What kind of an image comes to mind if told you I have 27 years of parenting experience?

Okay, now chuck your lame imagination that you have outsourced to ChatGPT and hear me out. I am still young and not looking old anytime soon. But 27 years is not a lie!

When you have 2 girls that are as different as chalk and cheese, you can’t help but grow younger. Their conversations, sibling fights and worldview keep your existence perky and fresh. And now that we have almost 2 teens, cat fights make the day. School mornings begin with at least 8 different alarms ringing from 3 different corners (disclaimer: we live in Singapore, where Istana is only meant for the president. All others fit in shoebox sized units)

For starters, I need 2 alarms, one to awaken my droopy eyes and the other for my Yogic soul. Spoiler alert, my favourite pose is Shavasan. So, by the time my eyes are half open, my brain has already put my hands to work in the mayhem – the kitchen!

That’s when the next few alarms go off, like some octet warming up before a full-blown symphony. And just like some string instrument and some wind, the myriad ringtones of Apple and Samsung fill the quiet morning air in my house like a cacophony of roosters at dawn. Slowly, daughter number 1 and 2 emerge following a routine that enables them to justify every last millisecond of slumber. Shower, dress up and breakfast happen in autopilot mode where they are still half asleep. But then, they are faced with the eternal crisis – who gets to wear the most coveted piece of warm wear, aka jacket? That’s when chaos strikes, and sleep jumps out the window.

To me, it’s a no brainer – who wears jackets in Singapore? We don’t live in Canada where spring means minus four degrees. But my daughters get their weather genes from the Deshpande side of the family. They have descended straight from Khamgaon – where 40 degrees is peak winter. So, each time I enter one of their rooms, the windows are shut, the fan is working like a civil servant aka not working, and my girls seem cosy and swaddled up in some blankey, gadget in hand, lost in a world I do not recognise. Waterfalls of sweat gush down my mommy body each time I witness this mishap. How on Earth can humans sit without any ventilation and Thandi hawa ka jhoka (a cool breeze) in the sweltering heat of Singapore? Top that up with getting yelled at for opening the windows and letting their lungs breathe.

Okay enough digression. Back to the mornings. Almost always, it is after a cat fight that decides the fate of the very same jacket among hundred others that they both want to wear on that particular morning, that I emerge from the kitchen, fully awake by then, smelling like parathas myself, plates and glasses in both hands, gliding about like an Udipi waiter, my clothes smelling no different. As I lay down the hot nashta on the table, it is my moment to smile. I get my first hugs of the day. And before I can thank the lord for the little mercies, there comes a verbal rocket from the almost teen, “Your cheeks are so warm, why don’t you drink some cold water… Aah but wait, you may not be used to it… there were no refrigerators in 1795 right? Were you like 5 then?”

And she guffaws at her own wit. The mercury has begun to rise around my temples, adding heat to my already flushed cheeks. Next up, the teen queen is all set to step out when she indulges in her final ritual – spraying deo, perfume, etc. The anger from 1795 has done its job. I attack the teen queen with the dual weaponry of command in voice and confidence, “I want you to keep your deo and perfume in your room and not on your piano. Come out completely dressed from tomorrow”.

For once, I feel like a legit Mom. One who has the innate ability to badger and nag and emerge victorious, all at the same time. One who keeps her house prim and proper with no scope for anything more than inviting envy from mothers who aren’t up to the mark yet. Alas, my happiness and victory are short-lived.

My full of beans teen always does a great job at spilling the beans. She chuckles and retorts back, “Your own deo is on the piano Mom!”

It feels like free fall from planet Mars. Am I mortified? Shamelessly, not. “I don’t have a room in this house. I live in the hall”, I defend myself.

The three ninjas laugh hysterically. And as though this isn’t enough, the bitter half adds his two cents to my morning montage. His words attack my brain faster than a bullet train, “Shonu, your mother is improving, I mean IMPROVEMENT. There is no room for improvement.”

Once again, this troupe laughs hysterically. I now hear the string quartet play in complete harmony. My eyes do the talking, while I think, all these years, I have been sleeping with the enemy. He who makes me the butt of all jokes! In hindsight, what better than being the mother of these jokers!

As the big sister is about to leave, she realises she has forgotten her prized possession, her jacket, in the bedroom. The one she won after all that cat fight. She quickly orders her little sister to bring it out under the pretext that she is already wearing shoes. And since we are an Indian family, even our shoes have Lakshman Rekha. They are not allowed beyond a foot of entering the main door.

The little one rolls her eyes. She knows the last minute before leaving for school is the most stressful for her sister. Emotions run high, commonsense collapses and any form of insubordination is taken with dose of vengeful, verbal attack. Can anybody deny Newton’s third law of motion – for every action, there is equal and opposite reaction?

“Monu, the jacket is on the lower right side of my cupboard, the sleeve is hanging out. You cannot miss it.”

Monu gives her matter-of-fact reaction. She nods in complete awareness; a scolding awaits a piece of dutiful act done for older sis. Gone are days when Bharat worshiped Ram’s shoes and reigned in his name. With ghor kaliyug, doing the right thing has always backfired for Monu. Yet, she gets up, brings out the desired piece of fabric.

Now I spring into action. I tell Shonu, “Hey, you better say thank you and kiss your sis”

But the very next second, I bite my tongue. Monu is seen dragging the jacket on the floor while smiling cheekily, inviting ferocious reactions from her beloved Didu. Shonu can’t help but shriek looking at the damaged soul of her victim jacket. There begins a final tug of war and Shonu snatches her due share with a forced thank you and mischief filled expressions that say, “see you later, alligator”. And with that, daughter number 1 dashes out the door. Daughter number 2 is bored. But heads to school, nevertheless.

P.S. It’s bedtime. And I think, TGIF! I wish to sleep like an Egyptian Mummy, but wait a minute, aren’t Fridays supposed to be fun nights? But the younger one is tired from CCA and demands a bedtime story. I am taken by surprise. Wasn’t that a long time ago? I have no new stories. That’s when the bitter half enters the room, all sleepy. And the 12-yo suddenly switches sides. She demands her father tell her a story since she is losing touch with Marathi!

Now who is all smiles? My daughter sleeping with my enemy has never felt better. I choose to partner up with the older one. I return to my room. But oops, there is no room for improvement, is there?