Oh Chute

I’d be lying if I said family always comes first. On days like today, I’ve totally ignored all wants and most needs of my boys in an effort to do justice to my work. It was almost like my first day back from my maternity leave, where I got so engrossed in a nasty production issue that I’d forgotten Nibbles was away from me for the first time. Heck, I went on to have a memory glitch that made me forget that Nibbles even existed. By lunchtime, the mommyness rushed back like a sneeze, in an unappetizing mix of nausea, shock and guilt.

I never forgot again. But yes, there are days like today, when I didn’t realize that Big Byte fell asleep hungry and Nibbles exhausted himself to sleep on my boob while I ran meaningless scripts. It’s not like anything I was doing held a fraction of importance compared to making sure they were doing ok after I abandoned them for my weekly escape cubicle sentence. I should’ve jumped straight down that chute when I trashed the remnants of their day – an empty box of Yo Baby yogurt stuffed with bottles of Miller Lite.

Hair Say

It’s weird how the very same wild hair, torn jeans and faded T that made me feel like a maverick *sic* pre-Nibbles makes me feel downright frumpy and aunty-like these days. In fact, the same do that made me look 16 pre-Nibbles, makes me look at least a decade older that I am now (and no, I don’t look 26).

In a rare break from inertia, I figured it’s best I do something about it. My pledge to not let pyjamas become a second skin has decidedly been chucked. But today, my fat ass found itself planted on a revolving salon chair (what was that satellite music video?) because Big Byte could not take another refrain of how “I haaate my hair!”.

I don’t deal well with folks in the service industry. I can’t talk to waiters, kaamwalis or any human who is providing me a service without turning red and apologetic for not doing the task myself. So I’m not too surprised that I surrendered my mangled mane to the excited hands of a hairstylist with nothing more than a sheepish nod to do as he pleased. Should I have been afraid , considering how bald he was? I suppose it’s not as bad as a dentist with horrible teeth.

A few snips and heavy duty blowdrying later, I looked like a classic after picture. Big Byte and Nibbles chimed all the appropriate oohs, and I was beginning to remember what it felt like to be sexy. That was, of course, until I let the cruel chlorinated jersey city showers rain down my tresses till I was left with a curly mop that looks like a poodle’s butt. Won’t be a shocker then if somebody is a tad bitchy tomorrow. Woof!

City Search

Dragged Nibbles and Big Byte to The City to checkout a daycare that’s set to open early 2009. The open house crowd was small and Nibbles was the oldest kid in the room. Too exhausted to rant about it. Nibbles got sick on the way back; perhaps due to the very bumpy stroller ride and smoky aromas clouding the air.

In any case, it seemed like an awful idea to think of enrolling him in The City; extremely stupid of me to presume that if he gets shuttled around in a stroller, the commute won’t drain him out.

But it does scare me to imagine him in the care of strangers across the Hudson, with a moody PATH train service between us . It scares me to imagine him in the care of strangers, period. Does it seem silly to explicitly type out “period” when it is in fact followed by one? Whatever.

This is a sour topic at home and at work – daycare, I mean. And all my arguments, convictions and needs seem to fizzle away when questioned by Big Byte or my boss. And it’s not like they’re asking for more than for me to make up my mind. Oh, hello! Is that a crack on the earth waiting to swallow me whole?

Mom Track Mind

Priya’s and Mystic M’s posts have forced me to attempt some honesty, so here goes. The only reason I’m not a SAHM right now is because I don’t want to be at home forever.

I’m on the mommy track at work. Gave up the excitement and challenge of interfacing with traders and tackling high-profile projects. Scaled down to part-time, not so much because I can’t put in 40 hours a week, but because I’m not fully committed. Waved the London assignments adieu. Try to scramble into work by market open, but nobody really cares because if there’s a fire to put out, I’m not the man for the job. Leave work by market close, and my co-workers chirp, “See you next week!”, instead of the standard, “Half-day? Where are you interviewing?”. And I’m not complaining.

Sure, I’ve never been in love with my job, but I’ve hit record levels of apathy. It’s common, this apathy, at least in the corporate jailhouses I’ve worked in so far…but not for me. I can see lesser-experienced, newer colleagues elbowing their way up the ranks via exceptional diligence and subtle brown-nosing. And though I’ve lost the crown they dangled before me prior to my maternity leave, I don’t give a corporate rat’s ass. I’ll just do the bare minium required to justify the paychecks. And the spot on Wall Street that thousands desire.

Here I am, one foot in the career door, all mind elsewhere. Truth is, I’d love to give it all up in a second, and devote the same focus I once had for my career to my home, to Nibbles. So why can’t I quit whining and just stay at home? Sounds liberating. Sounds scary. Because I know I won’t be allowed back in the tech boy’s club once I’m done. And I don’t really know when I’ll be “done”. And I can’t swallow the idea of staying at home forever.

NP: “Ok, CoHo, what exactly is so scary about staying at home forever?”
CoHo: “I don’t know if I can deal with a permanent shift in dynamics of our home to traditional gender stereotypes”.
NP: “Cut the bullshit CoHo. ’sides, you’d rather fit into a modern gender stereotype even if it goes against what you really want?”
CoHo: *wrinkles nose* “It’s not that simple really. What makes you think we’ve reached a time where one can do as one pleases? And it’s not like I won the fuckin’ lottery”.
NP: “Take your potty mouth back to the trading floor. So you’re saying, you can’t afford to quit? Perhaps you don’t really need to stay in a condo by the waterfront” *snickers*
CoHo: “I stay in a fuckin’ condo by the waterfront so that we have a quicker commute to work and hence more time with Nibbles”
NP: “Whatever. And ordering take-out is a great way for the family to bond together”.
CoHo: “Whatever”

*muffled obscenities*

CoHo: “Ok, it’s not the money. I’m scared to think of what would happen in a situation where Big Byte would not be around.”
NP: “That’s just rich CoHo. If your star-studded resume can’t land a job, what can?”
CoHo: “Corporations don’t shed tears for a returning SAHM”.
NP: “There’s other jobs out there you know. Like start-ups. You always wanted to join one, right? Maybe you could start your own…it’ll be stimulating, fun, you could be your own boss instead of a lowly CoHo”
CoHo: “That would be a much bigger time committment. What becomes of Nibbles then?”
NP: “Forget it CoHo. Scurry away to your dusty corner and I’ll let you know when that dream job comes begging for you while you live your life in morbid fear.”

Victory Showers

Forget about one-hand cooking. I have no fucking clue how some women morph into domestic divas with a toddler on the loose.

Big Byte, being the cool foo that he is, chopped and stashed all the veggies I’d need for a week’s worth of cooking while he headed to Bangalore for training. This way, I could look forward to more than the scrambled eggs and cereal I’d subsisted on the last time he was away – or so he thought.

I started off with lofty goals of making aloo gobi (yes, lofty). Ditched the idea of aloo when Nibbles got entangled in my laptop wire under a revolving chair. Gave up on grated ginger, sliced green chillies and freshly chopped garlic when he started to chew on the guacamole green crayon stolen from Chilis. When Nibbles knocked over the trash with an innocent (?) swing of his lil’ red baseball bat, I decided to fuck it all by dumping a heap of sambhar masala into the pan and yanking up the heat.

So cooking was clearly way above my league. My next bold move was taking a shower. There’s no way I could close the door on Nibbles (childproofing doesn’t really work – not for my kid anyway) and there’s no way I could let him in, considering the sparkle I detected in his eyes when he saw me operate the flush. Stumped in a Schrodingeresque dilemma, I took my momma’s advice – strapped him in his stroller and left him at the bathroom entrance. I did improvise though, with a song and dance routine that could certainly be interpreted as inappropriate and permanently scarring…but only after a certain age, I hope.

What really is that age when such privacy issues are a concern? I suppose since I’m still breastfeeding, keeping mum about the mammaries is not an option for the moment. In any case, I’m not a fan of the “shame-shame, puppy-shame” approach. But I’m also not the mom that lets her kid run naked midst the sprinklers at Central Park.

Anyways, point is, it worked like a charm. The gargle-singing, the jiggly-stretchmarked-belly dancing, the shower curtain peekabooing – momma clearly knows best. There Big Byte – I have learnt to shower without you. Uh..ok, this post is headed right to the gutter where it belongs.

Papa do Preach

This evening, I had the hardest time getting Nibbles to sleep. He’d nurse for a few minutes, doze off, then start crying all of a sudden. All I did was thrust the silver bullet (my boob) back into his face till he passed out again. This routine went on for a bit, and a tired Big Byte walked in.
BB: “What’s wrong with Nibbles? Trouble sleeping?”
NP: “Dunno. He ate well, drank milk too…I think” *pinches areola to check supply and squirts milk all over the place*
BB: “Whoa!” *ducks* “Yes, there’s enough milk.”
NP: “Maybe it’s a ear infection? Or he’s teething”
BB: *rolls eyes after hearing default diagnoses for nth time* “Why’s he kicking around so much?”
NP: “Oh! That’s his new thing. He enjoys it. I think it’s kinda cute…”
BB: *starts massaging Nibbles’ legs* “Maybe they’re hurting. He’s been standing all day, no?”
NP: “Hmmm…”

Duh! Nibbles finally settled down, continued to feed in peace and fell fast asleep. He has been so excited with his ability to stand, that he even tries to feed standing. Of course his lil’ legs must be overworked.

So much for mother’s instinct.

Never On A Sunday

There’s nothing like spending the first beautiful Sunday in ages – you know, with bursting greens, bustling strollers, chirping birds, sexy breeze and all? – stuck at home resuccitating a laptop brought to its knees by a deadly virus. Seriously though Big Byte, was there any need to catch a few minutes of the damn IPL game on a day like that? I know, I know, you feel awful enough and you did bring her back to life, with her memory intact. But a gal’s gotta vent, so…AaargH!

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*