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.

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."

Bella Isabel

One thing that amazes me about Indian people is how they are totally baby crazy. I read about a cultural love for little ones before I came here, but I wasn't prepared for the level of enthusiasm about my daughter in particular.

Whenever I am with Isabel, which is 99% of the time, she grabs the spotlight. I was shocked and amused when I went with Martin to his office last week. All the employees, all males mind you, whipped out their cell phones to snap photos of her before she was even out of her car seat. Then, while I was chatting with one of the guys about masala tea, the security guard who was holding Isabel waltzed away with her down the hall to show her off in the neighboring office. I went out to find Isabel chewing on some woman's dupatta, surrounded by a gaggle of starry-eyed women snapping and clucking at her.

The snapping, clucking, touching, and photographing have happened in the hospital (Isabel was sick a few days) and in shopping centers, too. The worst case was when we were getting into the car and were approached by an Indian mother with her young daughter. The mother commanded her daughter, who was a little reserved, to touch the baby. She explicitly told her to reach out and "Touch the baby! Touch the baby!" No, thank you! She was already sick and we were on our way to the hospital, for heaven's sake. Extra germs really weren't necessary. It is certainly nice to know that people think she's cute- how else to make a mother happy? but I can do without the paparazzi or at least without the touchy-feely stuff.

I realize Isabel gets special attention because she's a blond, blue eyed girl. Indian people may be somewhat accustomed to caucasian adults, but caucasian babies are a rarity. (After all, you must be out of your mind to move to India with an infant, right?) I wonder how raising Isabel in an environment where eveyone gushes about her cuteness will effect her later on. Her first two years of life will be in India. What will she think when we return to Europe or some other western country where fair features are the norm? Or in tanorexic countries, including Denmark and America, where fairness is considered plain, sad, and sickly? Unless we stay in Asia forever, she'll have to retire her princess tiara and celebrity shades one day.