“You’re kidding, really? Six whole months?” I looked at my mom with total disbelief. My mom was visiting me and we were having one of our usual deep conversations about life and family. She was reminding me about the time my sister and I spent an extended time with my grandma and family in Michigan. I couldn’t believe it. So many questions: How old had I been? How did my parents live without us for so long? Why couldn’t I remember it? Didn’t the guilt kill them?
One day while waiting for my daughter to finish her music class, I was privy to a conversation between some mothers who seemed unanimously relieved that their children had been spared the dehumanizing experience of wearing a uniform to school. This got me thinking, since I myself had grown up in an unquestioning environment, where I donned the same uniform every morning instead of dealing with the “what to wear” question at 6am.
A teenager's act of cyber-rebellion ends in a Facebook shoot-out when her tech-savvy dad puts seven real bullets into her laptop.
Guns and social media make strange bedfellows in modern parenting, but in South Carolina, a dad teaches his errant daughter a lesson about being disrespectful that she (and other cyberspace users) are unlikely to forget.
Tough love? Or does the message have holes in it?
If someone had told me 19 years ago that I would be the mother of an opera singer, I would probably have keeled over and died from shock. But here I am now, an Indian woman who was at one time completely obsessed with Hindustani Classical Music and studied with some of the most well-known Ustads in Delhi, listening to the likes of Joyce DiDonato and Anna Netrebko and brushing up on my knowledge of Baroque Opera compositions. I am sure that every parent out there is surprised by the unexpected left turns taken by their kids during the course of their childhoods but for me personally, thes
I spend the better part of my day fretting over our possessions – toys, dishes, clothes, toys and more toys. Instead of divesting and de-cluttering, I ineffectually move things around, sometimes storing them in a dim, unfinished basement not unlike the recesses of my own fraying memory. Thanks to a faulty retrieval system, things are often duplicated. I have four umbrellas, but can’t find one on a rainy day. Gloves, mittens and snow bibs disappear this way too. My problem seems to be that I have too much of everything.
“Great! So where’s the other 5 points?”
These words are tattooed on my brain, uttered casually and repetitively over the years by my father, raised in India on mother’s milk of competitive motivation. Usually they were spoken after I shared my grade of 95 on a tough math/history/english test/paper, usually said with a big smile on his face. Tiger moms? Forget it! Try a Tiger Dad and see which you prefer. At the time, all I heard was “it’s not enough, and it will never be enough.”
Deciding on a private versus public high school is like deciding between a Prius and a Porsche; the purpose is the same, the decision making process is angst-ridden and second-guessing is routine. I should know. I have twins, one of whom attends a private school and the other a public school. Public school parents are like Prius owners, smug in the knowledge that they are contributing to the educosystem, free of cost. Private school parents like Porsche drivers, concede disdainfully that they own that toll road to success.