A day in the life of ...

Akaayil small kittunni, a.k.a my son Sriram, seems to be going through some sort of emotional crisis. Today was particularly bad. He woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Everything was wrong for him since. He did not want to use his regular tooth brush. Chutney was on the wrong side of the plate. He was served white idly, when he wanted purple ones. He did not like Iran’s defiant rhetoric.

I resisted my temptation to ‘handle’ him since I am not supposed to do so. I am told that spanking will only humiliate and hurt a child, and teaches him that physical intimidation is the real way to get what you want. I suppressed my anger and frustration and pretended to ignore him, resigning to witness the series of events that unfolded in front of me. He shredded my books, pulled down the window blinds, threw his toys at me, threw the remote control at the TV, spit on the carpet, pulled his mother’s hair, threatened to invade Iran – all while screaming at the top of his tiny lungs.

His mother and I remained calm and sober, like Gautam Budha after a bachelor’s party. His crying spell followed a well plotted sinuous curve. It peaked and declined, and peaked and declined again. At times it appeared as though he was processed by the evil spirit of Hugo Chavez. We waited for his ‘baadha’ to pass. And the chathan did leave eventually, after almost an hour.

When the smoke cleared, I looked at him with a poker face. He tried to smile and asked: “towel daddy..”, I played deaf. Then, as though I don’t understand English, he repeated his request in Malayalam “thorttu venam”, this time flashing more molars. Unable to attract any attention he wiped his tears in his shirt and said “I am done, I am done crying daddy”.