I thought my innate maternal instincts would kick in with unpracticed ease. After all, how hard could it be taking care of these three cherubim, with light bouncing off their cotton-candy blond hair, their blue eyes reflecting proverbial wide-eyed innocence.

Two hours later, I emerged from the my bout of babysitting my hair disheveled, clothes streaked with baby formula and my biological clock on never-tick mode.

For convenience, let’s name the three protagonists in our narrative White Kid 1, 2, and 3. Mommas and Daddas quietly slipped out the door of the hotel room leaving yours truly in the custody of these schrizophenic little people. The door swung close and the Mr Hydes in these otherwide-angelic beings emerged in unison. WK 1 decided to eat her yellow crayon, WK 2 transformed into a water fountain wailing for mommy, and WK 3 decided my cell phone was the most alluring toy in the cramped hotel room. Taking a deep breath, I looked around for something to distract them. “Ok, who wants a cookie?”.

Miraculously, the ruse worked (mental note: make sure the larders are loaded when my progeny wind their way into the world. If they share their mommy’s DNA, then food will make a promising passtime). Two packets were emptied into their crumb-laden little hands. And while they went chomp chomp, the possibility of whining or wailing was negated.

I had conquered the scourge that all mommies faced. I could author a ‘Handling Kids for Dummies’ manual. I was riding the victory wave. And then I heard it.

“Pee pee”.

“What did you say?”

“PEE PEE”

Scooping WK2 in my arms I rushed to the loo and held fast to her for fear that she might fall through the gaping chasm. WK 1 and 3 ambled into our private space with unconcealed wonderment.

“You need to stay outsideWK1”

“Why?” she replied, proceeding to drink Bangalore’s not-so-hygienic water straight out of the bathroom bucket.

“Because I told you so, that’s why,” I reply in my I’m-a-grown-up voice,

“Ok”. She skipped out and closed the bathroom door behind her. There was a decisive click after that and almost instantaneously my heart skipped a beat.

Sitting pretty on the potty, WK2 started sobbing, her pacifyer muffling her words.

“Whyshe clos dooor?”

“That’s ok,” I reply, “When you’re done, I’ll get it open,” I sputter, attempting to hold WK2 firm on the seat with one hand and stretching out to tug at the door with the other.

It doesn’t budge.

I hurry WK2 on and then recall scenes from “Three Men and a Baby” while making her presentable.

Now that her feet are firmly planted on the ground, I pull at the door again. Nothing happens.

“WK1, you gotta open the door, sweetie.”

“But I can’t hear you,” comes the pat reply.

She was playing games. I was being held captive by a 2-and-a-half year old. I envision the mommas and daddas walking back into the hotel room with the responsible babysitter at the mercy of their baby.

After quick prayer and a silent thank-you to my gym trainer, the bathroom door comes unstuck. WK2 with pacifyer and irate babysitting novice tumble out.