Bratman in the dark night

The brat has been on a gift receive overdrive over the weekend. First came some shirts picked up by the Nana with requisite superhero motifs, namely Spiderman in red and Spiderman in black as per the newest favourite Spiderman 3 adorning front and back of said shirt. Then the uncle emptied his coffers on a Spiderman car, a gleaming red monstrosity that refuses to fit in the overladen toy basket in our room (three overflowing ones already in two balconies, and one more overladen one in the grandma's room set there for the express purpose of being overturned on the bed at the exact same minute that unfortunate grandma decides to shimmy away into the land of nod and needs to brought back to wakefulness with a scare that has her jump out of the skin.) and the father, stung one presumes by these random displays of generosity by all and sundry, rolled his sleeves and got into the act with a vengeance over the weekend.

First came the collection of DVDs of every conceivable superhero movie ever made. Psst, am opening a library here, wanna borrow some? Mamma should not complain, one protests, seeing as Pappa has exercised largesse and rare display of thoughtfulness combined with aforementioned largesse and waltzed home bearing pile of books almost as high as his nose to Mamma's indecent whoops of joy which could call cattle home from their grazings on a stormy evening. Add to the stackpile of DVDs of every Superman, Spiderman and Batman movie ever made, add The Hulk, The Incredibles, Xmen and few assorted more, and you realise the man has stood, scratching head in front of display at DVD store and asked said salesperson to empty his wallet for him, rather than use common sense and eliminate the ancient ones.

Largesse multiplied further with Batman and Spiderman and Power Ranger action figures. Pappa even apologised for not being able to get his large hands on a Superman action figure. Mamma gagged and bit back the sharp retorts springing like so much acid reflux in throat. And I get accused of over indulging the sprite. Naturally with so much Superhero being shoved down his throat, the brat decides to morph into the Bratman, black nightsuit being pressed into service with black discarded scarf erstwhile belonging to Mamma dearest making a decent retirement as a cape, and an old black woollen glove getting three centre fingers and base chopped off and eyes cut in for authenticity.

Mamma, to her horror, was pressed into service, to be d Joker. Methinks its the hair and the new Loreal Compact which I suspect a couple of shades lighter than actual skintone, bought as it was in great hurry, under great duress and during flourescent light time. And given the obscene intermingling of highlights with mehndi and such abominations on said hair, Heath Ledger's green mess as the Joker probably came close to the horror on my scalp.

So the Bratman spent a rainy Saturday afternoon jumping down on me from vantage point of sofa seats and dining tables while I tried to get a week's worth of dust cleant from visible and invisible surfaces. Finally I gave up all pretence at work and jumped so ferociously on him, he squealed and didnt try it again since.

Then it was homework time. Homework time is Sunday night. After the weekend is done with. Tis blasphemy to even suggest he lifts a digit in that direction before the day is done and the night fallen and the spectre of Monday looming ahead. Given he'd missed two weeks worth of weekend homework for the week he'd been at home and out of action, Mamma had been blathering about unfinished homework with the fear of years past and memories of being hauled over the coals for unfinished homework, the way only nuns at them convent schools can haul you over coals. Bratman was Blase with a capital B. "Issokay mamma. I can do it next week. I tell teacher. I being Batman. Batman dont do homework."

Oh yeah, says mamma, wincing at the memories of rulers brought on knuckles in them dark ages of corporal punishment. While she will personally rip from limb to limb anyone, including teachers who dares inflict corporal punishment on said apple of them myopic eyes, but an occasional bark of disciplining would be welcome. But brat's school is apparently as far removed from that as the moon is from the Great Wall of China. "Teacher dont shout if you dont do homework. She say isokay. Do nexcht week. Dont take tenshun mamma. Be Joker."

And that is my new life motto.

"Dont take tension. Be a Joker."

Rather apt, whatsay?