Black Or White

I was pleasantly surprised at how a cacophonous Nibbles was suddenly calm and content in Big Byte’s arms. Must be a special father-son thing, an unspoken language of trust and love, an…ack! It was the damn TV, in all its brighlty pixelated glory.

NP: “Oye! Are you letting him watch TV? And…wtf! You’re letting him watch that? (glares disapprovingly at satin-stockinged leg beckoning random dude)

BB: “Relax yaar! He’s not watching it; he just likes the light and colors. Besides, it’s not what you think. That leg is Shahrukh Khan’s.”

NP: “What??? That’s worse. Now he’ll be scarred for life.”

BB: “Why worse? I thought you were all for gay rights, supporting sexual choices etc.?”

NP: ” Bu..but – of course I am. It’s just that I, uh…” (greps feverishly for adequately PC response) “Ah screw it! you win.”

It’s true. I’d always said that I’d not only be supportive of my gay child, but encouraging. I’d even offered to adopt the unborn gay children of all my homophobic friends (thankfully, there aren’t too many of them). But now that I’m a parent,  are my bigoted, old-fashioned notions that were buried after years of caffeinated all-nighters and deliberate unlearning resurfacing?.

Nibbles is 4 months old today and my idea of parenting is hazy at best. I seem to have strong, stubborn opinions on every topic ranging from Mac Donald’s to pansexuality, but it’s often insubstantiated fluff. I think the problem is that I don’t have guiding principles, an underlying philosophy, a theory of everything. Perhaps it’s a function of my refusal to label anything right/wrong, good/bad, moral/immoral, and my need to constantly mutate my ideals.

How can I teach Nibbles anything when I don’t have the cheat-sheet myself? What if my hypotheses are grave misunderstandings? Are half-baked views better than relying on a child’s – no an infant’s ability to rationalize his way to the right solution? But wait, there’s no right solution. And is a rational conclusion really what matters?

Ah well, the present is now. I may not be sure of much, but I’m defnitely past the point when I can decide if I’m mom-material. That’s one less choice I have to make. So it’s about time I summoned my mommyness and learned to trust my instincts  instead of the trinity of Spock, Sears and Google.

Inertia

It’s been 2 weeks since I returned to work, leaving my Nibbles a strictly regulated and miserably scanty stash of expressed milk for survival. Nibbles, now accustomed to weeks of feeding experimentation, has adjusted fabulously – which is certainly more than I can say for myself. I know I should be relieved that he copes just as well without his bovine parent around, but all I can feel is jealous and dispensible.

Given my desperate need to feel needed, I looked for the red carpet welcome leading to my cubicle at work, where complex, temperamental systems were waiting to be tamed. *poof* went that thought, for I would’ve walked through the floor completely unnoticed, if it weren’t for the shiny box of chocolates I carried to the printer. Apparently, motherhood only solidifies my fungal classification in the corporate ecosystem.

A bitch slapped (is that hyphenated?) ego cannot do much besides wallow in self-pity.  And self-pity leads to the overdiagnosed existential angst, followed by a predictable meltdown sequence:
- What is the point of a loveless job that requires too much mental conditioning to seem exciting?
- Maybe it would be easier to love it if I didn’t suck so much at it. But if I do suck, then I can’t possibly contribute anything meaningful to life, the universe or anything, so what’s the point?
- The point??? What makes my lazy pseudo-feminist ass think I can absolve myself of the responsibility of bringing home the bacon daal-chaawal and instead, watch “The Most Smartest Model” reruns while pretending to ponder the meaning of life?
- Lazy? Hello?!? An endless cycle of BFeeding and diapering is the most physical work I’ve done in ages. Can there be anything more exhausting and rewarding than personally nurturing one’s baby?
- Who am I kidding? My patience does not last beyond 5 iterations of Old Mac Donald and his farm of noisy animals, and Nibbles certainly does not need a mommy who reduces the precious time spent BFeeding to her time to “stare at the empty white walls and do nothing”.

Several chocolate truffles, unswept floors and missed pumping schedules later, I’m still not sure which mommy-war camp I belong in. What mommy wars? It’s a losing battle either way. And yet, one has to pick a side and fight. Not against other mommies, but against the maddening voices in one’s head that contradict each other so starkly, and sadly, never mesh into a comfortable grey.  

I suppose I should really follow my heart/head/stomach/anatomical guide of choice. But tonight, I’m too tired/scared/indecisive/blah, so I’ll hit snooze again.

Mommy Blogging

Inspired by Poppins Mom, here’s my take on mommy blogging.

I used to be a hopeless pessimist that felt that this world of Virginia Tech shootings and depleting ozone layer was no place to bring in another life. That was until my Nibbles was born.

As a new mom, I still feel like it’s the cliched jungle out there. I also wake up in the middle of the night to check if my baby is breathing. I look at shopping carts and door handles and shudder at the invisible army of germs waiting to attack my Nibbles.

But I know that I didn’t bring him into this world only to wrap him up in a safe(?) cocoon. I know that it’s up to me to:
a) teach my child to be strong enough to face it
b) stop whining and do something to make things better
For now, I’ll get him vaccinated, toughen him up with breastmilk and be the mommy he needs me to be.

The mommy-blog-hating poser poster need not stop with the crusade to ban baby pics online. Why not keep the kids away from schools where pedophilic teachers might lurk? Or playgrounds and public restrooms? Or like Poppins Mom said, away from eyes of possibly perverted relatives and family friends?

Of course, being a tough mom is not easy. But the mommy blogging community is a testament to those who have been there, done that and survived to share their adventures.

Nibbles vs The Boob

Nibbles loves to feed – breastmilk, formula, colorful t-shirts, singing green turtles – anything that happens to venture near his eager mouth. “Bottles and pacifiers in the early weeks leads to Nipple Confusion”, cautioned the experts. They ought to have told Nibbles that as he effortlessly switched between skin, rubber and any milk-providing orifice.

So it is not without reason that I totally coredumped when he refused the breast for the first time today. I stared accusingly at the rejected boob (that just lost its right to be called a breast) – was the supply too low? flow too fast? did it smell funny? taste odd? The boob, still grappling with its recent role change from foreplay diva to milk factory, was rather offended and responded with an indignant squirt.

I did my usual 24 hour review of diet and wet+soiled diapers. I knew I shouldn’t have had that dollop of mango pickle last night. Could that nth cup of coffee be the culprit? In the meantime, Nibbles had become inconsolable and his face had turned a frightful purple. This must be the dreaded ear infection! He can’t be teething at 3 months? Maybe his stomach…gaaah!

Googling desperately after an unsuccessful attempt at reaching the pediatrician, it hit me. Nibbles has found out that I will be returning to work on friday. Deserting him. Betraying him. Failing him. And this is his not-so-silent way of protesting. I must be a heartless, selfish mother – wait – can I still call myself one when I am unable to feed my child? Defeated, I reached for the evil bottle and tried to suppress my jealousy as Nibbles sucked peacefully. 
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After six miserably long hours, Nibbles has decided to patch up with the boob. Just like that. I’ll never quite know what soured things up between them. In any case, I’ve never been happier to have only one free hand to bf and blog. 

Hello Blogosphere

No more lurking. yay!