Book Review: KEEP CALM AND MOMMY ON

Title: Keep Calm and Mommy On
Author: Dr Tanu Shree Singh
Publisher: Duckbill Books
Pages: 200
My GoodReads Rating: ⭐⭐⭐

Tanu Shree Singh has a PhD. Sound science determines her parenting style. I go by a mixture of instinct, and what I learned from my parents. 

And yet I found myself nodding vigorously in agreement with what she said.

In an age in which parents are pushing their kids into classes and highly evolved programmes to map and enhance their cognitive skills, I, like Tanu, am lagging behind when it comes to being a conventional Tiger Mom.

Sometimes it causes me to question my stance. As she says, Am I an adequate parent? …Have I ensured optimal levels of cognitive functioning? Have I charted their trajectories? I think the answer to all three questions is in the negative. I do not yet have my own trajectory in order!

Parenting a child in this age is like being prepared for battle. The best degrees, and Tanu has a PhD in Positive Psychology, can’t stand against the onslaught of a real child.

Generally, I have my act together but often I don’t. That’s why I hoped this book would help.

Tanu talks about the issues most likely to be felt in families everywhere. Of course, my kids are still in the single digit age. So a few of the issues that she talked about weren’t relevant to me at this stage. But at least, it’s good to know we are all in this together.

Each section begins with speech bubbles. Snippets of conversations that tell us about the topic, and the chapters that are dealt within it.

The topics are We are the World, Keeping Your Child Safe, Dealing with Friends and Family, How to keep your Child Happy, and Reading the World.

There are a range of chapters under each topic. For instance, the topic, We are the world, consists of chapters on the prejudices that children learn from grownups, ways to discipline kids, religious beliefs, how to build resilience, children who are abandoned or orphaned, and exposing children to reality as the newspapers portray it.

I found the chapter titled, Should Kids Read the Newspaper?, particularly helpful since I’d been thinking about the best way to introduce my kids to reading the newspaper.

Keeping your Child Safe talks about the difficult conversations we must inevitably have with our kids, especially once they near their teens, about teenage romances and sexuality, and dealing with peer pressure.

Dealing with Friends and Family discusses sibling rivalry, friendship across genders, death and grief, bullying, body shaming, raising responsible boys, about what happens when girls bully boys, lies and truth and cultivating empathy.

How to keep your child happy includes chapters on the importance of kids doing nothing (something I espouse too), learning respect from scratch, the needs of teenagers, addiction to digital devices, working independently, the education system, the definition of success. This section was where my personal beliefs aligned completely with the author’s.

Some chapters were named in a straightforward manner, others like The Other Side of the Coin were not. I thought there should have been some consistency.

What I liked about this book was that it wasn’t a ready reckoner on how to behave in any given situation, thought it does offer suggestions that parents could consider. Its greatest strength it that it raises the questions that few parents bother thinking about. I also liked the fact that the style was chatty, not written like a PhD thesis. The stories with Ishaan and Vivaan are interesting.

Tanu talks about the importance of keeping conversations going, not shirking from difficult conversations (children can smell parental unease with conversations), and invites us to remember that That little person you have is ideal for you, complete with her faults.

The tone is irreverent, but firm. Realise you are not a god: Even gods have beheaded their children (and fixed an elephant’s head in its place).

I don’t agree with everything she says. For instance, she says, Focus on unprotected sex and its repercussions—physical and emotional, not moral.

I believe the moral repercussions are just as important.

Careful proofreading would have helped. In the chapter on bullying, the examples of the early ’70s and the late ‘80s are described in present tense, while the example from 2013 is in past tense. There were a few cases of awkward sentence constructions. The language could certainly have been improved.

In the chapter on abuse, the author talks about beating by teachers. Children go through worse forms of physical abuse, which aren’t talked about here.

I appreciated her call to recognize the signs that indicate whether a child is being bullied and to remember that your own child could also be a bully. The tips she gives are good.

The chapter on body shaming was a necessary one. Things I appreciated: Resist praising your child for masculine or feminine stereotypes. Or calling your child too fat or too skinny.

I liked it when she saw herself as having a special responsibility to bring up boys who are respectful of women and treat them as true equals.

Like: The mechanism for crying is fairly similar, regardless of gender! Saying that a boy is crying like a girl tops the list of silliest but also most destructive things ever said. You are telling your son that men do not cry, so whatever is bothering him needs to be ignored, not resolved. And you are telling him that crying is an inferior thing to do, that girls cry and are, therefore, inferior.

She writes with a wisdom that knows when to step in and when to let the kids do what they would want to. All imbued with self-deprecating humour that I particularly liked. For instance, to the myth that bullying toughens kids up, she asks, Do you ask your doctor to inject typhoid-causing bacteria into your system so that you can toughen up your digestion?

One area that my kids don’t give me any trouble is what Tanu describes in Outsourcing creativity. When it comes to being arty and crafty, both my kids are way more creative than I am. Thank God for that! I shudder to think what would happen if they were dependent on me for jazzing up their projects.

I believe that every parenting experience is worthwhile, and could offer valuable lessons to others.

And this book, which combines her knowledge with instinct, and how they’ve worked with her boys, is quite helpful.

Book Review: FOWL LANGUAGE: WELCOME TO PARENTING

Title: Fowl Language: Welcome to Parenting
Author: Brian Gordon
Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing
Pages: 128








Fowl Language: Welcome to Parenting by Brian Gordon combines some of his best comic strips into a single book that you can carry about with you, and occasionally peer into too, when you want the comfort of knowing that you aren't alone in whichever stage of parenthood you may be in.

If you are a parent, be forewarned: Vigorous nodding ahead.

The cover page, "I used to be cool and do cool things..." is the story of our lives. All of us parents, and the change we've undergone since we had our children. The image shows Daddy Duck sprawled on his back, with a flabbergasted look on his face, while Duckling bounces excitedly over his protruding stomach. Just goes to show how far we've come.

It sets the tone for what is to follow and we jump into the rest of the book excitedly. The book deals with a gamut of issues ranging from the difference between our imagined dreams and reality, disciplining our children, the similarities and differences between our children and us, and how both drive us batty, playtime with children and what happens when baby leaves you sleep deprived, answering questions from our children, car safety for children, taking kids to the doctor, me-time, watching the clock. 

At this rate, I might end up mentioning them all.

The book also talks about the fearsome "Because I said so," which saves us when all options are exhausted, and the hilarious fear of Number 3. You won't understand that last one till you read the strip. 


The comics remind me of how they say that having two kids makes you a referee.

The best one is the one on the back cover when Daddy Duck explains the misery and magic of being a parent: "It's mostly drudgery and frustration, but it's still, like, the best thing ever." 


That won't make sense until you become a parent.

The only piece of lengthy writing here is the introduction. The others are comic strips, with the most minimum and yet expressive of blurbs, supported by the cartoon that says it all.

In the introduction, Gordon writes, "My hope is that this little collection of cartoons will give a little comfort to any parent out there who feels a little frazzled at times."


And so, here it is, comfort and laughter in a delightful package. Of course, you could get all the strips for free on the Internet, but this little book would serve as a cute and charming gift that new parents would certainly appreciate.


 (I read an Adobe Digital Editions version of this book on NetGalley.)

Book Review: THE BAD TOUCH

Title: The Bad Touch: The true story of Harish Iyer and other thrivers of child sex abuse
Author: Payal Shah Karwa
Publisher: Hay House India
Pages: 208






Most of us like to think that we lived in a better age. An age when the innocence of childhood went unharmed, unmolested.

Some of us still persist in believing that our children are safe. Not only children in our own homes and families but also those hailing from the same socio-economic backgrounds as us. We like to think that the scourge of child sex abuse (CSA) afflicts children from poor, often criminal, backgrounds.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Payal Shah Karwa’s book, The Bad Touch, reminds us that the perils of CSA are closer than we think. She informs us that a shocking 53 percent of children in India have been abused at least once in their lifetimes, according to the first ever National Study on Child Abuse, released by the Ministry for Women and Child Development in 2007. Worse, about 50 percent of the abusers occupy a position of trust vis-à-vis the child.

The horror of it does not end there. According to the WHO, Payal says, India has the world’s largest number of sexually abused children with a child below 16 years raped every 155th minute, a child below 10 every 13th hour and one in every ten children sexually abused at any point of time. In most cases, the children continue to suffer the negative effects of the abuse, such as depression etc, even into adulthood, long after the perpetrator has moved out of their lives.

Very often parents and caregivers are blissfully unaware of the ordeal that their child or ward is going through.

Children are afraid. They neither understand what is being done to them, nor do they know how to explain their fears to a trusted elder. Many children do not have the vocabulary required. They do not even know the names of their body parts. It is up to the elders to probe these children with sensitivity, to ask the right questions with gentleness.

Payal’s book lists and counters the myths associated with Child Sexual Abuse, namely that boys are not vulnerable, that abuse happens in the lower strata of society, and that the victims do not suffer from any harmful after effects. It also offers important pointers on how parents should trust their children’s word and try to win their children’s trust in turn.

The author brings the nightmare of CSA home to us through the accounts of seven people, four of them with fictitious names, who have survived abuse in their childhood.

Payal begins her book with the account of 7-year-old Harish Iyer (his real name), who was abused and repeatedly raped by his uncle over an 11-year period, until he turned 18. His story, the most detailed of all the accounts in the book, sickens you as a reader and as a parent. There were so many times, particularly in Harish’s account, when I had to stop reading, unable to continue. Unable to process what I had just read. That a young child, about 7-8 years old, should have to go through such horror was sickening.

I commend Harish for his unbelievable courage in speaking out the truth about the nightmare he lived for years. Today this brave young man is an activist against CSA.

The other well known account of CSA is that of Anurag Kashyap, who overcame the demons that plagued him and channelised his negative feelings into his writing and film making.

Not all the accounts are described in detail, but those that are help us to understand those that aren’t, and fill us with a sense of abhorrence and disgust at people who exploit children for sexual gratification. It also makes our hearts go out to the children for the horrors that they have lived through.

The cases that Payal describes depict the various types of abusive situations that children might be ensnared in. She also backs up her writing with statistics, facts and an update on the Indian law with reference to CSA and its implementation. Sections in which she highlights the physical, behavioural and psychological indicators of CSA and pointers on how to talk to children about CSA and how to help them to overcome the experience are also dealt with in detail. Payal has also very helpfully provided the contact details of non-governmental organisations that have dedicated themselves to ridding society of the scourge of CSA.

The book, unfortunately, suffers from severe editing issues. It is a pity that the publishers did not take the time to clean up the copy before printing it. Satheesh, the uncle who abuses Harish, is first introduced to us as having “a burlesque” figure.

I had to make a conscious effort to look beyond the language, in order to value the book for the message it imparted. And that value, I believe, is tremendous.

The Bad Touch serves to remind parents to be cautious and aware so that they may be able to protect their children in the best manner possible. It also helps to encourage the survivors of CSA that all is not lost, and that they can put the nightmare behind them.

Three Little Words

My parents never told us that they loved us. I don’t remember a single occasion when they said, I love you, to me or my brothers. Neither in English, nor in our mother tongue Konkani, which we spoke at home.


And yet I grew up feeling solidly confident about my abilities and realistically sensible about my weaknesses. There was an air of affection that cocooned and sheltered us, even in the absence of those three words.

After La Niña was born, I suddenly metamorphosed into someone who wanted the comfort of saying those words out loud, not caring who heard them. I won’t say it was an overnight transformation, because that wouldn’t be true. It was more instantaneous.

It was after we had brought La Niña home from the hospital. I had just nursed her and she had fallen asleep mid-feed. I looked at her sweet, wrinkly five-day-old face and said, “I love you, my darling” to her, willing her to respond. She smiled in her sleep, as newborns do. Emboldened, I repeated the words. I remember still how refreshingly liberated I felt.

Over the next month or two, I invented a new method of reinforcing those words, hoping for some reciprocity. I would hold my hand to my heart and say, “I,” then touch my lips while saying, “love” and finally touch her chest, while saying a resounding “you.”

When she was about 9 or 10 months old, she began to mimic my actions, whenever we performed our little ritual which was twice or thrice a day. When she grew old enough to speak small sentences, she began to participate more fully. My mother-heart would swell with pride when she would do the gestures, and add, “I yove oo.”

El Niño was equally responsive to the declaration of love. “Avoo” surfaced concurrently with words such as Mamma, mum-mum and paa (short for paani or water). To demystify Avoo, the A comes from the ‘a’ sound that precedes the I and the ‘v’ from the tail end of love, followed by ‘oo.’ No matter how many times I say, I love you, to him, I am always rewarded by the reciprocal declaration, Avoo. Repeated hearings have not dulled the charm and sentiment of all that is contained in that one word.

Over the last 4+ years of motherhood, I have come to strongly believe that hearing the three words, “I love you,” and their equivalents in other languages, are important for a child’s growth and development. This is not to say that not hearing these words is detrimental to a child’s well being. Our parents’ generation did its parenting at a time when actions spoke louder than words, and parents were so busy raising multiple children on the strength of a few resources, that they rarely had the time or the inclination to speak their love. We turned out well, of course, and had happy childhoods, in spite of not hearing those words.

Saying, and repeating, those words, however, serves as positive reinforcement to a child that he/she is loved unconditionally. Of course, if we keep mouthing those words, without showing much for it, our children, who are equipped with a super-advanced radar for ferreting out any fake emotion, will call our bluff.

While it is easy to say, I love you, when my kids are gracious and well-behaved, I must admit I do struggle with feelings of anger and irritation when they aren’t. At such times I have to mentally shake myself in order to remember that I am correcting them because I love them. I also need to remind La Niña that just because I correct her does not mean I have stopped loving her. La Niña, of course, doesn’t see it quite that way, and is quick to tell me, “I don’t like/love you.”

I was devastated when she first put the word, don’t, before the word, love. Since then, I have rallied around, and have come to realise that children are too young to understand the full meaning of the words they bandy about so freely. The more-informed me no longer takes it as a personal affront now when La Niña shouts, I don’t like you. Instead, I counter back with the words, “But I love you.” Sometimes the corners of her mouth tilt downwards in a barely-there smile that she vainly struggles against. At other times, she gives way and we giggle wildly and hug each other.

Once she came to me and said, “Mamma, I know you don’t love me.” I began to protest at this, but she interrupted and re-phrased, “You’re just saying it. I know you love me very little, as much as the namak (salt) we put in our food.” I was reminded of that famous story, which incidentally La Niña does not know, in which a king asks his three daughters how much they love him. Often mistaken as the plot of Shakespeare’s King Lear, this story sees the older two speak of their love in glowing terms, while the youngest tells her father that she loves him as much as salt. Furious at being compared to a kitchen ingredient, the king disinherits her. It is only when the sympathetic cook stops adding salt to the food that the king understands the worth of his daughter’s love.

I replied to her, “That’s not true. I love you very, very much, and just to prove that, next time I will add 100-million-ek-lakh-one-thousand-and-twenty (La Niña’s understanding of an infinite number) grains of salt into your food.”

I love you isn’t the only thing our kids need to hear from us. They also need to hear from us that we are proud of them when they say or do something good. Approval is as intrinsic to a child’s sense of self-worth as love is.

With every positive expression, we are building up our children’s self-image. The easiest bricks available for this laudable task are the three little words that ought to be some of the most overused in every parent’s vocabulary.

This article was written for Parentous, an online community for parenting-related issues. You can read the original HERE. 

Daughter of the Soul

Her name, Atmaja, is Sanskrit for Daughter of the Soul. It is a name that the doctors at the SCB Medical College and Hospital in Cuttack, Orissa, India, have given her. Her biological parents have neither the time nor the inclination to look for a name for her. They are too busy shrugging off parentage, disclaiming her, disowning her.


Born on March 30, 2012, Atmaja was born around the same time as another baby, a boy. However, when hospital staff presented the little baby to her father, she did not receive the treatment that fathers of newborn babies customarily offer to their young. No hands caressed her tenderly; no lips laid a sweet kiss on her forehead. No eyes crinkled in delight at the sight of her cute little feet and no mouth gaped in sheer awe at the miracle of perfection that is a baby.


Instead, Susanta Mallick and his wife Rashmita alleged that they were the rightful parents of the baby boy and that this baby girl was swapped by the incompetent hospital staff. The couple went on to say that the other woman, Nirupama Mallick, and her husband Sukanta Mallick of Jajpur district were in fact the parents of the baby girl. Refusing to acknowledge Baby Atmaja as their own, Susanta and his wife insisted on a paternity test and, when that was refused, went on to file a petition in Orissa High Court.


On April 24, the court directed that the two mothers who had delivered at nearly the same time and the two babies under dispute should undergo a DNA test to ascertain the parentage of the child. Blood samples of the four were dispatched to the Central Forensic Science Laboratory at Hyderabad under the supervision of a court official. While the jury was out, Baby Atmaja waited for the mother that would not come.


Two months later the results were revealed. Report: Inconclusive evidence. The genetic scientists at the laboratory were unable to give a conclusive DNA report based on the blood samples of the two mothers and the baby. A positive result would have allowed the little one to see her rightful home for the first time. The inconclusive result meant a return to the hospital, pending a resolution of the case. It was detention of a different kind.


The laboratory informed the Orissa High Court that the blood samples of both the contesting fathers would be required to make an accurate analysis about Atmaja’s parentage. This stage of the examination was delayed further as it was revealed that Susanta Mallick, the man who had filed the case in court, had only lately gone to Dubai where he worked. Apparently, he would not be able to return to India for another six months. The other father, Sukanta Mallick, was working in Kolkata. Relatives of both men filed affidavits in court to state that it would not be possible for them to return to Cuttack to give their blood samples.


Even as this extended game of tug-of-war plays on, Baby Atmaja continues to stay at the hospital. For four months now, Atmaja has been living there, deprived of a mother’s love and care. At an age when other more fortunate babies are suckling greedily and contentedly at their mother’s breasts and reveling in the warm comfort that is a mother’s embrace, this poor little child goes without. She has never known even a moment of love. Her lips have never tasted her mother’s milk.


She is not without surrogate mothers, of course. The hospital, charged by the high court to look after the little one until the matter is resolved, has sheltered the baby in its special neonatal care unit. Two beds were removed to accommodate the baby and her crib. She also received the vaccinations and immunization as per schedule.


What she didn’t receive is the one thing that no baby should go without: a mother’s love. I strongly urge you to read this article when you have the time, but for those who don’t, I will offer a gist. The article says that there is a growing body of scientific evidence to support a truth that mothers have always known instinctively. The way babies are cared for by their mothers affects their emotional development and the biological development of their brain and central nervous system. Writer Cory Young says, “Mother’s love acts as a template for love itself and has far reaching effects on her child’s ability to love throughout life.” The article goes on to say that “Hugs and kisses during these critical periods make those neurons [in the central nervous system] grow and connect properly with other neurons. You can kiss that brain into maturity.”


Newborns, says Young, are born expecting to be loved, kissed, cuddled, even licked. Even animal mothers know that. In fact, James W Prescott, one of Young’s sources reveals, “The easiest and quickest way to induce depression and alienation in an infant or child is not to touch it, hold it, or carry it on your body.”


Fortunately, none of that negativity will touch Atmaja’s life. Nurses and attendants are working round-the-clock, struggling gamely to meet her needs as best as they can. Other mothers of newborns give in to their newfound maternal instincts and nurse the little one out of a sense of sympathy and compassion.


Little Atmaja is a healthy baby and growing well. Her smiles and gurgles have earned her a special place in the hearts of all those around her. Apart from the nurses and attendants who are her constant companions 24x7, she has also become the darling of visiting medical students and the doctors who pamper and cuddle her. Staff members have brought in toys for her. Incidentally, the district administration is providing funds from the Red Cross Society for her care and feeding.


But there must be some instinct in human beings even when they are babies. Despite being well looked after by the nurses, Baby Atmaja’s eyes search the faces of those around her for that one face that Nature has ordained she will instantly recognize. But the parents, despite being genetically wired to love their own offspring, aren’t in a hurry to oblige and continue to hanker after the baby boy. And why not? Don’t they live in a culture where the peda, irrespective of type, price and quality, ranks higher in the pantheon of Indian sweets than the barfi?


The Orissa High Court has now taken a tough stance to resolve this row. On July 17, the court refused to order any more blood samples and ruled that the laboratory must draw a conclusion about the parentage from the blood samples available to them. While that is good news because it spells an end to the dispute, the eventual resolution of the contest also worries me.


What happens when the laboratory comes to a conclusion and releases conclusive findings with regard to parentage? Will the Mallicks recover lost ground? Will they acknowledge the treasure that is a daughter? Will they get a glimpse of the joy that a little girl can bring into life? Will they be able to show the baby all the affection and love and tenderness that has been her right and due? Will they give that love grudgingly? Will it be as easy as turning on a tap?


Most likely, not. We are a nation that famously worships its female deities but disowns its daughters. Oscar Wilde was right when he said, “How strange a thing this is! The Priest telleth me that the Soul is worth all the gold in the world, and the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver.”


I don’t know how this drama will play out. For her sake, I pray that Atmaja may grow up to be a kind, generous and wonderful woman, a spectacular human being. I pray that she may suffer no issues of self-esteem on account of having been abandoned by her own parents for nearly four months.


I pray that her little brain may cherish the love she is receiving from the most unlikely sources and thrive upon that love.
Above all, I pray that she may live up to her name and be a true Daughter of the Soul, even though the stock that she hails from lacks that precious ore.

The Spirit of Christmas Past

Christmas is most real to a child, perhaps because the Creator of the world came to us in the form of a child.


As children, preparing for Christmas, it was a delight to do something good and not be found out. The parish priest of St John the Baptist Church, Thane, (I think his name was Fr Peter something), came up with an ingenious idea to prepare the Sunday School children for Christmas. While others cleaned their homes, we children should clean our hearts, he said.


He handed each of us a single sheet of paper on which the popular image of a heart, with numerous lines crisscrossing it, was printed. The crisscrossing lines would total up to more than 300 little squares. The idea was that all through Advent, we should do something nice for someone and offer it as our gift to God. With each good deed, we would be permitted to colour one of those little squares. On Christmas Eve, we were encouraged to place our coloured hearts, a symbol of our love for God, in the manger at the church crib. Wrapped as He was in nothing but swaddling robes, our coloured hearts would keep Him warm.


Looking back, I recall that none of my good deeds were really scale-breaking. Sometimes I may have foregone a sweet that my brother wanted. Or I may have given up watching a favourite TV programme and tried to help mum instead.


More than the deed itself, it was the spirit in which it was done that made it significant. For once, we thought of the needs of others, rather than our own. For once, we swallowed our pride and grief, if we were scolded undeservedly. For that one time in the year, we would try our best to be a little less selfish, a little more generous, a little more as God would have us be.


The Wise men came with their gifts. We brought our hearts. It was with a glow in my heart that I would place mine at the manger, knowing without the shadow of a doubt that just as the Babe smiled upon the little drummer boy in one of my favourite Christmas songs, He would look with delight upon me.


My parents never bought us gifts at Christmas. Partly because our financial circumstances didn't permit it. But more importantly, because we were just not aware of the tradition of buying one another gifts for Christmas. The way my parents taught us to view Christmas, the focus was always on the Birthday Boy, whose birth transformed the world.


So the tradition of piling up neatly wrapped gifts at the foot of the Christmas tree and pretending it was Santa Claus who had bought them for us never featured in our memories of Christmas Past. In fact, for a very long time, we didn't even have a Christmas tree.


Dad used to make a crib, a small visual representation of the Nativity. It was a small house that Dad had fashioned out of leftover plywood. It wasn't at all ramshackle as the real one must have been, but that was because Dad had good carpentry skills. With loving hands, he would smooth sawdust on the floor, place the thatched and stitched roof on top of the house and put the little statues in their positions. Even as he tried his best to make the little house as comfortable as possible, he would tell us, "The real stable must have been dirty and smelly. Imagine the trouble that Our Lord willingly accepted for our sake."


All through Advent, my excitement would be steadily built up, rising in intensity as Mum made a different Christmas sweet each day for our kuswar (Christmas goodies). One day, it would be neureos, then perad the next day, dodol the day after, and cake and kormolan the next. The following day, it would be two types of doce (the Portuguese word for sweet). one made of chana dal, and the other of local bread or pao. They were both my favourites, chonya doce and unddya doce, unddo meaning the Konkani word for bread. This would be followed by batk or bolinhas. For the local flavour, Mum would make chaklis and besan laddoos and our basket of Christmas goodies would be complete.


Day after day, our little home would be redolent with the aromas of all these sweets. It was another reminder that Christmas was approaching. As these Christmas goodies were being made at home, I would go to school with a heavy heart. Somehow it seemed unfair to miss all the excitement even for a few hours.


Incidentally, one of my cousins, so went a famous family story, apparently wrapped up a school exam in a fraction of the time allotted to write it because she did not want to miss out on the kormola making at home. While it was a very amusing story that never failed to bring on the laughs, dear cousin, if you read this, I want you to know that I thought your action was thoroughly excusable. :)


Meanwhile, Dad would decorate our little house with colourful buntings and balloons, even as Christmas carols would be playing on our little tape recorder. Mum would sew Christmas dresses for the two of us. The finishing touches would be put at the very last minute, often because there was so much that she had to do, while managing her sewing business too.


While these preparations were on, my excitement would be muffled, under wraps. It was only when Dad got the crib ready, often the last step in our Christmas decorations, that the warm feeling in my heart would smoulder into a full-blown fire.


Those childhood Christmases were beautiful. I remember the thrill that used to come over me at Mass on the first Sunday of Advent when the choir would sing, "Bestir thy power, and come, Lord, to save thy sin-laden race." It used to be my cue to give in to unmitigated joy and excitement because my favourite time of the year was finally here.


Truly, there is no Christmas like the one experienced by children. One casualty of being a grown-up is that unfortunately we lose the tenderness and affection that we used to experience as children. We lose the warm Christmassy feeling and merely end up keeping the date.


This year, I resolve to change all that. I resolve to become a child again at Christmas time. I resolve to re-live the excitement that was mine, all those years ago, and to share in the delight of my little daughter and son and two nephews. I resolve to open my heart again so that when I peer into the crib and look at the little Babe lying in the manger, I can feel content that I have made my heart a fit dwelling for Him.