Shifting Cloud

Big Byte was in Bangalore for the past 11 days. 11 days of long-distance, which was just enough for my mind to fester with the most morbid scenarios. Before Nibbles, these pessimistc travels would often converge upon me ending up a prozac-popping, suicidal alcoholic waiting to be drafted by anarchist rebels. Now, however, I don’t have the…eh…luxury of letting my life irresponsibly self-destruct if anything were to happen to Big Byte. Because of Nibbles of course.

I need a solid plan with multiple back-ups. Check insurance. Terminate lease. Draft will. Chuck the car. Get another job. Find daycare? No. Return to…where? India? My parents? No. Our family wouldn’t make sense without Big Byte.

*feeding break*

Nothing like a surge of oxytocin to calm a chaotic mind and bring the focus back to where it should be – the present. Tharini spoke of this ideal state in this beautiful post that made so much sense, even to an atheist like me.

Ok. So right now, both my boys are tucked in and fast asleep. There’s a box of duty-free Toblerone waiting to be devoured. And I can finally take a looong shower, with the doors closed and without having to run out every 30 seconds to pacify Nibbles as he wiggles furiously in his bouncer. *Exhaaale*

Hands On

She: “Must be hard, looking after Nibbles all on your own with Big Byte out of town”.
Me: “It’s not that bad, you know? In fact, we’re having a blast!”
She: “But c’mon, you must be getting cranky staying at home with the baby all day?”
Me: “Nope. ’sides, we don’t really stay in all day. We…anyways. Like I said, I enjoy hanging out with Nibbles”
She: “hmmm. Sure. You know it’s easier in India, where one can get a good maid to help with the baby.”
Me: “You could get help here too. Granted it’s more expensive. And I’m scared of hiring help. What would I need a “good maid” for anyway? I want to stay home and take care of Nibbles”
She: “Ya, ya, but you know, with a maid you don’t need to be so hands on”
Me: *disconnect*

Wtf! I do want to be hands on. In fact, if I can help it, I don’t want anybody else’s paws on my baby (alert! protectiveness —> possessiveness). I want to feed him all his meals. I want to wash his goo-stained clothes and dishes. I want to nurse him to sleep. I want to read to him. I want to crawl with him and bang steel utensils like a garage band. I want to bathe him. I want to change every dirty diaper.

The only person I accept and encourage help from is Big Byte. And it’s not help – it’s an opportunity to be hands on, to bond. To be completely and utterly present in the moment. These moments, that have already blitzed by so fast that I want to go back. Go back and do it better, commit myself futher and milk those moments for what they’re worth. Let him play with his spoons drenched in goo after he’s finished his meals, even if it means scrubbing the carpets and walls for the nth time. Let him splash around the bathtub, even if my back is begging for mercy. Let him lie on my lap a little longer, after he’s nursed and sound asleep.

I’ve always felt the need to work. Work outside the home, earn an “honest” buck and return to my rented apartment and takeaway dinners. Perhaps it’s not so surprising that my work personality seems to mirror my mommyness closely:
a) Strong need to be hands on: Call it an inability to understand and appreciate the big picture, but I need to dive into the details, get my hands dirty.
b) Obsessed over inadequecy at job and constantly wondering when they’ll rip off my facade
c) Sucker for validation: will work like a slave if a few positive remarks are tossed my way
d) Impatience: which makes proper execution of a) impossible

There’s one thing about work that hasn’t surfaced on the home-front yet:
e) Easily bored and always looking to move on to the next interesting project

Of course, there’s a difference. Mommyhood is not a job, it’s life. And not just mine. Never before have I lived so completely in the present. Smells like happiness to me. (Oh, and happy 8 months Nibbles!)

Now Playing…

For the longest time, music had died in the Byte household. I’ve finally had the chance to let the music creep back in to our silent lives and figure out if Nibbles is a music person too. Without further ado, as requested by Impedimenta, here’s the musical journey we’ve taken so far:

The night Nibbles was conceived, Big Byte and I were listening to jazz at The Garage. I’m not a jazz fan, but I’m a sucker for the magic of live music.

As a foetus, Nibbles was not subjected to Mozart, M.S. Subbulakshmi or any other classical music. I did receive a lot of criticism for that, but I wasn’t interested in prepping my unborn child for the rat race. He did hear a lot of the Top 20 countdown playing on the car’s radio, including:
Hey There Delialah by the Plain White Ts (nothing beats acoustic)
Beautiful Girls by Sean Kingston (typical reggae happy music)
Runaway Love by Ludacris ft. MAry J. Blige (’sup to my Hotlanta homie)

During my last trimester, I remember Nibbles being wide awake when I was at the theater watching Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. I tried playing the soundtrack after he was born to look for signs of recognition (no idea if it worked. Wasn’t a very controlled experiment to begin with, because Nibbles responded quickly and intensely to any sound).
 
First song I ever sang to Nibbles when he was handed over to me at the delivery room: Don’t Cry by GnR (no, I didn’t sing to my pregnant belly. Felt too weird).

I grew up on The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, Mary Poppins and the lot. I feel like quite the Nancy singing his favorite from Oliver Twist: I’ll Do Anything. And to this date, Nibbles gives me the widest grin during this adaptation of an oldie:
Oh Nibbles! I am but a fool,
Daaahling I love you, though you treat me cruel!
You hurt me, and you made me cry,
But if you leave me, I will surely dieeee.

Amma was here for the first 7 weeks, and she’d rock Nibbles between 2-4am singing the same lullabies that little ol’ me would drift off to. I’d hum Jaag Ja from Omkara (I know, it’s a wake up song but it calmed him down to sleep).

*fastfowarding quiet, musically starved months*

Nowadays, we listen to Bollywood/Pop numbers that Big Byte downloaded on my laptop. Here’s a random sampling:
Right here Right now from BluffMaster (great SAHM-baby theme song if you ask me)
Pal Pal Pal from Lage raho Munna Bhai (another SAHM-baby number. The whole soundtrack plays during Nibbles’ meals)
Choti Si Asha from Roja (Gotta have Rahman. Nibbles loved this instantly)
O Sanam by Lucky Ali
Hare Ram Hare Ram from Bhool Bhulaiya (my niece in Baroda sings this for Nibbles over the phone)
Subah Subah from I See You
Kabhi by Josh
Dhaani by Strings
Agar Main Kahoon from Lakshya
Simirik by Tarkan

I must admit, my snooty ass wouldn’t have gone anywhere near a bollywood playlist a decade ago. I still hope to provide Nibbles a decent education that includes all-time greats like Floyd, Jimi, Jim, Nirvana, Led Zep, the occassional Elliott Smith, maybe even Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday (It will be hard explaining the drugs and suicides, but you don’t need to be a pothead to get drugged on great music). In any case, Nibbles seems to enjoy the what’s playing now, so let the beat go on!

I’m a Bitch, I’m a Mother

I’ve never been much of a social butterfly. Or any other charming insect for that matter of fact, except for the kind that are plastered to the windows of a car. Ok, maybe a housefly.

I’ve lost touch with most school friends; you know, when you realize that you talk about the Easter egg-fight of ‘96 and basketball championship fouls of ‘97 every single time you meet because you have nothing else in common anymore? Gave the finger to undergrad friends due to shitloads of drama. Adios to grad school friends because New York meant a clean start. And no more hanging out with work buddies during lunch (thanks to pumping) and after work (because I’m sober). Any new acquaintance I make spews forth too much gyaan on parenting that’s often diametrically opposite to my line of thinking, so I tend to avoid them. What with me being petrified of talking on the phone, I figured the blogosphere’s my best bet.

The beauty of a blogging community is that one’s interactions are not bound by location or circumstance. After lurking around techie newsgroups back in the day, too afraid to post lest I was minced and fed to the dogs for a misplaced comma, I was shocked to find a friendly bunch of mommy bloggers. Of course, I did make an ass of myself there too, by solving the Riddle-me-ree fair game on Y’s commentspace that was meant for Mothers To Be (hey, I thought MTBs meant Moms That Blog!). After a brief dammit-I’m-not-cool-enough-to-play moment, I promptly reminded myself that I was not in high school anymore and decided to enjoy from the sidelines (Kick Ass idea btw; so cool for the real MTBs!). It did make me realize one thing though – it’s not always about ME.

I always want the people I hang out with to have interests and opinions similar to mine. Once I find such people, I always want them to approach me and break the ice. So I’m introverted and scared that they may not like me, but it totally comes across as being bitchy. Plus that’s no excuse for not making a fucking effort, eh? At least now, for Nibbles’ sake. I can’t let my anti-social vibe color his innate friendliness.

So with great expectations and new-found enthusiasm, I headed to the community boardwalk with my Nibbles. I flashed my chai-stained smile at every mom/nanny with a stroller, but chickened out when it was time to make eye contact and hid my face behind a bouncing Nibbles. After a while, I felt pathetic, like one of those beggars or desperate romeos that display a baby to attract kind attention. Just as I was wallowing in self-pity for the fungal lifeform that I am, Nibbles turns around and chatters, “Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma…”. In all probability he was excited by the huge cruise ship that sailed past us, but I instantly perked up and squeezed him purple, “I love hanging out with you too Nibbles!”

 And the soundtrack of life played Meredith Brooks:
I’m a bitch, I’m a lover
I’m a child, I’m a mother,
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint,
And I do not feel ashamed…

WAHM setup

This one’s for me, Poppins and other WAHM hopefuls. It’s a bunch of tips on working from home, coming from an IT dude. He’s not a mom (duh!), but the points are relevant enough.

He does mention my biggest problems these days:
1) Decent chair+desk: I’m the kind of person that sits either cross-legged or hunched over my knees while coding. (Everyone’s used to my scramble to find my shoes when I’m summoned for a impromptu meeting). But somehow, the chair-desk alignment was far more ergonomic than sitting cross-legged on the bed. It’s not like I’m doing my kegels while coding, and my back n’ bones have aged decades over the past few months.

2) Environment: It’s no coffee house when you’re surrounded by laundry, baby goo stained clothes and useless plastic toys. If anything, it is depressing and not the right work environment. I do have issues having Nibbles leave my line of sight, even if there are other responsible adults watching him. I need to work on creating a bigger baby-safe play area where he can explore without my continuous chorus of Nooos and Aaaacks. The playard we have is so tiny, it feels like a prison (doesn’t help that Nibbles peers through the mesh/cage and wails miserably till he’s free).

Some things that I’d add right off the bat:
3) Go on an internet hiatus while working (excluing access to my work machine). Avoid personal sites (e-mails, blogs, social networks) like the plague the gym.

4) Feed growling tummy something tasty to avoid fishing for lil’ somethings to hit the spot.

5) Block time slots for working and don’t do anything else during that time (besides feeding/helping Nibbles sleep); post dinner time slots work best for night owls like me. This is bound to be far more productive than the office, with numerous breaks attributed to production issues or coffee refills.

I’m all pumped. Will attack code with a vengence now. Yeaaaah! 

Chew On This

I can’t believing I’m feeding Nibbles’ bottled baby food. Seems hypocritical after all the fuss I made to breastfeed. I know it’s rare that babies gulp down bottled baby food. The fact that it’s completely organic, with no added salt or sugar, ought to make me feel good. Still, I feel like those are just excuses for my laziness.

One good reason to cook baby food at home is to select the best produce and preserve maximum nutritional value (Guilt fodder). It doesn’t necessarily work out cheaper, considering nobody else wants the pulp of organic veggies left over (too lazy to freeze).

However, I feel like the root of my disappointment lies elsewhere. I’d love for Nibbles to join in on our meals, especially when he stares longingly at our plates, drooling. I feel like such a selfish hog, but considering the spicy, greasy crap Big Byte and I gobble down everyday, I know it’s best Nibbles watched from a distance. And no, I’ve already given up alcohol, so switching to a baby-friendly diet can certainly wait or I’ll bring the house down.

The darker side to all this is the indian mommy reflex (I don’t think american cooking is as involved, so I’m leaving it out. Ok, fine, I’m a bigot). I want to cook for my child, and I want him to enjoy the food and place it on an altar – incomparable to any edible scrap on the planet. Lofty ideals? Sure. And I hate it. I hate the fact that I’ve become like those aunties I detested. “My son lost so much weight in college because he likes my food only”, they’d gush proudly, stuffing another desi ghee soaked parantha/dosa/burfi into the pathetic son’s face. Then there are those MILs that believe their sons lead lesser lives because the wives can’t cook for like they can…bechaare. Now I’m chanting the same bloody slogans. What’s worse is that I know I wouldn’t have hated these instincts so much if I had a daughter.

Maybe there’s a better explanation for all this. After being his sole source of nutrition for 9 months in utero + 6 months outside (sneaking in some formula on work days), I feel left out of the whole process. What process? His growth? There are several other ways to stimulate it, like playing, talking and laughing with him. My obsession is silly. My baby enjoys balanced meals everyday and I’m not dancing around with glee. I better get crackin’ on my letting-go skills. I’ll certainly need to summon them several times in the years to come.

 

 

Working Things Out

“Today I’m certainly getting sacked. Fired. Pink-slipped, cardboard boxes et al.”, mused The CoHo, as she stared into the mirror, secretly admiring the darkening circles around her decaf eyes. After all, how long could she put on this charade? She felt like a fool in her uniform of black slacks, oversized shirt and colorful sneakers, psyching herself silly, “You better kick some corporate butt CoHo. Don’t give up the cause!”

Damn the cause. Whose cause was it anyway? She never agreed to exchange family time for a paycheck (ok, so she never expected family time to mean this much to her either). She didn’t want these spoils of half-won battles. She wanted everything…or nothing at all. Why screw over the previous generations only? Might as well destroy the environment with non-disposable diapers while she’s at it. “YeaaaH”, she screeched, “Talkin’ ’bout my ge-eeeeeeh-neration…”

The CoHo’s head-banging session was soon interrupted by hungry wails and she assumed a superwomanmom pose of breastfeeding babe in one hand and work laptop on the other. In between frustrated shrieks from a squirming baby struggling to get a decent mouthful, she attacked the e-mails multiplying in her box like a nasty virus.

A satisfied burp and series of yawns later, the babe was tightly swaddled and (seemingly) sound asleep. The CoHo then knew she had no excuse to avoid real work, which until the next week or so happened to be making the trading system faster. How progressive of Dream Company to dole out a mission-critical, high visibility, huge impact project to the new work-at-home mom!

The CoHo perused through enddless lines of dodgy code under her control, and felt a sudden sense of power…followed by nerve-wracking fear. A fear that was unlike the usual rush of a new, impossible deadline. More like the fear a drugged out CoHo felt when she found herself alone in a hospital room with a 5 hour old baby for an entire night.

She rushed into the bedroom, convinced that the babe had stirred – nope. He was in that blissful REM stage, flashing a quick grin every few seconds. Dammit. Ah! Laundry. Why not get that out of the way now instead of ruining the weekend? Oh, she’d already had this brainwave yesterday. Fine, then prep for dinner. Now that she’s at home, The CoHo had no excuse depriving her family of a heart-friendly, home-cooked meal. Uh, the refridgerator was still totally cramped with the major cooking spree she’d launched 2 days ago. Perhaps a nice cup of tea would help refresh her a bit.

One chai, one coffee and three dark chocolates later, The CoHo took another stab at the monstrous code. 010110110101010101010 *coredump*

The CoHo sunk into a schizophrenic blur as the voices taunted, “See what they said about a Mommy Brain?”, “You need to switch to a line of work that will fit your new lifestyle better – like testing”,  “This is why part-time workers shouldn’t get key deliverables”, “Girls can’t code anyway, and we’ll find another token female to keep the HR diversity committee happy”.

WaaaaAAH! *pop* The shrill cry was like music to The CoHo’s ears. She rushed to the bedroom, squeezed the tiny babe tight and showered him with generous, slobbery kisses. “Mommy’s here, she’s not going anywhere. Mommy’ll take care of you”.

And the e-mails did flood, the code did break, the phones did keep ringing as The CoHo and her babe spent a lovely spring afternoon finding new pieces of furniture to chew on.

Putting the “dom” in momdom

They say if you don’t have anything nice to say, say nothing – or some such hogwash, as a result of which I’ve tucked my rants under the rugs, alongwith other stray litter I can’t be bothered to clean. But I’m rather nutella-starved today, so I’m bringin’ it.

Being a stay-at-home-mom ain’t no picnic…but it is a non-stop circus with fresh acts everyday courtesy Nibbles. Nibbles is an awesome housemate, and we spend hours giggling and rolling on the floor, destroying anything that dares to stop our momentum. While he moves from one milestone to the next, I delight in undoing my adulthood.

Then we break for lunch – I belt out archaic numbers from those long-lost convent school days to my biggest (and only) fan, Nibbles, who plays maestro with colorful spoons loaded with prunes, carrots and other goo du jour.

Come afternoon, and I decide to be social for a change and join the stroller mommies by the boardwalk, instead of tossing envious glances their way. Of course, by the time I’m done with my annoyingly long pre-outing ritual, a tired Nibbles rubs his eyes and decides to chill in bed, getting drunk on artificial air and breast milk.

Soon enough, my caffeine levels are dangerously low, and I decide to lose myself in a piping hot cup of ginger tea while surfin’ the net. I then see the cyclone of a mess that I helped create, piling sink+laundry and maggi noodle dinner on the horizon – and that blasted guilt sets in.

Now that I’ve traded my full-time job as a software engineer for a full-time gig as a domestic engineer, I suddenly feel like I’ve lost the right to vegetate. At work-work, one could stare endlessly at the dual computer screens, pretending to be immersed in sloppy code, occasionaly scratching one’s forehead, kicking the CPU and sighing audibly on the way to the vending machine for a candy fix.

At work-work, I could leave the bugs, e-mails and unfinished reports till the next day in order to keep expectations at comfy levels while I got acquainted with a bottle of wine.  At home, there really is no EOD (end of day). If I’m in bed, it’s because I’m defeated by the random chores that come at me like one of those automatic tennis ball machines gone berserk. If I’m in bed, it means I really should be glued to my laptop trying to squeeze in my daily 4 hours of part-time work, churning out magnificent code to impress those folks that have my soul. And here I am, blogging my responsibilities away. Bah!

As a domestic engineer, I know I can’t get fired, but my sheer ineptitude at it simply sucks; especially when I read how other mommy bloggers seem to keep at it, even if it means running on an empty tank. For sure, Supermomdom is a necessity not an option.

Big Byte has been perfect though, with well planted words of praise every once in a while, even if my rotis are shaped like the map of Timbucktoo and taste like cardboard. I for one have stopped getting all riled up about the fact that I’m performing traditional duties outlined for a “wife” and a “mom”.

I used to think feminism was about abandoning gender roles dictated by society. I thought that being diametrically opposite to those roles would support “the cause” further. Being a mother – and being sober – has certainly cleared up  the fog. (Can I have my margarita now?)