Motherhood: A Tale of Two Cultures

Last week, my good friend Rose and I were invited to another non-working spouse's home for lunch. It is important to note that Rose is American, from Minnesota, and of course this Midwestern heritage  bonded us immediately. The woman who invited us is Indian and her husband teaches at the school. She has two little girls and couldn't wait for me and Rose to bring our sons over to play with them. This is a woman I see almost daily on the road as she walks her daughter home from Pre-Kindergarten and I walk Oliver to school for lunch with Andy. She is overwhelmingly sweet and very kind towards both me and Oliver. For weeks now she has been saying I should come for lunch "anytime".  To me, this was not an invitation per se, just a thing people say. An Indian friend told me I should actually just stop by someday for lunch. Without calling first? This idea mortified me. What if she had no food in the house, or the girls had ransacked the place that day or she hadn't gotten out of her pajamas yet (It happens)? Any number of situations that would mortify me if someone showed up with her child to my place unannounced and seeking lunch. My friend assured me this was not the case and that this woman would gladly whip up some food; "Of course she has food in the house! Why would anyone not have food, Lindsey?" (Please do not come to the Cooper house unannounced-you may be served soda water and scrambled eggs!) Even so, I could not bring myself to just show up. That seemed so unfair to do to a mom with two young kids.

An official invitation was offered at school as Oliver rolled around in the sandbox and her daughter stood obediently at her side (she was told she couldn't play today because she would get her tights dirty). She told me to bring Rose and Ennis and that she would make south-Indian food. I couldn't wait.

Rose and I showed up with our boys and right away I knew I wasn't in Chicago anymore. There was a bike, a big-girl bike, with training wheels in the living room. Things the mother alluded to made me pretty sure the daughter is only allowed to ride inside the house. Oliver and Ennis made a bee-line for it with Oliver screaming "Auto! Auto!" (These days, if it moves, it's an "auto"). Our host was very worried that the boys would injure themselves but Rose and I supervised as the boys pushed it back and forth along the floor, overjoyed at the chance to do so. Our host promptly put a piece of cake in Ennis' hand and said "Eat! Yummy cake!" Oh boy, I thought, here we go. I deflected the cake and explained that Oliver had not had lunch yet, maybe later (there would be no cake, he's 15 months old, he's sweet enough). Rose and I exchanged looks. Then we were offered Coke, which she also offered to the boys. "He only drinks water" was what Rose and I said. Soda? Rose and I watched as her daughters gulped it down. I guess caffeine and sugar are not big no-no's for kids here. Lunch was served and it was fantastic. She is a tremendous cook. Her maid scurried around in the kitchen cleaning up as we delighted in all the south Indian flavors that are not common here in the north. Amazing chutney and curries and even the dal (lentil) tasted different. Oliver and Ennis dug in. The girls were upstairs watching cartoons. They came down every five minutes for another piece of cake, another glass of soda. Our host wanted Ennis and Oliver to go upstairs and watch cartoons too. Oliver does not watch television, nor does Ennis, so Rose and I explained we wanted the boys were they could see them.
At one point, Oliver toddled over to the bike and pushed it down. Our host yelped and nearly hyperventilated and asked if he was hurt. Oliver looked like he was near-melt down watching her reaction as I walked over and said "It fell over, let's pick it up" and we righted the bike. I heard Rose say, "Looks like you're okay, Oliver." Keep calm and carry on...it's not just a saying used for British propaganda during WWII, it's the motto of every American mother I know with a toddler. If we react, the kid will too. Rose and I kept calm and carried on with lunch, but our host wanted to check Oliver for scratches and give him an ice pack.

Rose left soon after as Ennis came off his cake-induced sugar high so they could make it home for nap. Oliver and I had another thirty minutes we could stay. Oliver raced to the staircase (he is obsessed with stairs, we don't have any in our house) and climbed them to find the girls.  He and I followed the sound of cartoons to the girls bedroom. Our host came up and placed Oliver on the bed. She said I could leave him there and we could go down and have tea. On the bed? He can crawl right off! On the second floor, with no gate at the top of the stairs? He will fall down! I was perplexed. Was this person the same one who nearly fainted at Oliver pushing over a bike really willing to leave him on a bed, at the top of a staircase? Just then her youngest daughter (she's 2) started to whine so my host reached into a drawer and pulled out a jar of nail polish and handed to her. I was dumbfounded. Is she just going to look at the bottle? Surely this little girl can't possibly...she opened the jar and quickly went about painting her toes. I couldn't believe this was happening. On the same bed that Oliver and I were sitting, this two year old was making quick work of her pedicure. She moved onto her fingers. One nail she disapproved of and she wiped it off on the bed sheet.  Her mother was there, next to us and playing with Oliver, aware of the scene. The girl placed the open jar on a windowsill and went to her sister's bed to jump. She jumped and jumped getting toe polish all over the comforter. What is happening? I kept wondering. Then the girl made fists and got her finger polish on her palms. She looked like she was bleeding. This got a reaction. "Oh no, you are so dirty! Look at your hands. Look at your feet! How are we going to clean this?"

We decided it was best to bring the two year old and Oliver downstairs so we could watch them while having tea. Oliver noticed the neighbor's dog in the backyard (we just love this dog and visit him often as we walk by) and wanted to go see him. I brought him outside and and we sat in the grass and rubbed the dog's belly. The two year old came after us a few minutes later, which caused her mother and her maid to yell out the backdoor at her a semi- stern message in Hindi. The mother looked at me sheepishly and said, "Sorry, she is not allowed to play outside today...she is in a dress." So, nail polish on the bed is okay, but walking around in the grass in a dress is forbidden. I am still trying to wrap my head around this contradiction.

A few days later, I was invited on a Friday afternoon, to a child's birthday party...the following afternoon. The parents were passing out official invitations just 24 hours ahead of time? Everyone accepted them as if it was the natural thing to be doing, but I was a little perturbed. I hadn't been planning on going into the bazaar that day, how was I going to get this boy a gift? I can't just jump in my non-existent car and run to the non-existent Target and pick something up. A bazaar trip into the toy store and back is a four hour commitment. I didn't have four hours. We went to the party, gift-less, and I marveled at the catering and the decorations. How much time did this family give themselves to plan this party? Was 48 hours too much notice to give the attendants? This is so common in India, the no-notice party. I once was left a voice mail by one of Andy's classroom parents saying that Oliver and I should "come to school to help celebrate their daughter's birthday" and "could [we] be there in 15 minutes?" It takes me and Oliver at least 15 minutes to get ready to leave the house, so we can never get anywhere in just 15 minutes.  In America, I would never consider giving our friends less than three weeks notice to come to a party. People need to plan babysitters, or shuffle activities or plan what to bring (In India, you are never asked to bring anything, only a gift if it is a birthday); never are these a consideration here. You drop what you were planning to do and go, no questions asked.

You many be thinking that these mothers and stories are "crazy" and to tell you honestly, I have a hard time thinking any different myself. But Americans are just as crazy...sometimes more so.

One day I was running errands while in my third trimester with Oliver and the mother behind me in line at the store asked, "Have you chosen a stroller yet?" Was this something I should have given tremendous thought to? She asked as if she was inquiring as to what I would be majoring in in college: all business, but excited to know. When it told her what we had registered for she responded, "We have friends that are very happy with that line of stroller." Umm, thanks? I feel reassured? We picked our particular stroller because it folded easily and came in orange. Was there more to consider? This woman made it seem as if a poor choice in a stroller now would impede Oliver's future success somehow down the road. This would never happen here. If you are lucky enough that the store has what you are looking for that particular day, you buy it. If not, you don't. This includes strollers.

The clearest proof I have to offer of our crazy parenting/child rearing in America is the concept of
gifted kindergarten. Gifted five and six year olds...really? As an early childhood teacher/developmental therapist I can honestly, in full confidence tell you there is no such thing. There are the children who grew up in homes with books and conversations and experiences and those who did not, but that does not qualify someone to be "gifted" at such a young age. I am rolling my eyes even writing this. I have yet to hear a single Indian mother brag about how many words her child knows, what guided reading level they are at, or how much they are capable of writing.  This is not a bragging point here. It will be later when their child gets accepted into college and/or gets a job that pays a lot of money, but it's nothing to brag about at this stage. There are no infomercials selling you products that will teach your BABY to read (ugh). There are no products labeled "Einstein", no flash cards, no "workbooks" pretending to be a coloring book. None of this exists here.  I was looking at some websites of private preschools in America yesterday (as possible future job placements for me down the road) and several boasted that their two year olds have a "pre-literacy" curriculum. The only  pre-literacy a two year old needs is to be read to and talked to and sung to. Those babies had better not be given worksheets and sight words to study, but nothing would surprise me at this point. Mothers here do not seem to care at what age children walk, get teeth, talk. Mothers in America can treat these as competitive sports; "Oh...he's not walking yet? Well, don't worry...I think there's still time." I promise you, there is still time. A friend of ours was explaining how concerned her mother in law was over the fact that at 14 months, her child still had no teeth. The mother in law kept asking: "What if something is wrong? If he isn't developing teeth, what else will be late to develop?" Oy. Insert eye roll here.

Mothers here worry that their children will get dirty if they play outside, while mothers in America worry that their children are not stimulated "enough" outside. I have witnessed many American parents following their child around the playground labeling everything they are doing: "You are on the swings! Good Job pumping your legs! You are climbing the jungle gym! You are going down the slide...weeee!!!" When it comes to food, Indian mothers feed their babies whatever is on the table, even if it is loaded with sugar and caffeine, while some American mothers practically have a heart attack if there child puts a store-bought cracker in their mouth.

I am trying to find a balance. I am an American, raised by Americans, planning on returning to America. My parenting culture is American, there's no way around it. I have two degrees in early childhood education and child development that supply me with some background, but I am winging it most of the time. I survive on coffee and lots of hopeful thoughts that what I am doing, saying, feeding and encouraging is good for my child. I know what feels "good" or "right" to me and what doesn't. I am very thankful that this particular year we were away from America. Oliver is not on any preschool waiting list, nor is he taking violin or Mandarin lessons. He is able to explore and engage with India in a way that Indian children cannot because he has an American mother. We climb the mountain weekly and get quite dirty looking at rocks and moss and playing in the sand box. Never is 'getting dirty' a reason not to do something. We have both been free of any constraints put on us by our American culture and also by the Indian culture. Indian mothers do not give me advice, they know I do things differently, they seem to just stand back and watch; marveling at how Oliver eats vegetables over chocolate cake, tastes the rocks he picks up, and how he goes to bed nightly at 7:30, not "when he chooses to." It has been very liberating for me. Though I wish we had more places to go: museums, parks, lakes, downtown areas...I have been able to construct the environment that I want him to have, with no questions asked.