would wait patiently at the bottom step, regardless of the weather, until he saw or sensed movement from the dark, cool recesses of our home. Then shyly, quietly he would call out till one of us came to the door to chat with him. He would keep us talking until politeness kicked in and we invited him in for tea. He would drink his tea with relish, but it was never the tea he came for. Harry was seeking company. I imagine now, though I couldn't then, that he had reached the age when partners die, children move on with their own lives, friends of the same age have moved away or shuffled off this mortal coil and the neighbourhood he knew had changed so radically that it was no longer recognisable.

Looking back on that time, I see how remarkable Harry was. A man who had lived his life in the same suburb, who had seen the deprivations and loss of war, who had known only a white, middle-class society would seek out our company. How strange we must have seemed to him. The smells of unfamiliar spices emanating from our house, the flavours of foreign sweetmeats and savoury treats served with tea, the sounds of ghazals and hindi movie music pouring from the record player, the sight of my mother swathed in her sari or my father pottering around in a lungi. All so removed from anything he could previously have experienced. Yet Harry would settle himself into a seat at our kitchen table, nurse his tea and seem content with simply being surrounded by the noise and bustle of our family. I am grateful to have known him. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to reflect on Old Harry and his quirkiness.

Walking through the Park and Reminiscing

B1's drawing and my sewn interpretation of it

In the spirit of recent posts, I've been reminiscing again. This time on happier thoughts. It was my sister's birthday a few days ago and while thinking of what to get her (yes, the usual gift card for the bookshop was also obtained), I remembered a drawing that B1 had done of the two of us, when he was only four.

In the drawing, we're skateboarding. This in itself is remarkable given that both of us have severely injured our ankles merely walking along pavement. The very idea of either of us getting on something less stable than a motorised, four-wheeled vehicle is hilarious, to say the least. So the fact that my then 4 year old thought it was a real possibility that we would a) get on a skateboard and b) perform tricks while on said skateboard was nearing hysterically funny.

This drawing, for ever so many reasons, is a favourite of both mine and my sister's. It shows us both scooting along on our boards, (limited) hair flying, manic look on our faces, arms flailing and clearly completely carefree. It is such a lovely insight into how he saw us when he was that age - daring, risk-taking, fun, brave. So much to live up to.

The completed cushion.
I don't think I conveyed quite enough "manic"!

Since we both love this picture, and I'm in the mood for reminiscing, I thought I'd use the excuse of her birthday to make the drawing into a cushion. Of course, since I'm never one to plan too far ahead, all this occurred to me late yesterday evening. I duly dug up the picture from its safe place (it really was stored in a safe place), photocopied it and began copying and sewing it. Thankfully, B1 wasn't a master artist at four, and there weren't too many strokes to copy. I finished it off this morning, filled it and sewed it up. I hope she's as excited to receive it as I was making it.

"The time has come", the Walrus said...

My recent trip to India invoked a flurry of reminiscences. Memories of childhood days, passed idly in my own company, wandering through the ample gardens of my grandmother's home, talking to myself and creating games, visiting the cows or finding abandoned kittens and puppies come flooding easily to my mind. Delightful memories. Though at the time, I didn't see it in quite the same light. I remember the intense sense of loneliness and boredom. Being the youngest in that family was no fun. I listen now to the tales of childhood holidays that my siblings tell. Stories of times spent in the joyous company of cousins, uncles and aunts. Times when gangs of cousins would gather together and get up to no good. Times when the house was filled to bursting with family, laughter and noise...and the many arguments that ensued.

My cousin remembers a time when they all played cricket in the upstairs hall at the ancestral home. Inside. The hall was huge and when the families gathered, this was where the children would congregate to sleep, reacquaint themselves with each other, tell stories, gossip and play. I imagine the excitement. I can see the hall filled with them all, their younger selves. I hear their voices raised in argument, jokes and storytelling in a variety of languages. I hear the giggles and squeals as they delight in each others' company. But they are not my memories. Simply my imaginings of their memories.

My memories are quieter, lonelier. Perhaps even tinged with a little sadness. My memories are of wandering that very same hall on my own. Of the stillness and silence that surrounded me. Of feeling the presence of ghosts and spectres, but not fearing them. My memories are of dusty rooms filled with decaying mounted deer's heads, of oppressive heat in the middle of the day and a silent house as the adults all slept off their lunch. My memories are of sitting in the windowsill of the upstairs room, staring through the ornate wood-barred window and imaging a tale of a princess trapped in her tower. The silence broken only by the call of the postman, the dog barking or the cows lowing. In my memory, there was a permanent heaviness in the pit of my stomach. Nervousness? Loneliness? I don't know. But discomfort certainly. I remember every inch of that garden, of the house, because for me, that was my company. The garden became my magical forest. The place where a thousand adventures befell me. The house was my plaything. Immense and elusive, keeping her secrets well hidden, but tantalising me with the hint of a hidden secret if only I cared to look.

Tamarinds, Alor, Indonesia (Photo credit: GlobalCitizen01)

I remember the exquisite tang of tamarind plucked from the tree, tingling my tastebuds into life. Followed quickly by the sharp slap of fresh green peppercorns, snatched from the vines that entwined the tamarind trees. Saliva fills my mouth as I recall the sourness of the bilimby pulli stolen from the trees on my way to the outside bathroom. Even that bathroom evokes a great sense of joy in me. The time spent waiting in the kitchen with the servant as she boiled the water for my bath. Her remonstrations that I shouldn't touch the pot because I was just a child and I would burn myself. Watching her heft that heavy pot past the well to the bathroom, and then return to the well for cold water for me to mix with the hot to achieve the perfect temperature for my bath. I remember those bucket baths with great affection.

മലയാളം: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember also the servants who, with extraordinary patience and kindness, would incorporate me into their daily tasks. Each of them assigning me a job that they would oversee with great gentleness. I remember laying tamarind, chilli and pepper on great white sheets, weighed down in the corners by large stones, out in the bright hot sun to dry. I remember having to shoo the crows who would try their cunning best to steal the drying goods, and claiming a stalk of tamarind or pepper as my reward. I remember learning to light a fire with nothing more than the husk of a coconut and a long metal tube, of nursing those early flickering flames into a healthy fire. Of the smoke that would fill my eyes, nose and lungs. The ring of the servant's laughter as she guided my feeble efforts at fire-lighting.

I spent a long time in my life feeling sad that I had missed the joy of the company of my cousins. I felt somehow cheated of that companionship, that consolidation of our relationships. Now, I choose to see the great gifts I was given by those wonderful people who worked for my family. Their patience, their kindness, their love are what sustained me through many lonely days spent over many years of Christmas holidays. There was so much that I learnt from them. So much about the simple things in life. So much about hard work. And most importantly, so much about generosity of spirit and pure love. For that and for the many joyous days of my childhood, I hold them deeply in my heart with gratitude and thanks.

The M-word

There seems to be a growing phenomenon where I live, of random salespeople calling women they don't know "Mum" as long as they're accompanied by a child. Inevitably, these people are trying to ply their wares. They're snake-oil salesmen in different guises.

Today, a young woman who works for a children's photography company approached me with a chirpy "Hello Mum! Would you like to get some photos of the kids?". I'm sure that this was part of her training; a way to familiarise the target market and an attempt at a psychological inducement, emotional guilt, to capture those precious moments of your child's life before it's too late. I'm fairly certain this chipper greeting resulted from the machinations of a locked room, replete with degrees in psychology and marketing, working on the perfect pitch to guilt-trip parents into the investment of a photo package. No doubt it's part of the corporate training when you join up with the company.

Sadly, all it did was get my gander up. So here's where I need to back-track a little. When I got married, I didn't change my last name. There was a variety of reasons for this, but one was certainly that my name was as much a part of my identity as anything else about me. I have degrees in my name, I had gained employment in my name, I had learned to live with my name (there was a shaky moment when I was 8, but that's a story for another day) and, despite having to spell my name every time I said it, I had learned to love my name. When I stopped working full time, I felt like I had lost an enormous chunk of my identity. It was the first time since I was 15 that I felt an obligation to explain my expenditures. Not that LomL ever required that of me, it is simply what I felt.

When I became a mother for the first time, I was thrilled beyond measure. But the Damocles sword was that I instantly stopped being who I had been before. I became a milk factory, a nurse, a teacher, a guide, a maid... a mother. While a very very small part of me pined for the loss of my old identity, a much larger part thrilled in the prospect of the future to come. When I became a mother for the second time, I was more ready for the the way in which my identity would be subsumed by a child and I think I coped with it better. My children never called me "Mum". That was another stubborn strike for my own identity. I figured that in a playground or shopping centre in Australia, a child calls out "Muuuu-uum" and fifty women turn around. I didn't want to be one of them. So instead, I opted for "Amma" (mother in Malayalam); a nod to my cultural heritage and an opportunity to emphasise my difference in a world of sameness.

Up until the time my boys went to school, it felt like my identity had been hijacked by my role as mother. It has been a long, slow, continuing journey, punctuated by extraordinary friendships that has led me to where I am now; more comfortable with my multiple roles and multiple identities, fulfilled by motherhood, loving the work I do, seeking my more creative, artistic self that has been too long neglected for more pragmatic concerns, being the complex whole that I am.

So when all that I am, all that I hold dear, is reduced to an unimaginative, connotative, reductive "Mum" said by a stranger, my hackles inevitably go up. I don't doubt that it never crossed the mind of the young woman spruiking her company's wares in the shopping centre that she was, by her simple utterance, homogenising me. It is what I rage so hard against, and what I suspect we all rage against... losing individuality.

Wonder boys and an Amazing Amma

Image courtesy of http://superflykids.com/solid-color-cape

In case you were wondering what my alter ego is like, here are a couple of pages from one of the stories my boys and I invented (together) about our super-powered alter egos...

Once upon a time there lived two super brothers; Wonder Nik and his little brother Super Mili. The super brothers had many wonderful powers, but they still enjoyed doing what other little boys and girls did.

One day they were playing in their backyard at home.  Wonder Nik was freezing the dogs with his ice-breath while Super Mili thawed them out with his heat vision.  Finally, when the dogs began to yelp because they’d really had enough of being frozen then thawed out so many times in one day, Amazing Amma (Wonder Nik and Super Mili’s mum) came out and told them to find something else to do.

“But there is nothing else, Amazing Amma!  We’ve played with all our toys, we’ve painted the cubby house, we’ve thrown weeds to the chickens and we’ve even played Battleship and Uno said Wonder Nik.

“Yeah,” said Super Mili.

“Well, what is it you’d like to do?  Because you certainly can’t go on tormenting the dogs,” said Amazing Amma sternly.

“Well...,” said Wonder Nik, leading up to something he wasn’t sure they’d be allowed to do.

“Yes?” asked Amazing Amma very patiently because she was an amazingly patient type of mother.

“Well...,” said Wonder Nik yet again, hesitating nervously.

“Yes Wonder Nik?  Just say it and we’ll see if it’s possible,” said Amazing Amma still being amazingly patient.

“We’d really like to go to the zoo,” replied Wonder Nik nervously.

“Yeah,” chimed in Super Mili.

“Oh that sounds like a great idea,” exclaimed Amazing Amma enthusiastically, “but I’m afraid I won’t be able to come with you.  You two will have to go on your own.  I have great faith in you being responsible, and you have your super powers to help you out if you get into any bother.  Would you like to go?”

“Oh yes please!” shouted Wonder Nik.

“Yeah!” enthused Super Mili excitedly.

“But how will we get there?” asked Wonder Nik practically; he was a very practical super-boy and liked to know the details like how they were to go somewhere or how long it would take to get there.

“Well,” said Amazing Amma, “you could take the train, bus and ferry, or since you do have super powers, you could just fly there.  All you need to do is think about where you’d like to go and your super-flying-power will get you there.”

So Wonder Nik and Super Mili set off for a day of fun at the zoo.  Within a few seconds of closing their eyes and thinking hard of the zoo, they were soaring through the air.  Super Mili opened his eyes, smiled a broad smile and said,

“Yeah!”.

Pretty soon, they could see the zoo up ahead.  They started to think about landing and before they knew it, they were getting lower and lower, and closer and closer to the ground.  Amazing Amma was right, they thought, this flying business is not so hard.  She was often right, but the super brothers still couldn’t help questioning what she said.

Now that they were at the zoo, they had to decide which animals they would visit first.

“Let’s go see the tigers,” said Wonder Nik eagerly.

“No,” said Super Mili.

“Let’s go see the rhinoceros,” said Wonder Nik still eagerly.

“No,” said Super Mili who didn’t really talk a lot.

“Ok... let’s go see the monkeys then,” said Wonder Nik slightly less eagerly as he was starting to get just a little annoyed with Super Mili continually saying no.

“No,” said Super Mili.

“Well what do you want to see at the zoo?” asked Wonder Nik, getting quite exasperated now.

“Crocodiles,” said Super Mili calmly.

“Oh!” said Wonder Nik.  He didn’t like to admit it to his super little brother, but he did want to go and see the crocodiles and he did think that was a good place to start their adventures at the zoo.

“Oh, ok then, we’ll go see the crocodiles,” said Wonder Nik, trying to sound like he was only doing Super Mili a favour and didn’t really want to see the crocodiles himself.

“Yeah,” said Super Mili confidently.  He wasn’t fooled by his wonderful big brother.  He knew Wonder Nik loved the crocodiles, that’s why he suggested starting there.  He loved his big brother very much and loved to do special things that made him happy.

Suddenly, they heard screaming coming from their right.  They knew the lions’ cage was that way, and the screams told them that something was definitely wrong.  Wonder Nik looked at Super Mili and they both knew at once that they had to go and help immediately.  They ran as quickly as they could, and that was pretty fast because they did have super powers after all.  When they got near the lions’ cages, they came to a screeching halt.  Someone had let the lions out!  There were lions roaring and people screaming and running in every direction.

Wonder Nik and Super Mili knew they had to act fast.  Wonder Nik flew straight up in the air while Super Mili ran into the lions’ cage.  Wonder Nik used his incredible-electricity-gaze to shoot electricity bolts into an enormous fence around the lions.  Meanwhile, Super Mili used his magnificent-meat-fart-power to make the lions’ cage smell so enticing to the lions that they would want to come running back.

Sniff, sniff.  The lions could smell the scrumptious meaty smell coming from their cage.  Peeeuw!  So could all the people who had been running away.  The smell was so strong that the people all fainted, which was quite handy really because it meant that Wonder Nik could round up the lions and herd them back into their cage without having to worry about what the people were doing.

Once all the lions were in, Super Mili shut the cage and used his super-hot-snot-power to seal the cage door shut, just as all the people started to recover and cheer.

“Great job!” exclaimed Wonder Nik.

“Yeah!” agreed Super Mili.

Fairy Princesses and GI Joes

Image by Cayusa via FlickrI was reading a blog today by Candace Lindemann about our progressive move as a society to limit the choices of aspirational goal/hero for our girls and it set alarm bells ringing for me. I've long thought that the choices we offer girls is woeful. In no way is this the fault of parents. When there is little variety on offer, there is little scope for parents to make choices that don't disenfranchise their children from friendships or exclude them from the norm. And we all want to fit in. Next time you go clothes shopping, turn the aisle into the children's section and take a peek at what's on offer for girls. Though not a parent of girls, I do have a niece and do periodically wander bug-eyed and bamboozled through the array of attire for girls. I'm constantly horrified. If it's not pink, frilly and princess-like, then it's something that's too adult, too revealing and positively salacious. Something that in my worst, most critical moments I think of as appropriate work wear for a full-body masseuse. These are not the clothes I wore as a child. Especially since I was the classic tomboy, happier up a tree or playing with my train set or cars in the sand than playing at fairy princess. Don't get me wrong, I loved the idea of magic and witches, but I was always more attracted to the darker side - Macbeth is still my favourite of Shakespeare's plays and the weird sisters, Hecate and Lady M are my favourite characters. I love these women. They are strong and wilful and ambitious. They live their lives as they please (in the case of the witches) and don't let any men tell them what to do. But pink and frilly was never me... and low-cut, leopard print and lustrous nails are not my idea of the alternative.

Image via WikipediaSo having vented my spleen on the pitiful choices available for our young girls, let me turn to what's on offer for boys. I started my parenting adventure believing that I was going to be different. I would raise children who didn't feel the need to conform to the norm. I would provide my boys with as many alternatives as possible and nothing was off limits. The toy room was filled with cars, trucks, planes, soft toys and dolls. Many many dolls. Of many many skin colours and national dress. Despite the concerned looks from LomL and the obvious discomfort of the in-laws, I persisted. Thank goodness for a loving family that support me in all my mad schemes. My baby boys were dressed in bright, happy colours. Bright blues, greens, yellows, purples and even pinks adorned them regardless of the tutt-tutts and dire warnings of retinal damage from all the older Aunties in the community. Not a single pastel passed my boys' bodies. And I was proud of the start I was giving them. Vibrant, full of choices to be who they wanted, uninhibited by the demands of peer pressure or societal norms, accepted always. But the baby stage doesn't last long. Pretty soon my boys grew into toddlers and the cute baby suits in bright colours had to be replaced with more age-appropriate clothing. But what was on offer? Gone were the bright colours. Gone were the purples and pinks. Gone were the sex-neutral baby suits. Replaced with khaki greens, navy blues, browns, blacks and greys. The colour and wonder of babyhood was rapidly replaced by an increasingly dull, monotonous (and it really did look like one tone when you squinted), drab wardrobe. This was depressing for me. It made me wonder whether this would start my children down the path of becoming another depressed teen boy statistic. Is this how it starts? In tiny, drab, monotonous choices? Do we wear our boys into depression by making them wear the colours of it? Perhaps I'm being a little hysterical, but for me colour and music are always key catalysts for my mood.

And what of the choices of toys to play with? Gone were the options for dolls and soft toys. That was all very well when they were babies, but now it was time for them to be proper little boys. Flooding in came trains large and small, planes and automobiles. I held off on the weaponry for as long as I could, but it was like holding back a tidal wave. Once the first knife appeared, it was quickly followed by bows and arrows, spears and eventually my greatest hurdle, guns. I finally gave up on resisting guns in the house when my boys started making guns out of sticks, coloured markers and even toast. I had to admit defeat. They had been enculturated and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't blame the media entirely since we didn't watch a lot of TV and what we did watch was almost exclusively on the non-commercial broadcaster or on video. But I realised quickly that I couldn't keep them away from the inevitable draw of the blinking box forever. So what was the alternative? Send them uncritical, unquestioning to face the onslaught of sophisticated and insidious marketing on commercial television? That was not an option I cared to consider. Instead, we've watched TV with our kids, commenting on the advertisements as they appear. We critique them, talk about how they make us feel, examine whether or not we want to buy the product and why. We talk critically about marketing strategies, times of the day that certain advertisements appear and why. We listen to the music used and explore why that choice was made. We talk about the choice of actors or characters in the advertisements. All in all we aim to make our children critical viewers of the media images they're exposed to.

I don't think it's realistic to believe we can shelter them from all advertising forever. So instead, I'd rather aim for developing a sense of critical viewing of the advertising and an awareness of what it's trying to do. I hope that this will equip them to protect themselves from being led, nose-first into making poor financial and life choices.

The Future through an 11 year old's Eyes

While driving to a friends' place for a party to meet her, her husband and their 5 month old baby girl (who all live abroad)...

B1: Amma, you know it's funny to think that one day we'll be at a picnic with Dannie and Maria and their families and I'll be there with my girlfriend and all those little kids will be just coming into high school.

Me: Really? Will you bring your girlfriend along to family picnics? (notice that's the highlight of the conversation for me, not the fact that he sees these family friendships going on forever).

B1: Of course. Why not? Is that ok?

Me: Oh yes! I'm thrilled that you'll choose a girl who would like to come to family events. That makes me very happy. I would like your girlfriend to be part of our family.

B1: Not now. I don't have a girlfriend now, but sometime in the future. When I'm older.

Me: That would make me super happy.

B1: Yeah, it's funny to think about... I'll be able to tell all those little ones what it's like to be in high school and what having a girlfriend is like.

*silence for a while*

B1: But that's a long time away. I don't really want to grow up too quickly. I really like being a kid.

Me: Oh I am glad. Enjoy every second of it. It's such a great time in your life.

This brought tears to my eyes and joy to my heart for ever so many reasons.

Amazing name change

At the end of last year, we had occasion in our house to change our ISP. With the resulting change, I had to think about what I wanted my new email address to be. I had used various permutations and combinations of our collective initials over the years, but this time, I wanted it to be more personal. Finally, I lit upon using Amazing Amma.

Amma means mother in Malayalam (my mother tongue) and in other Indian languages and I thought that most clearly reflected where I was at at this stage in my life. It's the role that most clearly defines me and about which I am most passionate. It's the role that fulfils me, stimulates me, engages me, frustrates me, poses the most challenges for me and satisfies me the most. You'd think the "amazing" is self-explanatory...and in fact, many of my friends and contacts did. But things are not always what they seem, and they are rarely straightforward in my world. I decided on Amazing Amma as a epithet because a few years ago, in an attempt to engage B1 and B2 in story telling and story writing, I had created a series of adventures featuring them as super heroes. They fought crime, evil and general naughtiness aided by their super powers (repulsive ones, of course) and their super best buddies. Every now and then though, the super boys would be overcome or undecided about what to do next, at which point, they would consult with their super mother.... Amazing Amma.

Amazing Amma always seemed to know what to do, where to go and how to approach a problem with calm, logical, practical thinking. That's the nice thing about fictional characters, they always know how to fix a problem and they never get angry or upset or lose sleep over stupid things they've said or done! I liked Amazing Amma. I think she's the Amma I aspire to be in many ways (except she doesn't have quite as much fun with her kids as I do with mine). I particularly like her calm self-assuredness. She always seems to have the right answers. I'm fairly certain that's why I used her as my email address... but, like I said before, nothing's ever straightforward in my world, so who knows?!

The Library-Gestapo

The library has always represented a place of peace and sanctuary for me. I have loving memories of whiling away hot summer days holed up either in the school library or in the local library in the delightful airconditioning with a world of adventure on paper.


I introduced my boys to books and to the joys of the library when they were still very young and our local library was my sanctum during a brief stint at homeschooling. Those wonderful ladies, the librarians, kept my children excited, entertained and enthusiastic about reading and gave me a glorious and much needed break. The library was a safe place that I could go and I could take my children. It was a way of travelling through the world, having extraordinary adventures and meeting exceptional people without ever fearing for the safety of my boys.


The first school that my boys went to had another wonderful library, staffed with glorious ladies who valued reading, encouraged children to borrow wildly and generally believed that any use of the library would lure unsuspecting readers in.


It came as a rude shock to me, then, when yesterday I encountered the Library-Nazi and her SS second in command at the boys' current school. B1 had rugby training after school and I had thought that instead of wandering the school grounds for one and a half hours waiting for him to finish, B2 and I might use the time to do homework and read some books. Accordingly, I approached the head librarian to ask if we could use the library for this purpose and was told summarily that the library was not a "babysitting service" and if she were to allow me and B2 to use the library, then she'd have to let everyone in. Umm.. isn't that the point of a library?


Babysitting service? I hadn't asked her to care for B2 while I wandered off to go shopping. I was asking if we could sit at a desk, do homework and peruse the books in the library.


So what was her alternative to using the school library for this purpose? "There's a coffee shop down the road you could use". Mmmm... the point of using the library is that it's quiet and would allow us both to concentrate on what we're doing without being exposed to the volume of noise encountered in a coffee shop.


Did I voice my concerns? Well, yes. Some of them. But I'll admit that I was so dumbstruck at her attitude that I probably stood there doing a fine impersonation of a goldfish rather than calling her on her bizarre attitude.


So, the school library has gone onto the blacklist of Places I Do Not Expose the Children To and I'll be taking them to the local library more often instead. Thank goodness for the wonderful, hard-working and sensible librarians there!


An Addendum: http://curiousexpeditions.org/?p=78