Special Spurts: Reflecting on an Experience

October 13, 2017

By Ekta R. Garg

There is a time and place for dressing up sentences and paragraphs with prettiness, but sometimes it’s better to come straight to the point. In the interest of keeping drama to a minimum, today is one of those times to drive straight to the heart of the matter.

Two weeks ago, our family got into a car accident.

Physically, everyone is fine. No one suffered any major injuries. Both girls complained about elbow pain the night it happened, and Eleven had pain in her neck—I’m guessing from a mild case of whiplash—that has finally gotten better. Because I was driving and the car that collided with us hit our front driver-side wheel, the steering wheel and side curtain airbags deployed and hit me in the face and on the side of my head. I still feel some pain from that when I wash my face. But we’re still okay. Physically.

In every other way, however, this has been an Experience.

Following is a few tidbits from the last two weeks as we’ve tried to process various aspects and moments of the accident.


The accident happened on a Thursday evening. The next night we collected in the family room, as we do every Friday night, for dinner and a movie. I’d spent the entire day talking to the insurance company as we slowly, painfully, worked through the particulars associated with this type of event, so I welcomed the opportunity to do something normal. I stood at the stove cooking dinner, listening to the TV, allowing the sounds of that normalcy to soothe me.

Nine got up from her spot on the sofa and hurried to me.

“I’m still scared,” she said, anxiety creasing her forehead.

“I know,” I said in a low tone. “Me too. And it’s okay to be scared.”

She looked at me but didn’t say anything. I think she just wanted confirmation that I wasn’t feeding her a parent line, that I meant what I said. Something in my face must have given her the reassurance she needed, because she scampered back to her place on the sofa.


The next day we all drove together in our other car, and the discussion turned to air bags.

Nine, of course, started with her own questions first. She wanted to know about how air bags worked and why there weren’t air bags for the middle seat passenger. That started a discussion on seatbelts, especially for the middle seat.

As the girls get older, I find myself using the Socratic method with them more and more when we talk through situations both real and theoretical. Despite the fact that it meant we had to brainstorm a situation we’d just lived—an accident—I described to Nine what a car goes through when it gets hit from behind.

“When we’re sitting in the car, we’re moving forward even though it feels like we’re sitting still,” I said. “If we get hit from behind and you’re not wearing your seatbelt, you’re still moving forward. And what happens then?”

“I’d go flying forward and hit the dashboard,” she said, thinking it over.

“And there’s no airbag here to stop you,” I explained, “because of all the stuff here on the dash.”

She nodded, understanding the implications and the possibilities behind a lack of safety. Her fear had dimmed somewhat, and even though we had to talk around what had happened—the reality of the airbags actually deploying, our car being struck by another vehicle at a considerable speed—Nine appreciated the information. Information, as they say, is power. In this case, empowerment.


As I drive around town, I’ve become more sensitive to the traffic. Our town isn’t huge, by any means. “Rush hour” here constitutes of enough vehicles on the road increasing a 15-minute drive to 20 minutes. But somehow having those extra cars moving ahead and behind of me makes the road feel a little claustrophobic.

I’m not the only who noticed this, though.

“There are so many cars on the road,” Nine has murmured several times since we’ve gone from activities to home.

There are. But we still have to move around them and with them. So every day that we’re safe on the road means every day that the cars stop closing in around us.


Enough time has passed, however, that we’ve started to see a little bit of humor in some aspects of the accident.

One morning this week as we drove to school, I pulled out of the driveway and turned down a street in our neighborhood to approach the main street.

“Yay, we turned safely!” Nine exclaimed, the pleasure fully evident in her voice. “Sorry, Mamma, I’m just happy.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “I’m happy about turning safely too.”

“So are we going to cheer every time we turn safely?” Eleven said impishly. “Do you walk around school doing that?”

Nine giggled. “Yup. When I walk down the hall and I go around the corner, I say, ‘Yay for turning safely!’”

Both of them giggled; later that day when they got into the car after school, Eleven asked her sister about her navigation around the school.

“All day long, I kept cheering for turning safely,” Nine said, giggling again.

Since that morning, we’ve been able to laugh about turning safely. We’ve been able to talk about the accident without wincing so much. The kids’ TV viewing is fairly restricted, so they haven’t seen any movies or shows with accidents in them. I have, and it’s tough to get through for those few moments. I know that fear, that split-second impact of the return of the memory of the accident, will fade with time.

My husband said that even though he wished the accident had never happened, maybe the kids will remember it when they get old enough to drive themselves. Maybe the memory of that day will make them consider their choices carefully when they get behind the wheel. It’s possible they’ll drive within speed limits and wait to answer the phone or any texts until they’ve arrived at their destination. Hopefully they’ll check the road three times before crossing an intersection when they want to turn left.

More than anything, I hope the memory of this remains a single one.


Newest Spurts: Looking dope and being daft

September 22, 2017

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last two weeks, readers!

One day Eleven got into quite a punchy mood as we drove to the Y for the girls’ swimming lesson. She started singing silly songs in the car, and by the time we parked and started walking to the entrance of the YMCA she added a funny dance to go with the snog. Nine watched her big sister for a few minutes then turned to me.

“She’s really quite daft,” she said in all seriousness.

Yes. I have one child who’s daft and another who knows exactly how to use the word. All we’re missing is some dancing penguins and Julie Andrews talking about being “practically perfect in every way.”

All in a British accent, of course. Care for a spot of tea, mum?


Often the kids will encounter things at school but don’t always have the presence of mind to tell me about them. Sometimes extracurricular activities get in the way. Sometimes they forget due to other conversations we have. As a result, I’ve gotten quite used to the kids dropping random information into our time together.

Like last week at breakfast. Eleven began describing how two of her friends at school told her, without any judgment whatsoever, that she’s “unhealthily skinny.” Before I could say anything, Eleven made it completely clear that her friends weren’t making fun of her. They weren’t speaking in a condescending tone. They made the observation more in a matter-of-fact sort of way.

My older child is willowy. She’s about as tall as me now, has legs that go on for miles, and a fairly straight frame. We’ve talked often about her body image, and I’ve reinforced for her over and over again that as long as she’s eating right and getting enough exercise it doesn’t matter how her body looks.

I didn’t have to say any of that this time, though. Eleven rounded out the story with the observation that when one of the friends who made the “skinny” comment darted away to join a game at P.E., the other one turned to her and said, “But I think you’re beautiful too.”

“I just beamed at her,” Eleven said to me.

I could see the clarity in her eyes about the incident. She believed her friend’s compliment, and it didn’t really bother her much about what the girls said before. I hope this means we’re at the start of her accepting herself for how she looks.

It’ll certainly save us a lot of trouble in the years ahead.


Earlier this week I got in the car to pick up the kids from school and realized I’d left my sunglasses in the house. I grabbed an old pair of my husband’s sunglasses and put the car in gear. When I got to school, I saw that Nine had already come out to the car pickup line, but Eleven hadn’t yet.

“Di-Di’s coming,” Nine announced as she sat in the car. “She just had to get something out of her locker.”

I opened the windows, parked the car, and turned it off. Nine and I chatted about her day, and I asked the standard after-school questions about homework, whether she’d eaten her lunch, etc. Nine answered dutifully. Then after a minute or two, she said, “Mamma, can I be honest with you?”

“I always want you to be honest with me, no matter what,” I said, wondering where this was going to lead. The girls, as I’ve said, surprise me all the time.

“Those sunglasses don’t look nice on you,” she replied. “I know you might think you’re looking dope and everything, but you’re not.”

“And what does that mean, ‘looking dope’?” I asked, fighting a smile.

“You know, cool and stuff.”

I resisted the urge to look at myself in the mirror. The sunglasses are old, a pity pair my husband bought to act as temporary sunglasses while he found the perfect ones. They’re black—like, Tom Cruise in the ‘90s black—and tapered at the corners of the eyes to give a sleek biker look.

In other words, to look dope.

“You don’t think I look cool?” I said, pretending to be offended.

“Well, you do, but the sunglasses don’t,” Nine said.

Good. As long as we’ve established that I am, in fact, dope. Or all that. Or whatever.

Latest Chart: A wedding and firsts

September 15, 2017

By Ekta R. Garg

Last weekend the girls and I attended a wedding, which turned into an evening of firsts for us.

A year ago, their Irish dance teacher announced her engagement with glee to all of her dance classes. Then she announced that she would invite all of her students to attend and that she wanted them to perform at the wedding. I didn’t know quite what to make of that, but I joined in the girls’ excitement at attending Ms. E.’s ceremony.

Our first “first” of the day: Eleven and Nine wondered aloud what to wear. Having been in and attended several weddings through the years, I settled on a dress to fit the request for semi-formal attire. When Eleven put on a skirt and t-shirt, I gently directed her back to her closet. Surprisingly Nine picked out a sweet dress with blue lace over a layer of hot pink on the first try that fit the bill. Eleven came out in a shin-length black dress with ruffled cap sleeves and white accents and a ruffled hem, and we were ready to move on to hair. After we spruced up, we got in the car and started driving.

The wedding was about an hour-and-a-half away, so I let the girls pick out a couple of movies for the drive. A second “first”: I listened to the DVD of Pixar shorts and let the girls talk me through some of the more visual parts as I drove. We chatted about the mini films, and I got to experience them with Eleven and Nine as we laughed and talked about the scenes we liked best.

We got to the wedding venue a few minutes before the ceremony began and each picked up a stem with bells attached to one end for our third “first”: shaking the bells when the ceremony ended.

The wedding party took their places, and we watched Ms. E. come down the aisle in her white gown and veil on the arm of her father. Everyone attending the wedding stayed standing as the pastor made his opening remarks, and the girls couldn’t see so when we sat down I pulled Nine in my lap to help boost her a little bit. We listened to the pastor talk about love and commitment, about the gravity of these ideas and the necessity of them in a marriage.

Then we saw our next “first”: before the bride and groom took their formal vows, we watched as Ms. E. grabbed her phone from her maid of honor and snapped a quick selfie with her husband-to-be. It startled me, for sure, that she would interrupt her own wedding for the photo, but I also found it oddly sweet. Ms. E. laughed in that way that only pure happiness can bring before scrolling on her phone for the vows she’d written, and the wedding got back to its regularly scheduled program.

Several minutes later the ceremony ended, and we shook the bells as Ms. E. and her new husband came back down the aisle. Then we followed the rest of the crowd into the hall for the reception, found our tables, and encountered our next “first”: the interminable wait between the end of the wedding and the start of the reception.

The bar was open enough to allow for unlimited beers (which I don’t drink at all) and unlimited sodas, and the bartender said Shirley Temples—my drink of choice—counted as a soda. So I asked for one and wound my way back to the table in the far corner of the hall around the dancefloor where Eleven and some of the other students amused themselves by dancing around to the generic music the DJ played and Nine hovered at the edge of the floor.

The girls came back to their spots at the table next to mine to take a quick break, and Eleven asked what I was drinking. I told her, and she asked what went into a Shirley Temple. I explained the ingredients, and she asked for a sip, which led to our next “first” that evening: the first time Eleven tried a Shirley Temple.

Eventually the wedding party arrived and we got to enjoy a variety of speeches and dinner. Some of the older Irish students did end up performing, and then came the announcement that Ms. E. would perform. She got on the dancefloor with three of her students immediately around her holding up her dress so we could see her feet. Lo and behold, she’d changed out of whatever shoes she’d worn with her wedding dress into Irish hard shoes. The music started, and we saw another “first”: a bride performing Irish dance at her own wedding.

(She looked thrilled and probably didn’t even hear the wedding guest behind me murmur that if Ms. E. jumped any harder she’d fall right out of her dress.)

The DJ eventually announced that the dancefloor would open up soon, and I knew we’d have to experience our last “first” of the night: leaving without dancing a single dance with the rest of the attendees. Admittedly, that was a hard one for me. I enjoy dancing enough that I hesitated, but I also knew I had to get the girls back home. We pulled out of the parking lot around 9:15, and the girls asked for Disney’s version of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe on the way home. Once again they watched and I listened, this time to Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy encounter Narnia for the first time.

At different points during the evening, the girls found their attention wavering. When they had to wait for their dinner or conversation lagged because we ended up sitting with people we didn’t know. But Eleven and Nine also got to participate in the bouquet toss and watched the garter toss with a great deal of amusement. We all became part of the frenzy of the photographer’s crazy idea to get the bride and groom to go from table to table in under three minutes so he could capture the newlyweds with everyone who came to the wedding. Just before we walked out the door, we got to wish Ms. E. in a private moment in which we gave her a round of hugs and saw her face flushed with excitement and joy from the day.

The drive may have been a little long, but I’m glad the girls got to go to their first wedding. I enjoyed sharing it with them, and I can’t wait to do it again. Next time, though, I definitely want to stay for the dancing.


Latest Spurts: The “boring” eclipse and burgeoning feet

August 25, 2017

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last two weeks, readers!

Almost like clockwork, the kids outgrow their shoes every six months or so. Last week I took Eleven and Nine for new running shoes that they can wear to P.E. We entered Payless and then slowed down. A sales associate approached us and asked whether we needed any help, so I told her I wanted to buy shoes for Eleven.

“Would you like me to measure her feet?” she asked.

I figured it didn’t hurt. The last time we bought shoes, Eleven wore a child’s size 5 or thereabouts. How much could her size have changed since then? The sales lady brought a child’s shoe sizer and asked Eleven to place her foot in it.

“Well, she doesn’t fit the kids’ sizes anymore,” the woman said. “Let me just go and get the women’s sizer.”

The girls and I looked at each other for the 30 seconds it took her to switch out the sizing tool. How big could Eleven’s feet be? The woman came back and asked Eleven to put her foot in the metal plate with hash marks on the side.

“Okay, I would put her at…an eight-and-a-half,” the woman said. “Let me show you where those are.”

I have to admit, her little announcement stunned me. How was it possible, I thought, that my eleven-year-old now wears a larger shoe size than me? Surely the woman must have made a mistake. We’d get to the rack of shoes marked “8.5” and discover that Eleven’s feet slid out of them.

We went to the women’s sizes and found the 8.5 shoes. I asked Eleven to pick out a pair she liked, and after some minor negotiation she pulled out a box. She took out one shoe and pushed her foot into it.

It fit perfectly.

“Put on the other one,” I said, not quite believing what I was seeing.

She put on the other shoe and walked up and down the aisle. I watched and listened as she oohed and aahed over the memory foam in the shoes. She wiggled her toes and had no problem doing so.

The sales associate came back and asked if we had found what we wanted. I was almost afraid to ask her to size Nine for shoes, but I did anyway and the woman brought the children’s sizing tool again. Fortunately Nine is still a size 3 in kids’ shoes, so I didn’t exactly go into complete shock.

But my older child. My…middle schooler. She’s wearing women’s shoes. What next?


Like so many other schools across the country, the kids’ school had activities planned for the eclipse on Monday. The school provided all the students with glasses to watch the event, and because we were in the path for about 94 percent coverage I think Nine was expecting a more dramatic outcome. Around here the daylight got somewhat dim, but we didn’t see nearly the approach to twilight that those in the path of totality saw.

After school I asked the kids what they thought about the eclipse. Nine made her discontent with the entire episode known pretty quick.

“It was boring,” she said right away. “Nothing happened.”

When we got home, she tossed her eclipse glasses on the countertop. I didn’t say anything about them. I wanted to give her a little bit of time to get over the “boring” events of the day. Even if she didn’t realize it, what she’d witnessed that day was a pretty big deal.

Later that evening, I suggested she take the glasses up to her room.

“But why? I’m not going to use them again. I just want to recycle them.”

“Don’t recycle them,” I said. “Just throw them into a drawer and use them for the next eclipse.”

“I don’t need them.”

We went back and forth on it, but she wouldn’t budge. The conversation ended in a stalemate with Nine scowling at me as she went up to her room for bed.

Yesterday I received an email from the school asking for any unwanted eclipse glasses. The school will turn them into Astronomers Without Borders so the organization can pass the glasses on to underprivileged kids for the next eclipse. I showed Nine the email, and she beamed. She even put Eleven’s eclipse glasses in her own backpack to drop them in the collection box this morning.

Even if the eclipse itself was boring for Nine, at least she gets to help someone because of it. And maybe, years from now, she’ll remember this event as a time when she got to view something special and perform a small act of charity through something that touches us all.


Eleven has always been my little fashionista. As she’s getting older, I’m still buying all her clothes for her but letting her decide how to mix and match various outfits. Earlier this week we talked through the logistics of her wearing a skirt or dress on a non-P.E. day.

The next morning she came down in one of her new favorite t-shirts that states, “I’d rather be reading.” The style of the shirt, with its round neckline and somewhat looser fitting, suggests a more casual look. Eleven paired it with a black skirt that has thin white horizontal stripes.

I glanced at her while making lunches for her and Nine.

“I don’t know if this goes together,” she said, sitting down for her breakfast.

“I think it looks okay,” I said, trying to stay neutral.

“You can tell me if you don’t like my outfit,” she said matter-of-factly, “it’s okay.”

“Well, it’s not that,” I said. “I just wouldn’t have thought about putting those two things together.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in thought. I looked at the clock.

“You still have time to change if you want,” I said.

She shook her head. “No, I’m okay.”

I nodded and put fruit and snacks in the lunchboxes. It’s true, I wouldn’t have paired the shirt and skirt with one another. As long as she’s modestly dressed and doesn’t come down the stairs looking completely outlandish, though, I’m comfortable letting Eleven make her own choices when it comes to her clothes. It’s only through a little bit of trial and error that she’ll find out what works for her and what doesn’t.

That’s part of what being a tween is all about, right? Finding one’s way in the world. Most of the time people think that applies to the big life questions, but I say it applies just as much to clothes and one’s sense of style too.

Newest Spurts: rioting against risotto and dealing with lint

August 4, 2017

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last two weeks, readers!

Lately the kids have been bugging me to let them help more with chores. I don’t know whether it’s because my children are strange or because this is that sweet spot most people talk about with their kids. You know, after the tedium of diapers and stopping to examine every single bug on the sidewalk but before the nightmare of slamming doors and being told how awful we are as parents.

Regardless, I’m making the most of it.

One day last week Eleven wouldn’t let the idea go, so I told her to take the clothes out of the washer and put them in the dryer. I explained the trick of giving each item of clothing a little shake before tossing it into the dryer to help it dry that much faster. Then I told her about the lint trap and how it needed to be checked.

“Do you know what lint is?” I asked, realizing its dishwater grayness can sometimes freak people out.

“Oh, yeah,” she replied immediately. “I’ve seen enough episodes of Full House. Danny Tanner, lint—I know all about it.”

Who said 1990s sitcoms were all froth and no substance?


Earlier this week we arrived at the YMCA for camp, and the kids started climbing out of the car. Eleven grabbed her snack bag and water bottle. Nine grabbed her snack bag and made for the door.

“Water bottle,” Eleven called out.

“Just bring it,” I told her. “I know it’s her responsibility to remember it, but as a big sister it’s your responsibility to help out your little sister when you can.”

She didn’t say anything as we walked toward the sliding door entrance of the building.

“Of course, eventually the younger siblings learn to take care of their own things,” I said. “Then us older siblings keep doing things for them anyway, just to annoy them.”

“Anything that annoys her is good,” Eleven quipped.

“You know that the younger ones usually want to annoy their older siblings too,” I said.

“I know.”

Good. As long as we’re square on that. Don’t want anyone telling me later that they weren’t warned.


Like many parents who own the duty of meal planning, sometimes I get stuck for new ideas. Occasionally I have random items left in my fridge from other meals and want to try something new with them. Earlier this week the item was orange marmalade, not a favorite by a long stretch in our house, and I decided to tackle a couple of Rachael Ray’s recipes.

Rachael and I—or, her shows and I, at least—go way back, all the way to the earliest days of my marriage, and I own several of her cookbooks. I’ve made many dishes from the books to varying degrees of success. Sometimes it’s as much about trying a new technique as anything else.

The orange marmalade made its way into an orange-balsamic glaze for some turkey breasts, and Rachael suggested a lemon risotto to go with it. I’d never made risotto before, although I’ve watched her and other TV chefs do it, so I figured this was a good chance to try something new. Broaden my own skills, as it were. I added a side of steamed green beans and decided to call it a meal.

The turkey came together really well. The green beans came in a steam-ready bag from the store, so they came out fast. The risotto took the longest, which surprised me. I knew it would take a while, but Rachael called it at about 18 minutes. I found myself standing there for almost 45, still stirring and waiting for all the liquid to absorb (although I did bump up the quantity in her recipe, so that’s why it took so long.)

When we sat down to eat, I got a thumbs up on the green beans and the turkey. The risotto? Not so much.

“It’s okay,” Nine said, trying to hide just how much she really didn’t like it.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Eleven said.

Maybe there wasn’t enough lemon zest? I don’t know. My husband asked me how I made it, and I described the process of adding liquid a little at a time and stirring it and waiting for it to evaporate before adding the next ladle of liquid.

Eleven looked down at her plate and back at me. “Well, now I feel bad.”

I shook my head. “Don’t. That’s how we learn, right? We try new things, and some of them go well and some don’t.”

Neither of the girls said much about the meal after that, but I could see in their faces that they appreciated how much time and effort had gone into making it. I hope they can see this as a positive experience. Sometimes you only learn by doing; just reading about it or watching others doesn’t cut it.


This afternoon Eleven, Nine, and I got into the car to drive to the other side of the neighborhood to drop Nine off at a friend’s house. As we made our way, I spotted a turtle plodding its way down the street. I slowed down so the kids could see it.

“Mamma, we have to move it to the side of the road!” Nine, our resident animal lover, said.

“How are we going to do that?” I asked.

“Yeah, how?” Eleven asked.

“We have to pick it up!” Nine said.

“What if it bites you?” Eleven asked.

“I’ll hold it far away from me. Please, Mamma, we don’t want cars to hit it.”

I have to admit, even as I slowed the car down, stopped it, and put it in Reverse, a thousand conflicting thoughts ran through my mind. The desire for the greater good—“Helping animals helps the environment!” “Be kind to all creatures!” “Show compassion to those less fortunate than us!”—battled with the common-sense approach that infiltrates a parent’s life—“The turtle could have diseases!” “People driving down the street will get mad at us for blocking the road!” “What if the turtle bits off your leg?”

Well…maybe not common sense all the time.

As soon as I put the car in Park, though, Nine unbuckled her seat belt and opened the car door. To her credit, she didn’t make a beeline to the turtle right away. She eyeballed the street to make sure no one was driving like a crazy person. By this time one car had come to a stop behind me, and an oncoming car had stopped to see what we were up to.

I opened my own door and got halfway out. Nine made her way to the turtle, which had started to figure out that all was not right with its world. It had already pulled three legs into its shell, and by the time Nine approached it the fourth leg and its head had tucked inside its mobile home too. I exchanged a look with the lady behind me, and she smiled back.

Nine turned back to me. “Can you help me?”

She must have seen my own hesitation, because she turned right back around, picked up the shell a little gingerly, and walked it across the street. She placed it in the grass in front of a home and trotted back to the car. As soon as she got in, I hit the button for the sliding door to shut.

“Make sure you scrub your hands really well when you get to A.’s house,” I said.

“I will,” she said, and even without looking at her I could hear the smile.

We spend many hours watching documentaries of fascinating places and creatures. I’m glad that Nine got the chance to exercise her love for animals today.



Latest Chart: How a tape deck got us on the Titanic

July 28, 2017

By Ekta R. Garg

Who knew that a cassette player could inspire a discussion about the Titanic?

At the start of the summer, I bought a cassette player for my studio. You know, the kind with the little black handle and the CD player built into the top. Of course, this tape deck also comes with a jack where you can plug in an mP3 player, but I can ignore it and still play my music retro style.

I finally got around to addressing the tape player. Eleven has been bugging me all week to let her help with household chores more, so I invited her to go into the basement with me to grab the box of tapes I knew I’d stashed down there when we first moved in last year.

“Why do you need tape?” she asked, when I told her I was going down to get one.

“Not tape,” I said, “A tape. As in, a cassette.”

“I have tape in my room,” Nine said, trailing along.

“Not that kind of tape,” I said, although I caught the grin that told me she was being facetious.

I pulled out the box and Eleven offered to carry it upstairs for me, even though it was a little heavy. At the last minute, I looked in the plastic tub with CDs and decided to grab one to check the quality of the CD player. I pondered my choices for a few minutes then pulled out the soundtrack for the movie Titanic.

“Oh, no,” Nine said, “not that. Why do you want to listen to something so sad?”

My girls, of course, have never listened to the soundtrack of the film. They may have heard it in passing, but they’ve never opened the CD case in anticipation of the dulcet tones of what the ship meant with Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet falling in love on it. For me, however, the Titanic CD holds many fond memories.

Even though I really wanted to play the CD, at the last minute I couldn’t resist the allure of the tape deck and pulled out a cassette instead. One of the best things about technology from the 1980s and 1990s is that it’s pretty straightforward. Even today, you just open it up and plug it in. That’s pretty much it. Nothing fancy to program; no novel-length instructions to read.

After listening to one of my most favorite Hindi songs (Kay Sera Sera from the Anil Kapoor-Madhuri Dixit film Pukar, in case you’re wondering,) talk turned back to the Titanic and how its story related to the movie.

“Isn’t it sad?” Nine wanted to know.

“Well, the story of the ship is sad, but the music is lovely,” I said. “It really sounds like what the ship would.”

Somehow that sparked a conversation that brought in elements of the movie and the actual sinking, weaving the two in a narrative that lasted for almost 20 minutes. The girls wanted to know about the story of the film, and I gave them the short version. They were intrigued by the fact that Rose, Kate Winslet’s character, was engaged to one person and falls in love with another.

“He didn’t treat her well,” I said of Rose’s fiancé.

“Yeah, well, men take advantage of their wives because they think they’re weak,” Nine said pragmatically.

I thought for a moment about answering her, but then Eleven piped up.

“What was her fiance’s name?”

I tried to remember Billy Zane’s character’s name (Cal,) but for the life of me I couldn’t at the time.

“I don’t know,” I finally said.

“Bob,” Eleven said. “He’s Bob the Builder.”

The three of us giggled, and then I went on with the story of Rose and Jack. We talked about the class difference between the two and the fact that Cal, Rose’s fiancé, survives in the end while Jack dies.

“But why?” Nine said. “You would think the bad guy would die in the end.”

“I know,” I said, “but he and Rose don’t end up together.”

I described the scene at the end where Rose hides from Cal so that she doesn’t have to leave the dock with him.

“Yes, see, Bob used to build part-time,” Eleven explained, “but being with Rose distracted him from building. When he didn’t find Rose, that’s when he started doing it full time and became…”

“Bob the Builder!” we all finished in a chorus.

I shared the excitement of the Oscar awards when Titanic came out and how the makeup department got a special nod for its work, particularly toward the end of the film when all the bodies of the dead passengers are shown just floating in the water. Our conversation continued in the car as we made our way to the Y for the kids’ half day of camp.

“But what was so special about the makeup?” Nine asked.

I explained how a body bloated by water takes on a different visage and that the makeup department most likely had to do some serious research so their work would appear realistic when the time came to shoot those scenes. That led us down a short rabbit trail about plausibility in a story, both film and written, and how an audience is willing to believe almost anything if it’s presented in a way that makes sense within the larger story world.

As we chatted, I remembered all of a sudden that a writing client of mind had written a pretty compelling novel about the Titanic to coincide with the hundredth anniversary of the ship’s sinking. I shared that story in brief with the girls as well. The more we talked, the more details of the movie, my client’s book, and the general popularity of the story of the ill-fated ship came back. It struck me, as we left the house for camp, that the movie itself is now almost 20 years old.

Because Eleven and Nine have no emotional attachment to James Cameron’s film, they were able to joke around about how Rose might have wanted to be free of all the men in her life anyway. We also had time and space for more inquisitive lines of thought as Nine wondered aloud what would have happened to Rose, Jack, and everyone else if the Titanic hadn’t sunk. Of course, the answer to that was an easy one: the movie, most likely, wouldn’t have been made.

After dropping the girls at camp, I continued to think about Titanic, the ship that inspired the movie, and my client’s book. I emailed the client later to ask about her novel, and I spent part of the day reminiscing about what the soundtrack meant to me. It’s been an interesting couple of weeks pondering the past, and today’s discussion is proof positive that while we never know what parenting will bring us on a day-to-day basis we know it’ll always surprise us.

Latest Spurts: Residual bacteria and a donkey for a best friend

July 21, 2017

By Ekta R. Garg

Two weeks ago, our family boarded a plane to embark on an adventure. We visited the beautiful, gracious country of Greece and for 10 days enjoyed the hospitality and immense historical value of one of the oldest civilizations in the world. Of course, for me, the parenting adventures didn’t stop, particularly where my younger child is concerned.

Enjoy these special vacation Spurts, readers!


One of the teens in our tour group would arrive on the bus every single morning with her hair done in an intricate style. Sometimes it was a single complicated braid; other times it was two. Occasionally she even did a braid that wrapped around the back of her head and over her shoulder.

I mentioned to Nine how much I liked the teen’s hair, and Nine encouraged me to tell the girl.

“I will,” I said.

“Make sure you don’t procrastinate about it,” she advised.

“What does procrastinate mean?” I asked.

“It means you put off stuff until you end up having to do things in one tiny day,” she said, cupping her hands to show the small quantity of a single 24-hour period. “I mean, night takes up some time too. Why would you do that?”

And there you go. The next time I’m working on a story and my attention drifts, I know who to call to get me back on task. Even if my hair isn’t nicely braided.


Because we took this vacation as part of a tour group, many of our meals were included. That meant we didn’t have to worry about hunting for a place to have breakfast every morning. We could just trot down to the main restaurant of the hotel and sample the offerings of the buffet. The hotels would typically offer a wide array of pastries, fresh fruit, meats and cheeses, a hot bar where we could get eggs cooked to order, and juices, milk, and tea and coffee.

Needless to say, it’s unlike breakfast during our normal routine at home. I didn’t realize just how much the girls had started enjoying the full spread until one of the last mornings of our vacation. Nine looked at me and grinned over her plate of cheese wedges and a juicy nectarine.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to get used to eating cereal for breakfast again when we go home,” she said.

I have to say, after having polite waiters remember my choice of tea in the morning, I rather enjoyed being spoiled myself.


On our last full day in Greece, we had the opportunity to visit a tiny village and walk through it. Part of the experience was meeting the mayor of the village—which comprises of 12 residents—and the mayor introduced us to many of the residents of his tiny town as well as the others that form the consortium of 96 people under his watchful eye. These residents shared fresh vegetables from their gardens with us, cooked for us, and allowed us to partake in their lives for a day.

One of the residents made a deep impression on Nine. His name was Mihalis. The donkey.

She first met him was when he “greeted” our bus. Everyone in the group got to take pictures with Mihalis, but Nine lingered after the picture session. She stroked his fur, and when she looked back at me her face cracked into a smile that made her eyes gleam.

The guide taking the pictures asked if she’d like to take a ride on the donkey later, and I said yes. I knew her face would light up again when she got to mount the saddle, and it did. But I didn’t know just how much she enjoyed the donkey’s company until about an hour or two later.

During the cheese-making and coffee sampling portion of the afternoon, Nine spotted Mihalis tied to a fence not too far away. She left the group and went back to him. As she grasped his short mane, she stroked his nose. Then she came back and asked me to follow her.

“I’m singing to him,” she said. “See, I hold him on his neck here, and I pet his nose, and I’m singing in his ear. He even twitched his ear closer to me so he could hear me.”

I wanted to laugh, not to make fun of her but because she was just so darn cute, but I didn’t.

“That’s very nice of you,” I said. “I’m sure he’s really enjoying it.”

Later, after we sat on the bus to go back to the hotel, Nine stopped by my seat and said, “Mihalis and I are besties now.”

“Great,” her dad said to me once she’d gone to her spot with the other kids in the back. “We come all the way to Greece, and she falls in love with the donkey. We could have found donkeys in Illinois.”

I guess we could have. But they wouldn’t have been Greek donkeys. And they may not have tilted their ears to listen to Nine sing.


This Monday I did six loads of laundry, but I didn’t get around to folding most of it until Tuesday. With the time difference between Europe and here, I woke up early on Tuesday—around 5:30—and puttered around the house for a little while. After drinking a big mug of tea, I went to the guest room where we had dumped all the clean clothes.

Nine, ever my early bird, followed me, chattering the whole way. I asked her if she would help with the laundry and she nodded. I told her to sit on the floor.

“Here, can you help me fold your clothes?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said, sitting not too far away. As I reached for a pair of underwear, though, she crumpled her face.

“Ew, underwear!”

“They’re clean,” I said.

“No, they’re not!” she replied.

“Yes, they are,” I said.

“But people’s butts have been in them.”

“They just came out of the laundry yesterday.”

“Still,” she said in an expert tone, “they have residual bacteria in them.”

Considering I’d already been up for more than two hours and it wasn’t even 8 a.m., I decided not to argue. Instead, I assigned her another laundry task and set her to splitting up clothes into different piles for ironing.

“Residual bacterial,” she stage-whispered in a dramatic way.

I just rolled my eyes.