The Swell Hitting

Yesterday afternoon I was crouched on my hands and knees, picking up bits of food from the kitchen floor that Isabel had either dropped or thrown. As I stood up, I banged my head directly into the door of an open cabinet making a loud thud; I fell to the floor, blacked out for a few seconds, and the next thing I can remember is my maid Julie fussing over me with an ice pack. The pain was sharp and I choked back tears. Isabel laughed. After I spent a minute or two feeling sorry for myself, crumpled up on the floor, I went to the couch to recover.

Over the next couple of hours, I became dizzy and mildly nauseated so I thought it'd be best to have my head checked out at the local Lilavati hospital, one of the most reputable in Mumbai, and which is conveniently located in my neighborhood. I knew there would not be much they could do about the injury itself, but there are too many stories about neglected bumps on the head that end up being more serious than they seem. I wanted to go for reassurance more than anything.

Martin drove me to the hospital that evening. We walked into the casualty, a small, poorly lit room. An old man was lying on a gurney in one corner. Four or five men were gathered around what I suppose was the front desk. No one paid any notice to us when we walked in. I made my way to the counter to explain my situation to the only woman in the vicinity who I guessed was the receptionist or nurse. She wore a putrid yellow uniform and she seemed irked that I had a question to ask her.

"There's the doctor. Tell him," she said gruffly.

To my left stood an Indian man in a candy pink shirt, high-waisted jeans, and a black belt to cinch up his already secure looking jeans for added security. I turned towards him and started my story.

"I was on the floor picking up something. I bumped my head into a cabinet and I just want to have this bump checked out," I said while fingering the top of my sore skull. I totally confused him.

"What? Tell me what happened," he said with a furrowed brow. I repeated what I had said this time remembering to include the important detail that I had blacked out.

Then putrid yellow woman ushered me into one of the three curtained sections where I was to repeat my story for a third time. By this point I felt ridiculous, but at least the doctor finally understood what I was trying to convey. He felt the top of my head, pressing lightly to locate the tender spot.

Once he did find it, he said, "This is no worries. It is no worries." With confidence, but without questioning me or further inspecting me, he assured me the bump on my head would be gone in three days. Or 72 hours. Who would have guessed this doctor would also be a mathematician and a soothsayer!

Martin asked if I should rest or do anything, to which the doctor replied, "No, it is no worries. It is called a swell-hitting. That is the term, swell-hitting." I glanced sideways at Martin. The doctor found the bump on my head again and pressed it firmly with his thumb.

"Ow!" I cried and shrunk away from his hands.

We smiled and nodded politely and left shortly after my "swell-hitting" diagnosis. I had only wanted reassurance that I was fine, that it was just a negligible bump on the head that would soon heal without any issues. And that is what the doctor told me.

But a key question remains: Did he have any clue at all what he was talking about?

Watermelon Wishes

When the blade of the knife hit the cutting board, releasing a mist of intoxicating watermelon fragrance, I was no longer a mom in Mumbai chopping up fruit with the maid. I was a skinny thirteen year old. I was home on Cape Cod. I was sitting on the sidewalk outside my house, knobby knees pressing into hot tarmac, with a red and juicy half-moon clamped between my fingers. I was sinking my crooked teeth into the fruit, catching slippery seeds with my tongue, letting the July sun dry the pink, sticky droplets to my chin.

It only lasted a second, but the pleasantness of my memory enhanced the joy of watching Isabel experience her own watermelon wedge this afternoon. Even though she was a mess from ears to toes, even though she rubbed the watermelon rinds into the just-cleaned kitchen floor, and even though I had to give her a third bath, seeing her enjoy that summer fruit with so much bliss was magical. Maybe one day, I thought, she too will sit on a Cape Cod sidewalk, in the buzzing heat of summer, watermelon juice running down her chin, with her mind as clear and blue as the July sky above...

One Fine Thursday

Today was one of those days that made me love my life, just as it is. I loved being a mom. I loved being in Mumbai. I loved being able to stay home with Isabel and do whatever I feel like doing. In fact, the only thing I didn't love is that Martin had to go to work. But of course that's a necessity, and it was only a Thursday, after all.

When I woke up this morning, I could have been waking up in Cape Cod on a warm day in May. It was sunny, not humid, and just warm enough to go out in bare shoulders and flip flops. Just as bad weather can put me in a bad mood, good weather brightens me and gives me extra energy.

I did the usual routine in the morning with Isabel to prepare for the day. When Julie came in, I caught up on emails with friends back home. Then I went and baked some chewy, oatmeal raisin cookies. I love baking, but not when it's a million degrees outside. Since today was so lovely, I felt totally fine heating up a 300 F oven. And the cookies came out pretty well:
After baking and clean up, Julie and I took Isabel out for a walk. It was the first time I've taken her outside without a stroller and without the Baby Bjorn- just with a pair of cute baby sandals on her little feet. Isabel can walk a few steps without help, and she can walk very well with help, so Julie and I held her hands as we took a slow, wobbly stroll to the park in our neighborhood.

Isabel's excitement was palpable. She wanted to stop and touch and pick up everything on the streets (not actually a good thing in a messy city like Mumbai), she laughed at the people we passed along the way, and she pointed and giggled at dogs and pigeons and trees, when she wasn't too focused on her footing.

And I couldn't get over how grown up she seemed- walking like a big girl, looking like a fashion plate in her cherry shirt, patched jeans, and bright pink sun hat. I can't believe she's the same tiny baby I cradled in my arms just thirteen months ago! I took lots of pictures. Julie was smiling. It was a relaxed, happy afternoon.



Now the day is winding down, but the night has not begun! This evening I am planning to make a trip up to Thane for a girls' night of chit chat and drinks. Good weather, good cookies, good friends and family- I really couldn't ask for more.

Fish Fetish

Here are Isabel's new fishy friends: Big Fish, Yellow Fish, Orange Fish, Red Fish, and Blue Fish. Not all that creative, but we are keeping it simple. Isabel is only one year old, you know. :)

Big Fish is big. Big and scary....
So Isabel won't play with Big Fish. That leaves us with his four little companions, who Isabel is 100% determined to get back into their natural or semi-natural habitat.

It all started yesterday with Blue Fish.
I was finishing my business in the bathroom, and Isabel was playing with Blue Fish. The toilet seat has a slow release on it so that it never slams when you close it. As it was slowly closing, Isabel was able to sandwich Blue fish in between the toilet seat and cover. I was sure Blue Fish was already going for a dip, so I quickly opened the lid and "plop!" in he went. When Blue Fish was retrieved from the toilet to be washed and dried, Isabel screamed her protests until I managed to distract her with something else. Blue Fish has a new name now- Swirly.

Today, the fishy business continued. During snack time, Isabel found it far more entertaining to soak her goldfish in her cup of water rather than to eat her goldfish and drink her water. Evidence:
Then it was Red Fish's turn for some H20 action. I was taking a shower with Isabel and she had all her fish, except Big Scary Fish, out to play with. Then she noticed the drain and that the drain cover can be removed. If you remove the cover, there is a bit of water that gathers when the shower is on. Perfect for Red Fish! Isabel held him by the tail and sloshed him around until he was good and soaked, then covered him up with the lid. Just like this:
We can call Red Fish "Draino" after his baptism.

Now I'm left to wonder where the last two fish will be relocated à la Isabel. In a cup of juice? In a puddle? In a bucket of soapy water? In a soup, perhaps?

In Love with Isabel

This evening as Martin was taking his post-work shower, I sat in the bathroom and told him about Isabel's latest tricks and antics:

Isabel started the day by deliberately dropping a toy fish into the toilet. Almost understandable, really, what was the fish doing out of water in the first place? And do we need to start calling the royal throne a "toylet" now?

During the afternoon, Isabel raced around the house pushing her walker, laughing effortlessly. She looks so tall when she's walking. Dawn and Ena came over and Isabel loved playing with Ena, in spite of her reluctance to share all her toys. She got feisty when I tried to help her eat some fruit because she just wants to do it herself. In keeping with the fishy theme of the day, she gobbled too many Pepperidge Farm goldfish and flopped (like a fish) onto a floor pillow for some cuddling when she was feeling tuckered out.

When I finished the baby report for the day, Martin and I both sighed "Oh, Sveske*," dreamily and simultaneously. Martin paused for a moment, towel dried the left side of his head and said, "We are both very much in love with our daughter, aren't we?"

Yes, we are.

I'd always heard that having kids changes you forever, that you feel so in love, that you feel extremely protective. And it's true what they say, but I never knew how strong I would feel about my child until I had her.

Becoming a mother and feeling such love for Isabel has changed me inside and out. I don't wear heels nearly as much as I used to, my hair isn't always neat, and my makeup rubs off pretty fast if I do manage to put some on. I am full of worries and fears and sentimental feelings. I am terrified of flying, though I never was before, not even during pregnancy.

But there is much more joy in my life now. I laugh more often. I smile more often. And I've reclaimed all those wonderful things we let go of when we "grow up," like the right to be ridiculous, the right to be silly, the right to be playful and messy and ridiculously silly!

Here are some pictures of my inspiration, my reason to be on this planet, who potentially has the most contagious smile the world has seen yet:










* Sveske is a Danish nickname that literally means "prunes," similar to saying "cutie."

Heart and Sole

Here's a plus to living in Mumbai: Pedicures with all the scrubs and soaks and unidentifiable pink gunk and lotions and pretty polishes you want or can handle for $6.00.

As I sat in my comfy chair with my feet in a swirl of bubbles, I did something I don't usually do. I picked up a copy of Cosmo- the Indian version- and actually enjoyed flipping through all the fluffy fashion articles. It was mindless and colorful entertainment for 35 minutes, just what a weary jet lagged mama could use upon returning to Mumbai.

Thoughts after the pampering? 'Wow, that was cheap. I could get used to this decadence. I should read more Baudelaire.'

The Shape Sorter

We spent seventeen days in Denmark for Christmas and New Year's. Martin and I could not keep from proclaiming how amazingly clean it was there. And how organized! And how not smelly! In Copenhagen we declared the city and its buildings as the epitome of beauty. Which brought us to an important question: How crazy are we to be living in India instead?!

Now that I am back in Mumbai, with the sun rapidly defrosting memories of a snowy Denmark, I am forced to readjust to India. When we exited the airport, I felt eyes all over my body: Oh yea, they stare at me here. When I breathed in the air outside: Oh yea, the air is moist and smells of sulfur. When we were picked up by Mohammed: Oh, right, we have a driver and the roads are terrible. The next morning when Isabel was being cared for as Martin and I slept until 12:30 pm: Oh yea, we have a nanny. (A nanny who is a godsend.)

I am also inclined, due to my introspective nature, to figure out exactly what I feel about this place, what I feel about my life, what I feel about what I am doing, where I am going, and everything in relation to those thoughts and feelings, now that I am back in Mumbai.

Sifting through and analyzing "my feelings" is a bit like Isabel's shape sorter toy. It's like I've got a box with shapes cut out into the top. That would be my brain. And the challenge is dropping the correct shape, or feeling, into the correct slot. To do so, I need to pick each one up, feel it with my fingers, decide what to call it, and, once satisfied with my analysis, drop it into the appropriate hole until my emotions fall into place and begin to make sense. That might sound crazy to you or like a waste of time. I don't think my husband, for example, ever spends much time sorting and categorizing his emotions. Instead he sorts and categorizes material objects. But we are opposites. He needs a system to his outer life; I need a system to my inner life.

In keeping with one of my New Year's resolutions, there is a surplus feeling to be discarded as I try to get my head on straight again. He's called Negativity. There is really no place for Negativity in my brain, but like a virus he is quick to infest and infect. When you live in a foreign country, away from a support system of friends and family, when you stay at home with a kid instead of work, it is so easy, too easy, to become depressed and full of negative thoughts.

It picks at you until you bleed: "Maybe you are wasting your time. Maybe you should look for a job, even if it's on a peanuts local salary, because maybe you just aren't good enough to be a full-time, around the clock, wife and mother. But you probably have been out of work too long to be able to get a job!" Negative thoughts do nothing except cause dizziness and frustration. When I find them in my pile of triangles, circles, squares, and stars, Negativity is the big black block which needs to be tossed. Pronto.

In my assortment of emotions, there is Negativity's arch nemesis, a bright and shining star called Positivity. This feeling promotes productivity, creativity, and happiness. If I hold her in my hand right now- I admit she looks a little tarnished- what does she say?

She whispers that my life full of excitement and adventure.
She says I have a daughter whose blue eyes twinkle when she smiles and laughs and who loves me most of all.
She tells me I have a husband who is fun and silly, yet so stable and responsible.
She reminds me of my health.
She encourages me to try new things, explore new places, meet new friends.

She hops into her star shaped spot on my brain with one last hint: I am in charge of my life, more than I think I am on a daily basis. Make the most of it!

New Beginnings

New Year's is my least favorite holiday.

I realize such a statement makes me sound incredibly boring- who doesn't want an annual excuse to wear crazy hats, explode fireworks, and drink until you puke? In my case, it's a strong dislike of hangovers more than a strong dislike of hats and fireworks which puts me off. But I think what bothers me the most is, like birthdays, New Year's Day is a petulant reminder that I'm not getting any younger, that I probably have more wrinkles, and that there's less time for me to do all the things I want to do in life before I die.

And now that I've established myself as both dull and morbid, I will tell you one thing I do like about New Year's Day. Making lists.

We all do it. With each new year comes our new list of goals. In notebooks, iPhones, and blog posts, we itemize the things we want to do and the things we want to stop doing during the next year. There are the common resolutions: exercise more, eat less, read more, watch less TV, quit smoking. Others make it a point to reconnect with a family member or to forgive someone. Or simply to be more compassionate, more loving.

Of course the majority of us run out of steam long before the next batch of New Year's resolutions and fall back into old habits before Valentine's Day. I am no different. One year during college, I made a resolution to do twenty sit-ups every evening and I'm not sure I made it past one week. But never mind whether a resolution quickly fades into a weak intention; it's better to aim for self-improvement. So on New Year's Eve, when I was on the couch at my husband's house in Denmark - we skipped partying as we were both ill- I punched out a list to tackle in 2010.

It was surprising and a little disconcerting to see that I could come up with twelve goals for myself in about twelve seconds. I set tangible goals and intangible goals, ranging from easily attainable to challenging. In the easy bin, drinking less coffee. In the difficult bin, worrying less.

My resolution relating the most to this blog is to write more. In the past six months, I've settled into a new apartment in Mumbai. It was not easy, and I wish I had recorded my feelings as I dealt with culture shock and the not-so-funny-now-but-will-be-funny-later experiences of an expat new to India. Traveling to the United States in September, to Bali in October, to several locations in India in November, and to Denmark in December were also blog-worthy topics. In October, I took on a two month assignment to write a guide about expat life in Mumbai which was extremely time consuming but also good fodder for journaling and blogging.

In 2010, I want to make sure that traveling and other writing projects don't get in the way of personal reflections. If you've set a resolution or two or twelve, then I wish you luck with being consistent and meeting your goals. Happy New Year.