Good For Nothing

Apparently if Nibbles puts his running shoes on now, he’ll need to get into a good daycare so that he can get into a good montessori when he’s 2 so that he can get into a good school when he’s 5 so that he can jump across the hurdles – primary, middle, hiiiigh school- off to a good university so that he can land a good job. And then the good wife will follow suite, naturally. And of course, there’s nothing subjective about what’s deemed good.

I had it all, did it all – after all, I was a rather good girl. Fat lot of good that did me. I keep thinking that what I want most for Nibbles is for him to be able to pursue his dreams. That would be a whole load of phony baloney, considering I never had the balls to do so. And nothing accelerates a parent’s fall from the pedestal faster than hypocrisy.

But what does a good girl do when she forgets how to dream? Perhaps learn to forget her identity has a human, and come to terms with what she really is – code monkey, work horse, fat pig, stupid cow, corporate rat. If I must choose, I think I’d want to be a cockroach. Enviable resiliance + free lodging/boarding. Or perhaps I’ll stick to pig – playing in the mud + 30 minute orgasms.

Join ‘Em And Lick ‘Em

Sometimes, with Nibbles and I, this whole parenting routine seems to be working upside down. For instance, Nibbles has taught me that using utensils to grab food from a plate is for dummies. Diving into the plate with one’s mouth wide open is far more effective.

This epiphany kicked in as I was browsing this afternoon and a trickle of gooey Nutella (should this stuff be legal?) fell on my laptop and I unconsciously proceeded to lap the top, leaving no sticky evidence behind. If you think that’s gross, nothing beats the uncivilized freedom of burping out loud from your cubicle and giggling – till you find your boss eye-rolling you instead of a proud Nibbles cheering you on.

All I can say is that I hope Nibbles doesn’t begin to think that mooning is funny or else I’m going to get arrested in a sleep-deprived haze on the PATH.

While The Street Burned

The CoHo ambled along, under the ominous dark cloud that hovered above Wall Street. Like everyone else on The Street, she thought, “A gazillion, well-qualified people laid off in a heartbeat. There go my days of surfin’ the net and rakin’ a hefty bonus.” She also thought, “Perhaps some spots in corporate daycare would open up” *gulp* That’s just like a good CoHo – looking out for the bottomline while the rest of the world is screwed.

But seriously though, who registers a foetus at daycare? Granted, it’s much easier thinking about going back to work before you’ve had a chance to know your baby. She had no idea her lil’ rat had entered the race the second he was conceived. “That’s it!” decided The CoHo, “I’m heading home and sharing a tub of chocolate ice-cream with Nibbles while we watch some brain-numbing television”.

As she clutched her fourth cup of tea, she could almost smell the nutella-swirled muffins she’d baked for her first PTA meeting.

Who Cares?

The hunt for daycares has begun. I’m too paranoid to leave Nibbles with a nanny, and besides, “socialization” is supposed to be the motivation. I think. I know, one year olds don’t socialize in the typical sense – it’s all parallel playing. But I feel terrible when I see Nibbles staring out into the rains as I try to squeeze some lines of code and hastily reply to e-mails. I feel like an ass when I mumble excuses and hit mute when an excited Nibbles chimes in on a conference call. Moreover, I feel like I’m a bad homemaker that’s left a house in shambles and gone from making rotis from scratch to ordering greasy takeout. I’m a bad wife that can’t remember the last time she’s had a non-nagging coversation related to obsessive household rules with Big Byte. As for my sympathy job? It still exists, last time I checked.

I’m a zombie, drifting from one daycare to the next, tucking in all the application forms and glossing over the familiar list of activities and rules. “…and then it’s circle time, followed by nap-time. we also record a diaper change time and wash our hands after…”

What am I trying to say? I’ve failed as a mother, wife, homemaker and employee, so I’d like to send my baby away to some underpaid caregivers so that he gets the level of stimulation and action that he deserves? Caregiver. That was supposed to be me.

Maybe I’ll convince myself for one more night that what Nibbles wants most, and needs most, is to hang out at home, his home, and derive immense pleasure watching me freak out as he discovers new forbidden zones. And of course, to rush into my lap every time he needs a quick drink or needs to fall asleep with a calm smile across his face. Ah yes, weaning and sleep-training. No time for that can of worms tonight.

Wake Up

blahness abounds. Weeks like this make me feel like I’m a WAHM for purely selfish reasons. Nibbles managed to escape some nasty falls, with stitches and scars as keepsakes. He appears bored and irritable, often banging on the front door/yanking his stroller screaming “bye! buh-byeeee!” Poor chap hasn’t figured out how to unlock the door yet, so he’s stuck with this ol’ hag for a bit longer.

My attempts at providing creative stimulation seem forced at best. I flip carelessly from one activity to the next like a jaded grad student selectively stimulating various nodes of the brain: giant animal marker – coloring time, digital drums on punk rock mode – music time, sleepytime stories and rhymes – reading time, slow dancing to fast songs – groovin’ time, soccer with oversized ball – sports time, ten reps on community slide – playing time, crash course on one hand cooking – uh – domestic time. And of course, all of this stuff together could total a whopping ten to fifteen minutes of…of what?

I’ve seen the way his face lights up when he sees other children. He dashes towards them with a brilliant grin spread across his milk-toothed face – only to be hauled away by me because I’m too chicken-shit to leave him alone in a social situation. What if he grabs her pretty curls or pulls her sharp nose? What if she punches back or starts crying? I’ve become the dreaded mama that spawns mama’s boys – the very kind that I’ve always detested.

Dammit Null Pointer! Time’s up. Loosen up those reins or it’s the Dreaded Daycare for your precious Nibbles.

Edited to add: Is tagging a post Post-partum valid after a year post delivery? Fuckit.

Child Is The Mother Of Woman

Considering how zoned out I’ve been lately, Nibbles has decided to take matters into his own hands by figuring out ways to stimulate and amuse me. Current favorites include:
- giving me raspberries on my tummy till I giggle uncontrollably
- peekabooing by doing sit-ups behind a stool, instead of my dumb method of covering my face with my hands

I on the other hand have been eating every lil’ scarp of food lying on the carpet because I don’t want Nibbles eating ‘em (ok, because I’m too lazy to haul ass to the trash). And surely enough, my miserable tummy is revolting loudly while a teething Nibbles merrily chews on wires.

Murphy

Fuck Murphy and his stupid law. Or maybe it is my intellect that is running opposite to Moore’s law, whereby the amount of information I can process is exponentially declining.

I’d freaked out during my pregnancy when I read that the maternal brain size shrinks all the way up to labor. In fact, it was probably my paranoia that kept my neurons chiseled till I delivered a kickass project, right before I delivered Nibbles.

The research was not all gloom though – the brain was supposed to magically bounce back to its “normal” size within 6 months postpartum. I for one have come to believe that neurons gone, are neurons lost forever. Just like the abdominal flab is here to stay, safely tucked into elastic-wasited trackpants.

Seriously though, why would anyone let a solitary human being re-write the trade booking system with critical business impact and not have anyone else review/test it? It could’ve been beautiful – everything working smoothly, continents shifting without anyone noticing. And the glory would’ve been everyone’s to bask in, perhaps with an extra zero at the year-end compensation? But one lousy human error, and it gets mighty toasty for a scapegoat getting grilled. What can I say? Hold off on the salt, please.

Edited to Add: Nibbles just gave me a huge, gooey, banana-mouth-filled kiss that totally smacked all the blahness away. I suppose the lil’ goo monster knew that’s exactly what I needed. Yay!

What Rhymes With Callous?

The Byte household is under the weather and Nibbles was tired of my usual chorus of Wee Willie Winkie who ran all around town dressed in his nightgown. A quick memory scan fetched this absurd rhyme from back in the day (the way I remember it):
Rub a dub-dub,
Three men in a tub,
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,
They all jumped out of a rotten potato,
‘Twas enough to make a man stare.

Say wha…? I have nothing against homoerotic fantasies. Threesomes? Well, I’m a monogamist prude and all, but it’s all good – as long as it’s not in a fuckin’ nursery rhyme book (surely the ol’ nuns weren’t that naive).

I know there was a thread on strange rhymes a while ago, but not sure if this made the cut. Anyways. What exactly were those 3 men upto in that tub? Rubbing a dub-dub of course. Not sure about the rotten potato reference (vodka hangover?) And I refuse to believe the professions were randomly selected for the suffix (butcher –> meat, baker –> cooks in oven, candlestick maker –> moulds phallic objects).

So it’s back to Mary and that silly lil’ lamb of hers. Gah!

Pick A Number, Any Number

Took Nibbles out for a stroll today and bumped into an old neighbour.
He: “Ah, so this is lil’ Big Byte, eh?”.
NP: “Yup, sure is”
He: *does a quick scan* “Six months?”
NP: “uh…Eight actually”
He: “Oh!”

What? What? Is Nibbles too skinny? Maybe I should invest in some desi ghee after all. Damn carrot-apple mish-mashes. He’s not drinking enough milk. Maybe because I’m feeding him too many solids? Or maybe he needs more. I mumbled along and bumped into an old Filipino nanny that began the whole cooing+monkey face routine for Nibbles, so I stopped.

She: “Cute baby. How many months?”
NP: *nervously* “Eight”
She: “Laaa! He’s pretty big for eight months!”

Fuck ‘em. I give up.

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.