CervivingMom

The Vocabulary of Life: An A–Z Journey through the Unspoken Inspired by my toddler’s wonder and his relentless curiosity for “why,” I’m exploring 26 days of word-nerd gems and sensory wonders that name the feelings we often share but can’t always describe. Whether you’re a parent, a dreamer, or a seeker, there’s a word here for you. One day, while we were sitting by the window, my toddler spotted a cluster of birds perched on a low branch of the garden tree. “One… two… fee… four!” he whispered, his tiny index finger tapping out a rhythmic sequence against his opposite palm as he tried to keep track of each flutter. He wasn’t just counting; he was anchoring each bird he saw to a physical touch he could feel. He was practicing an ancient, sensory art called Dactylonomy. Dactylonomy is the formal term for counting or expressing numbers using your fingers. While we often think of it as a “kid thing” before they learn abstract math, it is actually a sophisticated sensory bridge. It reminds ...

Gratitude Check: My Supporting Cast of 2025 🎬 2025 was the Year of Tiny Wins, and those wins wouldn't have been possible without the amazing people who held me up and gave me the energy to write. This is my Supporting Cast Appreciation Post! 1. The Unshakeable Anchor: My Husband Thank you for being the quiet, unshakeable force in our home. You protected my energy, managed the chaos of a one-year-old, and created pockets of stillness so I could actually sit down and write. You are the foundation of all my creative work. 2. The Rebuilding Crew: My Team of Doctors To my medical team—thank you for getting me back on my feet. Your expertise, care, and unwavering optimism were the foundation upon which every "tiny win" of 2025 was built. Without your support, there would be no focus, no energy, and no stories to tell this year. I owe you the biggest gratitude. 3. The Creative Catalyst: @Blogchatter Community Thank you to the entire @Blogchatter community! You pr...

The Twist: The Reluctant Author The biggest plot twist of 2025 was realizing that while I thought I was just 'resting and recovering,' I was actually writing. I went into the year expecting a creative blank space, but I ended up with a published story in the Blogchatter Book of Food . It turns out that the moments I spent healing were the exact moments my best stories were brewing. I didn't just get back on my feet; I found my voice again. Thank you Team Blogchatter and to my fellow writers and readers! This post is part of the Blogchatter wrap party 2025.

The phrase hit me like a splash of cold water. It came from someone close, someone who should know better, aimed directly at my son, who isn't even two yet. My toddler, still navigating the vast, confusing world of big feelings, was having a minor meltdown—a sudden overflow of frustration that only a tiny human can manage. That’s when I heard it: "Stop crying like a girl." My blood pressure spiked immediately. Not just because the speaker was silencing my son's natural emotional release, but because of the archaic, toxic stigma packed into those five simple words. The Stigma Starts Before Age Two When you tell a boy, even a toddler, to stop crying like a girl, you are achieving two terrible things: 1. You Weaponize Femininity: You use the word "girl" as an insult, equating crying, sadness, and vulnerability with weakness and inadequacy. 2. You Prohibit Male Emotion: You teach him that his pain must be hidden, suppressed, or converted into ang...

There are two distinct eras of childhood embedded in my memory: the 90s/early 2000s when I was a kid, and the current moment, now that I’m raising a toddler. And the difference in our playground songs is genuinely shocking. I was recently humming a random skipping rope rhyme—the kind of fast-paced, nonsensical chant that dictates who’s ‘out’ of the game. And I realized just how casual our childhood culture was about themes of peril, breaking, and even death. Think about the classics we sang without a second thought: • “Ring around the Rosie, Pocket full of posies, Ashes, Ashes, We all fall down.” (A playful song about... mass death.) • “London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.” (A song about irreversible, catastrophic structural failure.) • The “Machli Jal Ki Rani Hai” rhyme, which for us ended with the harsh reality: "Bahar nikalo toh mar jayegi" (Take it out, and it will die). The common thread was peril and fragility. We celebrated chaos, p...

Chitra has a very special talent—no matter what terrible thing happens to you, she will immediately tell you about someone who had it way worse. You could be lying in a hospital bed, barely holding it together, and she’d still hit you with a “This reminds me of my uncle’s neighbor’s cousin…” story that leaves you feeling confused and weirdly guilty for even thinking your situation was bad. A few years ago, I had a very bad case of dengue. Not the “Oh, I have a fever and need rest” type—no, mine was the “rushed to the hospital, platelet levels crashing, doctors giving serious looks” type. It was so bad that even the hospital staff looked worried, which, as we all know, is never a good sign. Miraculously, I pulled through. I survived. And as I slowly regained the ability to sit up without feeling like a truck hit me, I thought, Phew, that was intense. Enter Chitra. The moment she heard about my near-death experience, she clutched her heart dramatically and said: “Oh my god! ...

You never have to wonder what Bharat is thinking—because he’ll tell you. Directly. Bluntly. Without a second of hesitation. If honesty is a virtue, then Bharat has an excess of it. But if diplomacy is an art, well… let’s just say he failed that class. He’s the kind of guy who thinks sugarcoating is a waste of time, subtlety is pointless, and if the truth stings, well—that’s your problem, not his. A few months after finishing chemotherapy, I ran into Bharat. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and my hair—after its exit during treatment—was finally making an entrance. I had moved on from the totally bald look and was now rocking the bad guy look. I was prepared for some kind of reaction. A warm hug? A simple “Hey, good to see you!” Maybe even a “Wow, you look great!” (Yes, I was being optimistic or should I say silly?!) Instead, Bharat stared at me. I watched as his forehead wrinkled in deep confusion. Then, after an uncomfortably long pause, he finally said: “Wait… is th...

The world could be on fire, your plans could be crumbling, and disaster could strike at the worst possible moment—but to this person, “It’s all happening for a reason!” The Always-Positive Cheerleader is that one friend who refuses to see any situation as truly bad. No matter how terrible things get, they always find a “bright side”—even when you really don’t want to hear it. I had been preparing for an important exam for months—late nights, endless revisions, sacrificing leisure time like a dedicated scholar. I had my notes color-coded, my strategies set, and my confidence soaring. This was my moment. And then, two days before the exam, COVID struck. Not mild, sit-at-home-and-watch-Netflix COVID. No. I got the full, body aching, head pounding, fever spiking, can’t-lift-myself-from-bed experience. Naturally, I called my best friend—let’s call her Anu the Always Optimist—expecting a wave of sympathy, anger on my behalf, maybe even a dramatic “Why does the universe hate you?...

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a mother, it’s that toddlers never slow down—not even with a running nose. While I chase after my little one, wiping his face for what feels like the hundredth time, I realize something. He’s always watching me. Mimicking me. Picking up not just my words, but my habits, my reactions, my way of looking at the world. And that’s when it hits me—if I want to see change in the next generation, I have to start with myself. Beauty Beyond Appearances There was a time when I believed beauty meant perfect hair, flawless skin, and unmarked bodies. Society made sure I believed that. But life and especially cancer, in its unpredictable way, taught me otherwise. I’ve learned that beauty is not in how we look, but in how we live. I want my son to grow up knowing that scars—visible or not—don’t make us weak. They make us whole. That real beauty is in kindness, in resilience, in the stories we carry. I want him to see that the strongest people are not those...

If you think you are getting a baby songs playlist then that’s not going to happen. I am going to tell you about the mental playlist… on a loop! Here’s the thing about becoming a parent: baby songs don’t stay in the nursery. Oh no, they follow you everywhere, creeping into your mind like a cheerful little army that refuses to retreat. You’re not just singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star to your baby. You’re singing it to yourself, to your vegetables, and apparently to your soap dispenser. Take the other day, for example. I was washing my hands, completely alone, no baby in sight. As the water ran, I caught myself softly humming a kids song. Not just humming—I was full-on lost in the song, mentally doing the hand motions. Before I knew it, I was scrubbing my hands to the beat, like some kind of baby-song Broadway performance. It doesn’t stop there. Cooking a meal? Oh, you bet there’s a soundtrack. Chopping vegetables? Suddenly, Old MacDonald Had a Farm is playing in my head. “E-...

So, here’s what happened: I was babysitting my friend’s dog. Let me tell you, this dog lay there in my arms and lap, so relaxed that I wondered if I’d somehow become a dog whisperer overnight. Meanwhile, my husband was busy playing with our 1-year-old son. You know how it goes—babies are like tiny energizer bombs, and he was making sure the little guy didn’t start a game of “let’s eat this mysterious thing off the floor.” Anyway, back to me and the dog. There I was, lovingly caressing this dog, admiring its fur, when suddenly I realized something… I was rocking it. Yes, you read it right! I was rocking it. Like a baby. Back and forth, gently swaying as if I were trying to lull it to sleep with an imaginary lullaby. In that moment, I froze. The dog didn’t seem to mind—it probably thought, Oh wow, premium service today! But I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. You see, rocking has become second nature to me thanks to my son. I rock when I’m holding him. I rock when I’m not holding...