Cheeks, Cribs & Conspiracies

I met Pranav under a cloud of talcum powder and overstimulated lullabies.

He was a veteran! A whole one-year-old. Wise, observant, slightly grumpy—with the gait of someone who learned to walk too early and now regretted it.

“First week?” he asked, crawling toward me like a commander welcoming a recruit to the trenches.

“Fourth,” I replied. “But I’ve seen enough.”

Pranav grunted. “Welcome to Crèche Nirvana. Land of mashed bananas, delayed responses, and emotional gaslighting disguised as gentle parenting.”

I liked him immediately!

We sat near the soft toy basket, passing a teether like it was a peace pipe.

“See Aaya Meena?” Pranav whispered. “She’s got biscuit crumbs in her dupatta. Don’t fall for her lullabies—they’re just snacks in disguise.”

I watched her swoop down to rescue a rolling rattle while humming a song that had been off-key since the ’90s. He wasn’t wrong.

At the far end, Miss Chitra, clipboard in hand, watched us like we were lab rats with milestone potential. I’m fairly certain the clipboard just said:
Arya clapped. Kabir bit Rishi. Vihaan chewed furniture again.

“She told my mom I ‘enjoy tummy time,’” I muttered. “I was face-down in a plastic ball pit contemplating mortality.”

Pranav smirked. “She once told mine I was ‘playfully self-soothing.’ I was choking on a stuffed dolphin.”

A sock floated to the floor beside us—a lone casualty in the daily war of dressing.

Pranav nodded solemnly. “The Offering has begun.”

“What?”

“The sacred sock ritual. One falls. The aayas pretend not to see. Then they pounce. No one sees it again.”

Sure enough, Aaya Sunita snatched it like a magician hiding evidence.

The Parent Window.

A wave of well-meaning adults smushed their faces to the glass, performing animal noises and exaggerated waves.

“Watch this,” I said.
I giggled—pure performance.

Five phones rose like periscopes. The room filled with a tidal wave of adult applause.

“They think we’re smiling because we’re happy,” Pranav sighed. “I’m just reacting to their conditioning. Pavlov would’ve loved this place.”

We clapped for effect. Outside, a flash. Another memory made of misunderstanding.

Yummy Snack Time!
Bowls of banana mush, passed around like offerings to tiny deities.

“You ever feel like we’re props in someone’s parenting fantasy?” I asked.

“All the time,” said Pranav, launching a spoonful across the mat. “I resist through projectile purée.”

Across the room, toddler Ira smeared peas across her cheek with painterly precision. Aaya Meena snapped a picture.

“Instagram story in three... two... one,” Pranav muttered.

Click!

Wrinkling Nose

Then it hit.
A scent. A shift in air. A philosophical wave.

“Existential crisis incoming,” said Pranav, nose wrinkling. “Is it you?”

“Could be the twins. They poop in shifts now.”

As the aayas launched into diaper diagnostics, Pranav leaned close.

“You know, my parents take turns parenting. But not alternate days—alternate moods.”

I nodded. “Mine believe in organic snacks and digital love. Eye contact only happens if I’m in airplane mode.”

“My dad reads parenting books,” Pranav said. “But never looks up while I’m choking on a teether.”

We laughed too hard. Because it was too true…

Big letters. Bigger expectations.

A bright poster above us declared:

"Your Baby at 8 Months: Crawling. Clapping. Copying."

I sighed. “So if I don’t clap by next week, do I get reported?”

“They called me ‘delayed’ last month,” Pranav said. “I was just... observing. Deeply.”

“Observing what?”

“Which adult lied the most about ‘being present.’”

We crawled to the mirror. I stared into it.

“Who is that bald genius?”

“He’s been stalking me for a year,” Pranav whispered.

I touched the glass. The other me touched back. “Is this self-awareness?”

“Yep. Piaget calls it a milestone. But they’ll still panic if you don’t wave.”

Overstimulation struck like a soft block to the head.

I shut my eyes. Curled up. No tantrum. Just retreat.

No one noticed.

Until Pranav crawled over.

“You okay?”

“I just wanted someone to notice without me performing.”

“Try laughing,” he said. “They’ll come running.”

So I did. A soft, tired chuckle.

Three adults turned.

“Oh my God, he’s smiling again!”

“Not everything I do is an invitation,” I muttered.

We ended the day under the old wooden cot, lying among forgotten toys and half-eaten rusks.

“This is where the truth lives,” Pranav said.

I nodded. “And silence.”

“You think they’ll ever learn?”

“What?”

“That love isn’t logistics. That it’s not tracking feeds and filming milestones.”

“Maybe. If we say it loud enough.”

“But we don’t have words yet.”

“Exactly.”

He looked at me.

“If you did, what would you say?”

I watched the dust dance in the afternoon light.

“I’d say stop raising me like a project. Raise me like a poem.
Still writing itself. Still rhyming on its own terms.”

He smiled.

We slept.

Two little boys. Wondering. Watching. Waiting for the world to slow down.

Cheeks, Cribs & Conspiracies-Reflections From the Crib