Sacred Cows

London snowdrops to Delhi snapdragons

I left London a few weeks ago after a flush of snowdrops. The first purple and yellow crocuses were just beginning to put on a show through the garden.

What a difference latitude makes!

Here in Delhi, I've arrived to poppies, snapdragons, hollyhocks, dahlias and bourgainvillea in riotous bloom! Not to mention hibiscus, gerberas, verbena and amaryllis! It makes my gardening limbs ache! How I long to grab a fork and get digging.

Alas, while we are surrounded by lovely communal parks, they are strictly the domain of the local malis, or gardeners, who are themselves beholden to local ladies of influence. I say "communal parks" (they are owned by the city and maintained by our local resident's association)... but given India's propensity for simmering, nasty, centuries-long territorial disputes, you have to be very careful how and where you tread!

Our lovely park, pictured, seems to be the unofficial domain of a lady neighbor, let's call her Mrs Verma. She's a very pretty, pleasant lady with a quick smile and long beautiful hair. She lives next door to us in a building of three flats, all occupied by her extended family.

In England, when a lady does her gardening... she might don some gloves, grab her pruning shears and sun hat and gently sweat over her roses... Here, ladies never, ever break a sweat.

Packing up is hard to do...

© Anu Anand Hall

Note to self: don't move countries with a potty-training toddler and a newborn!

Pregnant women or new mothers - as a rule - should not be made to pack or move. There really ought to be a UN convention banning this. Coked up on hormones that make you want to build a nest, feather it, clean it, decorate it, admire it and be happy in it... it is not very easy to be told you have to dismantle cherished nest piece by piece... yourself... against the urge of every fibre in your body.

In fact, if it doesn't actually break you, it will probably at least give you nightmares for months!

I've moved endlessly (14 schools, five states, three countries). But I have never, ever been as stressed out, panicked or emotionally fraught as during this latest move, from London to Delhi, with a three-year-old and a mewling newborn!

Between endless breastfeeds and mad dashes to the potty carrying a trousers-halfway-down-his-butt-toddler... I've hauled 20 shelves worth of books up to the loft... tearfully parted with cherished baby furniture, clothes and toys... tried to consume all the lentils in our pantry... and racked my brains wondering what to do with large collections of unwanted pens... unopened purple paint... little-worn lingerie and half-used bottles of specialty cleaning fluids.

Who am I today...?

If you're the mother of young children... do you find yourself wondering what your job title is every day? My daily meditation on the subject usually begins in the shower (about the only private space I have left, if my son is not banging on the door!)

My first thoughts are usually cycling through BOLD NEW ideas:

• Start a movement (lol! Easier said than done, though it doesn't stop me having MANY grand ideas!)
• Start my own massage business (I'm qualified and there's a gaping hole in the Indian market)
• Go back to news and reach those heights I deliberately left behind (at this point I have to patiently remind myself that I was offered a foreign correspondent's post and turned it down for all the right reasons; that I like being with my children full-time; that my body just doesn't handle stress in any constructive manner... and that frankly, no one is banging down my door anymore - if they ever were!) (I might still do it!)
• Become a filmmaker (ditto above).
• Become a GP, family doctor (I did look into this, but would have to start my life all over again, and learn science).
• Is it too late to be an astronaut?
• Become a corporate success story (really?? Ok, I do miss earning money... but I was never one for suits and strategizing).
• Become famous (I'm neither brave nor vain nor clever nor stupid enough).
• Find the fountain of youth or a working time machine... be young again... start over (but would that really solve anything?)

A medal for child-bearing?

I was in the shower this morning, and it occured to me: so many men, fighting valiantly for their country and suffering great pain and injury, are awarded public honors for their sacrifice. I know I'm beginning to sound like some kind of feminist with a capital 'F'... but isn't it interesting that women, some who give birth in the most painful and courageous circumstances -- braving injury and possible death for the well-being of the human race -- have no way of being recognized, never mind publicly thanked? Indeed, the mere suggestion would be laughed off ... Childbirth is not war... War is far more dangerous and important... right?

A Mother's Work Meme

Now here's a campaign I can really relate to!! Some of my fellow Mumsnet bloggers are trying to campaign for more flexible working conditions for mums in the UK. Several women have blogged about how utterly their career paths have narrowed as a result of having children, including:

mother.wife.me

Pret a mummy

a mum and more

Tell me about it!! So here's my contribution to the meme (don't worry... I had to look it up too!)

A Mother’s Work Meme Rules:

Please post the rules

Answer the questions in as much or as little detail as suits you

Leave a comment on mother.wife.me so we can keep track of the meme

Tag 3 people and link to them on your blog (eek! I don't have much of a bloggers' network!)

Let them know you tagged them

Tweet loudly about taking part (umm, I don't tweet as yet! shhhh!)

Questions:

1. Did you work before becoming a mum?
2. What is your current situation?
3. Freestyle – got your own point you’d like to get across on this issue? Here’s your chance…

Ok, here goes: