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)

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!”

Georgie Porgie

Nibbles has turned into quite the Georgie Porgie of late, kissing the girls and making them cry; a charming turn from his earlier ear fetish that was satisfied with a firm twist of the gentle appendage till turned a pretty crimson. I’m proud to say that he’s taken quite a pansexual approach to this slobbery habit, which is often preceded by a friendly, non-Zidanish headbutt.

Speaking of pansexuality, I do hope I don’t pigeonhole him into any gendered or sexual stereotype. Perhaps I should dismiss it as cute when he’s chasing girls and cars and the adults cheer him on. I too am guilty of encouraging popular stereotypes by always dressing him in clothes from the boys section and refusing to buy the shiny pink “girls” shoes, even though they were the only pair in his size (and he desperately needs a new pair).

Right through my stormy teens I’ve always dressed in oversized boys clothes, so perhaps I may be excused from the fashion department. Books, then? Besides the list of sexist prince-saves-fair-maiden fairytales, I ought to sing of beautiful gay princes that lived happily ever after. Should my stories be uniformly distributed across sexual preferences and even race or ecominic status? Or should it reflect the (questionable) demographics of the community we live in? I wouldn’t want to bias him either way, but I’m too hopelessly human to be rigorous about that.

Ok, so I don’t think that sexual identity issues are something Nibbles needs to worry about – not today anyway. The jigsaw of one’s identity may take a lifetime to piece together and the exercise in itself can be exhausting if the constructed image keeps evolving. I don’t know what color his rainbow will be, but today it is a brilliant, transparent light that bounces off his beaming face and dances in his bright eyes when he sees someone he likes. He doesn’t think to question the source of that feeling for a second, but chooses to fling that affection carelessly with no fear of it being shunned.

What would it take to be so recklessly free again? From what I remember, a stiff martini (or five) might do the trick.

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!

Hello, Hater

I get it. You’re not a baby person. But have the fuckin’ decency to at least say hello when a child runs upto you and croons sweetly, “Hiiiii!”, instead of pretending he didn’t exist. And when that child happens to be my Nibbles, I really wish I could grab a hold of you – you extinguisher of the light in his eyes – and viciously shake your cold person till that fat stick falls out of your arse.

I knew that mommyhood would bring with it a slew of emotions – pride, love, fear, joy; I never expected violent rage to top the charts so often.

Melting Clocks

‘Twas the first day of daycare,
And all through the Byte house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a Nibbling mouse.

The CoHo squeezed into a pregnant PATH train with Nibbles snuggled in a sling that was designed by ergonomically sadistic morons. Miraculously, she spotted an empty seat amongst the Suits and she plopped her bulging 5 foot structure down, feeling 22 months pregnant herself. “Dream Company”, the unsightly workout bag screamed, and The CoHo hid her face in embarassment. She felt the need to justify such in-your-face advertisement of The Evil Street, “It’s the only bag that would fit all the snacks, clothes, diapers and other random stuff that my baby needs”. But she didn’t, of course, being the spineless CoHo that she was.

Zigzagging through the post rush hour toursity crowds, she proudly showed Nibbles the daily circus of her City. The caregivers at the Dream Company backup daycare seemed nice enough (don’t they all?) and stuck a huge name tag on the back of Nibbles’ t-shirt. The CoHo began rattling off his likes and dislikes, comfort techniques, pet peeves…

Miss W: Perhaps you should sneak out when he’s not looking so there’s less separation anxiety.
CoHo: You mean I can’t stay here with him?
Miss W: *rolls eyes as the CoHo tiptoes out when Nibbles seemed engrossed in a talking piggy bank*
Nibbles: *turns around and flashes mischievous smile* Byeeeee!
So much for separation anxiety.

Overall, The CoHo coped pretty nicely for the first day of daycare. She spent only 3 out of the total 6 hours at the center, carefully scanning all edges and toys whilst subtly shoving bits of food into Nibbles’ mouth when the caregiver wasn’t looking. She tried not to laugh too loudly when they suggested that Nibbles lie down in the crib during naptime and nursed him to sleep as always. For once, she was grateful that none of her co-workers had kids and were hence unlikely to be scandalized by a public boob display.

When The CoHo headed back to her desk, she kept verifying the signal strength on her phone. They said they’d call her if Nibbles was upset. She absent-mindedly downed her milkless tea, “It’s been 45 mins since he fell asleep so he ought to have woken up at least once to make sure I’m around…”. Bang on cue, the call arrived and she couldn’t help smiling as she rushed over to her baby. Her baby who couldn’t bear to be a second without her, her baby who wouldn’t eat a morsel unless she coaxed him, her baby who…who was happily climbing up the wooden slides and greeted her with a brief nod when she arrived.

CoHo: “Nibbles, mamma’s here sweetie”
Miss W: “He’s doing fine, just a bit cranky that’s all. But look what he made for you…”
*hands CoHo a colorful piece of artwork on sticky paper*
CoHo: *eyes welling up* It’s beautiful.
.
.
.
Nibbles dozed off in the sling, tightly strapped against The CoHo while she raced to avoid the rush hour crowds. Safe in their nest, The CoHo emptied out the uneaten boxes of his favorite food, all labelled with fluorescent green sticky tape. She cleared up the old magnets on the refridgerator and made space for the abstract masterpiece by Nibbles. It was just as she’d always pictured it…but not this early. As the first winter winds gushed through the windows, she scrambled to salvage the broken twigs and leaves.

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.