Bright Shadows

Nibbles swirls around with the frying pan and ladle larger than his head yelling, “I make dosssa, I make rottti”. His momentum is thwarted by a boring white wall, and he rediscovers the joy of clang-clanging metal against wooden construction to create a spiral of dents that feed directly off the security deposit. Being the ever-composed, reasonable adult, I totally flip the lid off my frying pan and start the screaming match.
NP: “No Nibbles!”
Nibbles: “No Nibbles!”
NP: “What are you doooing?”
Nibbles: “What you doooing?”
NP: “Don’t do that”
Nibbles: “Don’t do that”
NP: “Stop it”
Nibbes: “Stop it”
NP: (pauses, grins then bursts out excitedly) “Nibbles! That’s it – that’s the shadow game. How did you figure it out? Did you figure it out? I suppose there is a genetic predisposition to being annoying, but – yay!”
Nibbles: (stares up silently, defeated then proceeds to clang-clang away while I watched proudly)

Q&A

How many roads must a girl walk down
Before it’s a role she need not fake?
How many lives must she dip her toes into
Before her soul’s not at stake?
How many glasses of cabernet must she drink
Before it’s time to summon a shrink?

The answer, my friend, is lost between the bytes,
The answer has snipped off like precisely-geometried-multi-hued kites.

Heavy Cloud But No Rain

I finally mustered the courage to check the ol’ boobs in the shower today. After some hesitant squeezing and yanking, I believe they’re all clear. I totally forgot to check for lumps as usual, but I must say I’m relieved. And a bit sad. And tired.

Of course, the parched, deflated pouches with a traffic jam of stretch marks leading to the blackholes areolas should’ve given me a clue. But I needed to be sure, just in case my resolve weakened or I unconsciously lifted my shirt to soothe Nibbles at an ungodly hour in the night.

Although I’ve always embraced the pregnancy squiggles etched on my stomach as battle scars, as memories of Nibbles’ first home and of a time that was mine and Nibbles’ alone, I can’t seem to fall in love the overripe, shrivelled mangoes that I shove into helpless bras that fail to understand them.

Then again, my tummy pre-pregnancy was certainly no six-pack; to say nothing of the love handles that gave away my vulnerability towards chocolate. But the breasts? Well, they were practically the only “assets” I had, untouched by the cruel Middle Eastern sun and depression. Those assets reached their peak value when they were the sole source of nutrition and comfort for my newborn Nibbles. No lingerie is going to compete with that.

I’ll admit, it was hell to begin with. I swore by every blister on my shocked nipples that somebody needed to be shot – the lactation consultants, the formula makers, the “well-meaning” folks, the bloggers, people that talked, people. This went on for some glorious months, and just when the infamous latch was zoning in, enter the Breast Pump. I clearly blocked out a lot of the unpleasantness related to the frozen bottles of milk that smelled like rust when thawed, because I went from counting days and hours to Nibbles’ first birthday to never wanting to stop nursing. Yes, I’d become the this-is-the-most-beautiful-experience-ever mom that needed to be shot.

Sure, there were days when I just wasn’t up to it. Days when I really needed more than 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep, days when I needed to work, when I needed to take a long shower without rushing out to help Nibbles fall asleep, days when I needed to lie down on my back and not sideways, days when I needed a little more than an occasional glass of wine (ok, a lot more), days when I simply wanted my boobs to be mine.

They said if you’re not really into it, you should stop. Well, screw ‘em (as you may have guessed, they were amongst those that needed to be shot), for the very thought of stopping forever made me frightened. Yes, scared that my Nibbles did not really love me or know me as an entity separate from my boobs. I’d seen the way he looked at them, squeezed them, held them and even talked to them. And the hugest grin on his face when he was satisfied? I couldn’t imagine not seeing that again.

But I did stop. It’s been a month now, and I feel completely numb. The boobs and Nibbles are bit of a wreck though. They lie scrunched up and lifeless as Nibbles suffers from terrible sleep terrors. Maybe it is the nature of a sleep terror that he refuses to be comforted and fights back fiercely when I try to hold him, but there’s something in his anger that speaks otherwise. And I remain nothing but a silent spectator, watching my baby patch his wings after I pushed him off the nest.

Goodnight Cloud

NP : I’ve got him pinned …get the lights! And don’t forget the turtle.
BB : *panics* Where’s the turtle? I don’t see the turtle. Are you sure the turtle’s here?
NP : How can we do without the turtle? Do you realize that we are working on a diminishing window of opportunity here? I can’t hold him down any longer
Nibbles: *on cue* Mama nooo sleeeep!

NP : *laughs nervously* No baby, no sleep. Of course not! How about a song, eh? What would you like to hear?
Nibbles: Mmm-hmm-hmm-hmm
NP : *carefully decoding* Tum ko dekha, to ye khayaaal aayaaa…
Nibbles: No mama! Mama no sing! Want lap-pop (laptop)

NP Curses self for attempting a Jagjit Singh and recalibrates.
NP : Twinkle, twinkle…
Nibbles: No Twinkle! Lap-pop
NP : Edel-weiiiiss…
Nibbles: No Edel!

NP shifts gears abruptly
NP : Goodnight room! Goodnight window!
Nibbles: *grins approvingly* Night Moon!
NP : *relieved* Goodnight pillow…Goodnight nose…Goodnight toes
Nibbles: *starts yanking his toes* Where mama toes?
NP : Mama’s toes are going for a walk because they don’t want to sleep. Bye!

NP tosses the uselessly unsopoforic blanket away and walks towards door, cursing self for recently ending the blissful days when the ol’ boob would do the trick.

NP : Nibbles, aren’t you coming?
Nibbles: Mama sleep.

NP walks towards Nibbles, hopes rising like an unwatched pot of boiling chai.
NP : Song?
Nibbles: No song. So ja, so ja (sleep, sleep).

And so he gestured, as he picked up my hand and made me pat him to sleep under artificial airconditioning and incessant ticktocking.

In all the never-ending hours of exhaustion dragging me towards the end of the day, I can’t remember a time where I’d wanted so desperately to stay awake because I hadn’t had enough of what the world had to offer. I can’t imagine wanting to revive overworked muscles to hear one more song, read one more book and play one more round of How Many Belly Jumps Will It Take To Make My Papa Turn Purple.

Somewhere along those hours of waiting to hit the sack and dreading getting out of it, I’ve let those moments that matter slip into nothingness. I’ll be damned if I don’t join Nibbles tomorrow morning (irrespective of caffeine levels) and shout with renewed delight everytime she swooshes past the window, “Birdieee! Come ‘eeere!”

Stealing My Unicorn

If they take away my cyst, how will I explain the insatiable sugar cravings, pendulum moods and an abdomen with attitude problems? Say what? It’s not the cyst, it’s me? That’s too absurd. Might as well contemplate embracing religion instead.

Or worse – if they rob me of my cyst, what if I crave nothing, feel nothing and sleep uninterrupted on a lifeless uterus? What if I feel a sudden gush of happiness and collapse as my system coredumps because it fails to understand it?

I’ve often felt there are days when the cyst is more than a part of me – it is me. Of course, I didn’t know that it existed till Nibbles was a wee embryo. But it was the explanation I’d been waiting for, a pattern midst the chaos that lent substance – 6.5 cm spread of sebaceous dermoid substance – to the madness. And now they want to take it away and leave me crippled like a fish without a bicycle.

*hunts feverishly for stash of Toblerone hidden by Big Byte*

If Every Dog Has His

Obsessively googling Dream Company layoffs. Perhaps tomorrow shall put a writhing CoHo out of her misery, albeit into a new one. There’s only so long one can have a foot on each side of a rapidly splitting post-earthquake world without the gravity (heh) of the situation causing stiff muscles to snap. Speaking of which, I so need to do my kegels.

When The Sun Shines

She rubbed her crusty eyelids, fumbled till she smacked the smirking frog on the toothbrush holder and saw the tiny toddler brush peeking between Big Byte’s motorized machine and her mangled, yellowing bristles. It wasn’t until the omniprescent tapworks began to distort her vision that she realized those blasted hormones were at it again.

NP: *yelling at shabby figure in mirror* “The fuckin’ sun’s not even out dammit!”,
Mirror NP: *strangely awake* “The sun never quite steps out, ya know. It’s just the relative position of the earth that counts”
NP: “wtf?”
Mirror NP: “Ok Miss Half Empty, it’s like the darkness. It’s always there, interrupted by a warm glow every day”
NP: “Not so in winter. Can’t remember the last time I saw our toasty friend”
Mirror NP: “Can’t remember the last time you stepped out.”
NP: *spits fluoridated froth emphatically back at the sink*
.
.
.
As Nibbles hovered around her, blissfully blowing strawberry-pink bubbles, she decided that she was done croaking “Please Forgive Me” a la Bryan Adams (did I just type that in public?) and grated a generous block of ginger into the simmering water to tame the itch. Little did she know that she’d forgotten to stock up milk, which would result in an immediate meltdown at the prospect of having to brave the day in a chai-less daze.

It’s a good thing Nibbles responded to the drama with a crash – pink, Vitamin D milk all over the floor that she struggled to mop up before he lapped it up. She wagged a well-chewed finger at him menacingly and he puffed his cheeks as he pointed a drool-coated finger right back at her. Then they did the sticky kitchen dance and celebrated with biscuits for breakfast. After all, they decided, no point crying over…

Cycles

Remember the blood
from rusting razors
dripping on cracked porcelain.

Remember the vagina
that spat the placenta
that fed the child, your child.

Remember the feeling
to feel to remember
to remember to feel. Was it real?

Pink Tinted Glasses

The ominous cloud of layoffs finally burst and a downpour of acid rain washed away the debris to reveal a shinier bottomline. With her colleague, friend and lunch buddy gone, The CoHo gobbled up her insipid lunch alone in her cube, hunched over the computer guillotine waiting for the blade to drop.

The CoHo was summoned for her hearing and she marched in determined to make a McCainously graceul exit. Strangely enough, she was saddled with free-flowing praise with a subtle reminder that since the slave count had been reduced, they expect more from the lucky ones that remained.

It made no sense, those lies. After all, chewing one’s fingernails and twiddling one’s thumbs couldn’t possibly pass off as professional excellence. The numbers were off and any ol’ fool could tell that doom was lurking around the corner. Perhaps she would get to be home with her Nibbles after all.

Hey B, It’s Me

Help! I can’t stop humming that Obama Girl song. Perhaps it would be ok it my hotness quotient matched hers, but really, nobody wants to see a short, frumpy geek with a blueberry Yo Baby in one hand and annoyed Nibbles in the other, singing, “I’ve got a cursh on Obamaaaa…”