Back to school…For Auld Lang Syne!

The lovely daughter has been coming back to me with all kinds of complaints since the day she took her first steps to letter herself.

In PrePrimary II, as a mature 4 year old she announced that she hated Rohit because he said he wanted to marry her. Her father said that he would first check his bank balance then follow him around with a gun before he would allow any such thing to happen. She found that reassuring. Then again in Class I, it was the older boys who were teasing her in the bus. She swept aside my lectures on how she should elegantly ignore it and deal with it on her own and once again called in the big guy who with all his fatherly tactlessness, stood his big frame firmly in front of them and warned the guys off his daughter. It worked. She also took to smugly walking into the bus with her elbows jutting out, so that she could knock all and sundry out of her way. This was on the advice of a particularly interesting colleague of mine with a soft corner for guerilla tactics.

In Class II, it was “Operation Remove Vamshi”. She simply did not want to sit next to a boy. But the teacher insisted on pairing the XXs and the XYs. But my kid gave me various excuses ranging from “he took all my erasers” to “he smells funny”, till she hit upon the one thing she knew would get my goat—she told me he had lice. I raced to school; to find that the target of her chagrin had very little hair…lice could not have possibly made a home in such sparse territory.

It’s been an amazing insight into the world of primary education from a parenting perspective—were my experiences the same? As I have followed my four-year old become a much wiser 11-year-old, I watched her drop the complaining and take on the world by herself. More responsible, more mature, she’s a natural counselor for other kids who call asking for her advice the moment we get home. The teachers congratulate me on my daughter and my parents’ gloat over her report card as they never got to gloat over mine.

Then as suddenly as it had gone, the complaining was back. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be Prefect”? Nope—was never the prefect material. “All the kids hate me!” Then why do they still call at 4pm asking for your advice? “I bet it never happened at your school…did they ever write your name on the wall along with all kind of other stuff?” Yes, they did. They even wrote on the back of contour maps and on the library books. They scratched our names on the doors with all kind of plus signs.

School isn’t all Ha Ha Hee Hee…but isn’t it? Was I complaining too when I was in Class VI. I really need to think back…to the last few days in Class 10.

When you’re in class 10, you never deign to think what you and your school mates would be doing 25 years later...You are so full of yourself and how things are affecting you, but time has a habit of flying and you fly with it. You had the thoughtless nicknames, the alleged link-ups, the chap in class who always came first and the bullies who wanted their way. You had groups based on height, sex, and class sections. You had writings on the walls, classroom politics, and the secret notes shoved into desks (along with the occasional frog) and they all seemed like insurmountable problems. You were misquoted, or ignored or put on a pedestal. You smirked over wisecracks, and imitated the teachers behind their backs. You were sent out of the class for talking too much, and ran the 100metres. You complained about and laughed cruelly at other kids. You also made the best friends. You learned the bad words and recognized the good deeds. You always liked what was in other people’s lunch box. You had bus stop friends, car-pool friends, best friends and second best friends. School and schoolmates were the microcosm of the big bad beautiful world out there.

Despite it all, you had to study when you didn’t want to and you would pray that the future would take you away into a rosier world, with just the right amount of rain to make rainbows, just the right amount of money to have the good things in life, just the right kind of love to make your life complete, just the right kind of success that would show them all….

Then you walk over the threshold and see what the world is actually like and you actually grow wiser. You finally know that the microcosm you left behind is the only bit of turf left that lets you be you.

Schoolmates are the ones you grow up with. They are the ones who gave you memories to laugh over. They are also the ones who with their torturous teasing tactics, toughen you up. They are the ones who have seen you at your ugliest, so whatever you look now is pretty. They won’t lie about frivolous stuff like age—because they can’t! They make you feel young. They also point out how old you are. They are thrilled to see your kids. They are the ones who really want to know about how you are and happiest to get back in touch.

So, one Christmas day, when you are talking in terms of 25 years ago…you know that things have changed, you have changed, but somewhere…time still stood still so that you could go back, sign into a online group and share a laugh or wipe a tear. And hopefully, if you keep your fingers crossed, they are the ones who will stand by you and understand.

"Rotate Your Shoulders"

For the past weeks, my arms have been aching. Literally. From the elbows to the wrists. From the neck to the elbows. It hurts even when I sleep. It is very distracting and am trying to get to the bottom of it with advice like “Check yourself for arthritis” (from the smugly youthful), “Lose some weight” (from the painfully thin), “Try alternative therapy, do Yoga” (from the chronologically similar) to Jayanthi's VERY very simplistic solution: “Rotate your shoulders” . Her daughter told me that she complained of a stomach ache and her mum replied, “Rotate your shoulders” . Tooth ache? “Rotate your shoulders”. Sad? “Rotate your Shoulders”. So despite my aching arms, I rotate my shoulders with all my might, I have cut down on the carbs and food items that are said to cause arthritis and I even throw in a dollop of Yoga every day. My arms still ache.

And that’s not the only problem. The car and I have been having our battles galore wherein I cleaned the battery myself and stretched the over 4 year-old battery’s life for 3 stuttering weeks more till today. Today I got fed up because there I was dressed to the hilt in trousers, shirt and boots, starting up the car to drop daughter at the bus stop and since the car refused to budge—in full-view of neighbors hanging lazily over balconies—I had to sprint down the road with high heels, hair flying in all directions (those shots of those heroines running in slow motion with their tresses gliding along with the breeze is all bunkum), with daughter's junk-fattened backpack till I reached and flagged down the bus and found the daughter very calmly lady-like, walking in leisure way behind me. "Ayesha??"!!! And with a smile to match, she has the gall to say "I knew you would catch the bus, Mimi". This is what happens, when you spend too much time with auntys Sangeeta and Preeti. As she elegantly climbs on to the bus with a very very Deepika Padukone Dreamy Girl wave, I rotate my shoulders, smooth down the hair and walk back as daintily as is possible for me and decide to work from home, call the Hyundai ERS and finally buy a new car battery. That is the story of my life: I get a bonus and God rotates those divine shoulders and thinks up dozen ways to spend it. Anyway—now at least my car will not stop on the road but my knowledge of what's under the bonnet of the car has impressed the Hyundai people enough to forget to charge me for the ERS help. Err… Hope they don’t read blogs…hope they don’t compound the interest.

It’s not just over yet—to compound my woes, my cell phone seems to have arthritis and it has no arms to rotate. There I am at home, after my humiliatingly lost battle with the car, trying to dial in for a meeting with the boss and like the armless Thakur in ‘Sholay’, the cell phone stubbornly refuses to acquiesce. “Your call cannot be completed-Please try again”. In fact, it doesn’t even let me try again, for heaven’s sake. Thank god for a boss sent from heaven (at least God rotated the shoulders right while allotting bosses)—she not only reschedules my meeting, she reschedules the team meeting. I meanwhile am pledged to get certain documentations finalized and guess what—the internet connection is gone! I breathe deep and rotate my shoulders. Then I call the Internet provider and begin very politely till the lady assures me again and again that someone will resolve my problem at 4pm—politeness rotates itself out of my shoulders and I cannot contain myself from giving that poor gal all I have in terms of verbal paranoia—I have deadlines I wail as she keeps telling me she understands. I then literally breathe deep again, rotate the shoulders again, invoke divine intervention and then as miraculously as it disappeared, the internet is back!

The cell phone is not. After furious online instant messaging with office colleagues, the advice to switch off the phone, replace battery and reboot again does work. But some calls which the armless Thakur does not like are truncated instantly. Buy another cell!!! The cell phone expert in office swings into action—what’s your price range, what kind do you want—I can sense the glee—as I am the only one in the team with a cell phone that NO one wants to steal. Forget about stealing, no one even wants to pick it up by mistake if I drop it somewhere. The same cell phone expert had walked in one day with the news that she had finally seen someone else carry the same phone as mine—the autowalla. Then my daughter does nudge, nudge, as we drive back in the cab from the airport, “Mimi, look even the cabbie has better phone than your’s, his is a Motorazor.” No please God, don’t rotate your shoulders—not just yet, leave me some moolah behind—I need that extra paneer after I lose the extra weight!

Moral of the story—even God rotates the celestial shoulders. Considering that we are from the land of the many splendoured gods and goddesses, we probably have the whole pantheon rotating their shoulders and may be not even in sync (which can probably account for all the dichotomies and dilemmas and the doldrums of our lives). May be they made a collective request to Jayanthi to spread their word? Whatever it is, my arms still ache. Then my mum calls and suggests the exact opposite: “Rest your arms”. Longing to do that but hello, Mummy! I am part of a documentation team, I have to write to make a living—I’d rather rotate my shoulders?

Family, Friends…and Other Fauna

I have been told that if there is one thing my family knows well it is to live with a dog. Hmm…the fact of the matter is that there have been more than just dogs in our lives. (One of the reasons perhaps that I never travel without George Durell's My Family and Other Animals.)

It probably begins with my father’s boyhood pet cat Rin Tin Tin. I loved the stories! She displayed a rare high on the loyalty quotient than the usual feline is capable of. Not only was she was fun to tease the younger sister with (who even in her adulthood resorted to looking under beds for cat people, just in case) but she was friend and playmate. Rin Tin Tin went everywhere Daddy went. Which meant that when Daddy got in a train, so did Rin Tin Tin…in a basket. She was told to keep as quiet as a mouse about which she must have been pretty affronted by, because she stayed mousy till the train rolled into the station, and then she let out a protesting “mia-aow”! I believe the entire family jumped out of the train and on to the platform, basket, cat and all, just as the ticket collector turned towards them.

Grandfather P(aternal) had a way with animals. Grandfather M(aternal) kept animals away. Between them both though, they had kids who loved either flora, or fauna, or both. The dog was the perennial favorite (from where it is gleaned that if there is one thing my family knows well it is to live with a dog). On the paternal side I have heard about Kukuli—a dog who often addressed as brother by an uncle who even offered to trim his whiskers. Then there was Toby who was a bumbling brown friendly fellow who was so friendly that Grandfather P replaced him with the ferocious Bhima—obviously named after the Mahabharata strong one. Bhima bared his teeth generously and had us kids toe the line out of pure fear. He showed respect to only my mother (which speaks volumes for her imposing personality), who till this day blames him for pulling too hard on the leash, necessitating my grandfather to tumble and endure a knee surgery. The whole neighborhood was mortified by Bhima’s presence. I am still unsure about how I felt about Bhima’s passing. My grandfather decided to stick to cats after that and Jhumri entered the household as this supercilious, self-centered feline who felt she had sole ownership of my grandfather. Everything that was his was hers and both of them forged an enviable friendship. Until she got lost. My father and friendly neighborhood people scoured the by-lanes, alleys, and even went up to the highway. I am sure my grandma was secretly rejoicing, till she opened a cupboard and Jhumri popped out—she had stayed there for three days!

My paternal grandma’s penchant was for the feathered flock. There were these pigeons who seemed to have a life-long lease of every ancient air-vent in every part of the ancestral house that we could not imagine life without them. It wasn’t uncommon that you would open the morning newspaper and find out in a most ‘dropping’ way that the pigeon is reading the paper along with you. My grandmother adored them—according to her, if they were happy and flourishing, her children too would be happy in each part of the world they were spread out in. Once in an attempt to tackle the dropping issue, the vents were blocked out and the pigeons were forced to leave. Ma cried inconsolably till all the air-vents were re-opened and the pigeons allowed to continue their life-long lease. Strange though, that after she left us, my grandma’s feathered flock left too. I miss them. I miss her.

Grandfather M, meanwhile condescended to allow pets in but treated them as pets—his kids however went gaga-goo to the extent that their she-Dachshund inappropriately named Louie, was hand fed, mouth wiped with a personal towel and patted to sleep in their laps. Grandfather M sarcastically suggested that they also add a leg massage for the brown sausage, while they were spoiling the dog out of her canine boundaries. He also had a way of mixing pets and politics, which my mom found out when she brought in a cute black spaniel and he named it Bhutto—I believe, the news that day was about the failure of the Simla Summit of 1972.

Apart from many other things, their love for their pets bonded my parents. They began their life with a parrot called Rupa who could speak. There was rabbit called Tungi who jumped too high for her own convenience and rather than have her dash her head on the ceiling, they gave her to the zoo and used to visit her. Then there were these very young orphaned fawns that my father found on one of his inspections as a young district collector. He brought them home to my mother and both tried to keep them alive by feeding them from milk soaked cotton-balls—sadly it didn’t work. They also had a dalmation called Dotty who walked with my father inviting the comments, “Look, the district collector with his white leopard”. Dotty, far from being a brave, honourable leopard, was a slightly delinquent sort who poached people’s straying chicken. He was however a good babysitter, I believe, and would catch us by the collar as crawling infants in our efforts to scale stairs etc and so saved us from many a fall.

Then we had Scamper—a pint sized white Tibetan Spaniel with honey-golden ears. He was the runt of the litter and as usual was given to my mother to nurture. But my grandmother warned that we would have to officially say that Scamp was my brother’s, because it was his horoscope that gave pets long life. Despite the ownership, he became the apple of my parents’ eyes to the extent that I had to compete with him for their affection. So grew our rivalry—if I got to my father first when he came back from office, Scamp would sulk away under the sofa, till Daddy tenderly coaxed him out. His favourite moments: whenever I got into trouble and got shouted at by my mom. He chewed up my brand new pencil box, he ran off with my hankies labeled with the days of the week, he sunk his teeth into a plastic roast chicken from my food play set as well as a cow from my farmyard set. When I complained, my father was on Scamp’s side explaining that the poor little thing just wanted to know what beef was like! But Scamp was also once of us—he tortured and ragged the cook by stealing vegetables and then have the cook run around in circles after him trying to recover the stolen loot. My brother, semi-ventriloquist that he was, threw out the Scampy voice and presto what a trio we were against the rest of the world. We couldn’t take exams without the “magic pencils” (read: warm licks) which Scamp was forced to dole out. We wouldn’t go out on any journey or any family function/wedding/reception/housewarming that he wasn’t invited to. In fact there was no one left among family and friends who would not invite him! 13 years with Scamper and then he passed away when we were living in New Delhi, his head in my parents lap, my brother away in the USA—and it was like an era over, the innocent era of our childhood. We couldn’t leave him in Delhi, so we flew him home to the garden he had loved so much…and he’s still there.

For a sizeable amount of years my parents promised they would not pledge their hearts to any furry or feathered thing again. But they did. When they visited me in New Delhi and got out of the taxi, out jumped Theodore SpitzWilliam aka Teddy. “Where did you get this Road-ation?”, was my first reaction. My parents were visibly hurt. They were positively put off and went on to tell me how he could walk on two legs, how affectionate he was, his fondness for mutton liver, and how content he was with a used up plastic coconut oil bottle and a rag. I looked at Teddy’s saliva-soaked worldly possessions, his huge love-loaded grin and sighed about what my parents have got into. My sister-in-law ( by this time marriage had happened to us all and though we were non-resident at our parents home, the ownership of pets still went to my brother in accordance with his life-giving horoscope) clarified that Teddy was in his growing stages and that I should give him some time. I did and within a few months, on his next visit, he had grown out of his mangy adolescence into a spectacular sight—I thought he was Aslan—complete with a mane of golden brown! As the official dog-in-law, he did invite envy as his meal consisted of dishes of specially prepared liver (which as a vegetarian, I still haven’t understood). He very proudly baby-sat my daughter and gave the 20-day old baby his tennis ball when she cried. So much so, that she would search for him and stop crying and smile when he barked. Teddy endeared himself to everyone and to my daughter he was Teddy Baba, who she could count on to bark back at her mother when she shouted, who would be her pillow while she read through a book, who would let her sit on him and share his ball. Then on Christmas of 2000, after being sick for some time, Teddy breathed his last, melting brown eyes fixed on my parents, his head in my dad’s lap—it was heartbreak all over again. Such a dear dear soul…gone too soon. I think of Teddy and Scamp and think—what’s wrong with being a dog or being called a dog?

This time my parents have kept their promise. But there have been the early morning crows who insisted on sharing Daddy’s tea biscuits which he stretched out to them. There were the numerous family of bulbuls who find the most inappropriate places to nest and hence have to be guarded. Apart from being standing sentinels to their feathered friends, there were many stray stories that entered their life. There was Panchali, who would dutifully wait for my father’s car to drive in at the end of the day and greet him with a happy wag. There was Toni who was quite beloved and came to us as a guest during my brother’s wedding, keeping a watchful eye over all the proceedings. She was sick and tired and she needed a place to rest and my parents gave it to her. There was Puppy, who was called puppy even after he was full-grown and his lady friend Camilla (perhaps because of the Rotweiller looks). Then there was Lily christened by my daughter, till she turned out to be a Lalu.

That’s the pet-roll of those who stood by us, watched us grow, shared their wisdom, made us laugh and broke our hearts too. In the end, everything is worthwhile.

Meanwhile, here are snatches of friends and family members’ “pet” conversation:

I had a pair of love birds.
How sweet!
Yes, but you can’t believe how they fought! They just would not stop pecking at each other. The non-stop khat-khat-khat drove us nuts—it was like some new kind of torture!
What happened to them?
Oh, the pecking went on and on till the birds pecked each other bald!

Then there was the fish. It used to swim round and round sitting in a bowl on the study desk. One day, I was trying very hard to teach my daughter a math sum and spoke really loudly and accompanied the decibel level with a thump on the desk. Suddenly the fish just flopped out, landed on its back and died. I can’t fathom what happened to it?

I had Fern the caterpillar…she fell off somewhere in the Himalayas.
Aww…(phew!)

Our dog Agassi was the cutest. Except that when we used to look for him in the yard calling out, “Hey Gas….Gassy where are you”—our neighbors would give us weird looks.
Duh…obviously!

We have a turtle…Noddy’s his name and he’s as big as a soda bottle cap and has such a penchant for food that he climbs up the aquarium wall and sticks painfully on one side and cranes himself sick to see the food we were eating. I was shocked when he even ended up needing an endoscopy. An endoscopy? For being on a See-Food diet?
An endoscopy on a soda-bottle-cap-sized turtle?

My mother had a pet Myna and her brother fed it to the cat!
Correction—my brother wanted to see the Myna stretch its wings and fly high into the bright blue sky. The reality was that when he opened the cage, it jumped out, flapped its wings and then before it took off, sadly a stray cat pounced on it—feathers and all.
So much for breaking free and soaring—baby, baby, it’s a wild world!

Sleepover it—Again!

The program was announced one week ahead when friend confirmed reservations for a weekend trip to attend a wedding in Chennai sans husband and children and discovered that husband too would be touring out of town, the kids whooped and swooped in on the opportunity for a sleepover. Every single day they met in the school, they signaled each other with one less finger till finally they were down to the last one.

On the D-Day Friday, I arrive at school early, to pick up the eager-to-live-it-up-over-the-weekend girls, so that they get as much time together as possible—and I lock myself out of the car! Woe is me—this is the third time since November! But this time I am more prepared. I walk into the school after I place a call to daughter’s piano pal/teacher, who laughs his head off, asks me how I manage to do such crazy things and proceeds to collect the spare key from adopted daughter’s house (what would I do without all the people who have adopted me along the way?).

Like a responsible parent I collect my children—1,2,3…. ""So YOU will be taking the children home", asks a teacher? Err…yes. My own flesh and blood looks up sharply at the “Err” and says, “Mimi, did you lock yourself out of the car?” Without waiting for a response from me, she turns to her friends and says, “Ok, she’s locked herself out, we will just have to do something till she figures out how to get the duplicate key”. I expect condescending looks and complaining whines from the group but instead I get very loving grandmotherly looks of disapproval. Even the principal (whose name sends shivers down the little spines around her) indulges me with a hug, as my girls look on at the scene with awe. Then they recover from the shock of seeing me lavished with affection by she-who-you-must-not-be-sent-to-incase-of-academic turbulence and run off to look at the school’s rabbits.

Presto! The key arrives in record time delivered by Pianist friend who still can’t stop laughing. I shepherd the girls away from the harried rabbits (who actually looked at me and then heavenward to perhaps send prayers of thanks that the frenetic chase they had been subjected to till then by the girls had finally come to an end). Once home, I threaten the milk down their throats and they settle down to practice the piano for the slated “An Evening of Piano” at a friend’s house. The littlest one manages to learn a little piece in 10 minutes flat, wondering why I cannot seem to learn anything beyond C Major scale?

“An Evening of Piano” begins with snacks galore, juice, games, and a movie—anything but the piano. Finally the hostess friend decides to use the only mom-technique that works—threats. “No piano playing? Then no Chocolate Mousse” and all who have tasted Shanthi Aunty’s chocolate mousse know that it is worth dying for, so they make a beeline to the Kawai that was sitting desolately in the corner.

The music was beautiful. From the youngest to the eldest, from the improvised bollywood tunes to the lilting, dreamy Chopin—it was lovely. What magic tumbles out as the little fingers dance across the ebony and ivory! You can sit back and listen forever.

But then there is the Chocolate mousse—which is oohed and ahhed over and is just as exotic as the music that was played. Unless of course if you lack the sweet tooth...like one little one whose response to mousse was "Miaow". Neverthless, we the un-calorie conscious eat till we are stuffed and pack the rest. On the drive home, the girls announce that they want to sleep in a tent. I rack my brains for designs. Four bed sheets, one skipping rope, five safety pins and tape—a tent is strung over the bed. Not bad, could be improved, but the girls are thrilled. Admit cards and passwords are passed around. Games and books are scanned—Gingy the Gingerbread Man fails a test with the comment “Bah, this biscuit can’t talk”, and the Shrek toys (an entire set that has been collected painstakingly from McDonald's) are given a pass while the miniature princess dollies and farm/wild animals are pulled in. I of course, who pitched the tent, gave them snacks and sundry and drove them around, am shoved out—I am the Bobcat who’s to be avoided by the rats of Ratatouille. So I bring out my sleeping bag and relegate myself to the floor—I dare not leave them alone in the room considering the conspiracies that are being whispered from ear to ear. After several warnings, there is the sound of sleep….

Come morning and there is a rush to get dressed, as dad of the little one has to take her for a school performance. As he arrives, he is besieged by the little beggars who ask him to let the sleepovers continue for another day—he’s moved by their entreaties and the lure of having a house to himself with the promise of an unhindered Sunday of golf—“They are all yours” he says, wiping away tears of thanks.

Mother of children calls me to ask what you call people who like to inflict pain on themselves. “Masochist?” I offer—“You are one of them, considering that you are taking on this extended sleepover willingly”, she replies.

But hey—these girls are the best company in the world and we moms all secretly know that, not that we want to tell them of it! Where else can we be privy to conversations from another planet? Where else will we find the Armless Wonder who in a jiffy draws in her arms inside the sleeves of her mother’s T-shirt, rolls up her eyes and waves the armless sleeves around? What about the consummate bed time storytellers that grace the occasion? What about the dramas that are staged and the dances that are danced? What about the tents that are pitched?

And speaking of tents, for me it was back to the drawing board to make a better one. This time, it was definitely much better. Ergonomic and with less resources, four bed sheets, two skipping ropes and a single safety pin! Dinner is eaten along with the Hunchback of Notredam and they dive into the tent after PJs are donned. I am still handed the sleeping bag. They have decided my role—I am the official tent-pitcher, caravan/car driver, bobcat and sharpener. Hands pop in and out of the tent to hand me color pencils that seem to have severely breakable leads. After sharpening the black pencil several times unsuccessfully, I am handed it again with “I need this, I am coloring the Buddha’s eyes”. “Use another color”, I say. “But I have already colored one eye black. You want me to give Buddha one black eye and one purple?’ says the Gargoyle-eyed kid. Keeping Buddha’s interest in mind, I very quickly I sharpen the pencil down to midget size and hand it over.

After mandatory trips to the rest room are made, the girls settle down to sleep in the tent with a flashlight. Giggles and stories continue till finally I fall asleep. I wake up to see lined up angels, except that one angel’s leg is over another angel’s back and yet another angel is perilously hanging on the edge. Nevertheless, their faces are perfect with the peace sleep brings in. No creased lines—smooth, clear, eatable, sleep-puffed faces sticking out of warm, cozy, cocoon blankets. I hate having to wake them up but breakfast has to be eaten, baths taken and a trip to the library has to be made.

The rats scurry back into the tent after we are back from the British Library, where the librarian with one raised eyebrow asked, “All of them yours?” “Yes” I had replied proudly till they began to run here and there and the little one said in loud enough voice—“No order here at all. All these books are marked with a ‘C’!” The older ones chimed, “That’s because these are all books in the Children’s section!” She continues to grumble, “So many books, not one that I can read!” Lunch is eaten with Barbie and the Nutcracker.

Back in the tent after lunch, the games continue. My polite requests to complete the assigned abacus homework of the day are met with the jeering chorus, “Aaj ki abacus kus kus kus kus, aaj ki abacus!” I give up. I even give up my wonderfully gory Sunday afternoon of CSI New York. I just give up and give in to a siesta only to wake up to kids tumbling in and out of the tent and one of them sitting on another one’s hair. I sober them up with those dreaded doses of milk and comb out the tangles, as it is time for the parents to come home. Party’s over now and the bags and all are carried into the cars. Heartfelt goodbyes are exchanged and as they drive away, my kid turns to me and says, “Mimi, can I play now…with my scooter and visit Paris?”

Can you play NOW? Weren’t you playing for the entire weekend? Fine, play - now - again, have a nice trip to Paris—and give my regards to the Mona Lisa.

PS: Cheers to you lovely girls—you give us reason to believe.