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!”

Stealing My Unicorn

If they take away my cyst, how will I explain the insatiable sugar cravings, pendulum moods and an abdomen with attitude problems? Say what? It’s not the cyst, it’s me? That’s too absurd. Might as well contemplate embracing religion instead.

Or worse – if they rob me of my cyst, what if I crave nothing, feel nothing and sleep uninterrupted on a lifeless uterus? What if I feel a sudden gush of happiness and collapse as my system coredumps because it fails to understand it?

I’ve often felt there are days when the cyst is more than a part of me – it is me. Of course, I didn’t know that it existed till Nibbles was a wee embryo. But it was the explanation I’d been waiting for, a pattern midst the chaos that lent substance – 6.5 cm spread of sebaceous dermoid substance – to the madness. And now they want to take it away and leave me crippled like a fish without a bicycle.

*hunts feverishly for stash of Toblerone hidden by Big Byte*

When The Sun Shines

She rubbed her crusty eyelids, fumbled till she smacked the smirking frog on the toothbrush holder and saw the tiny toddler brush peeking between Big Byte’s motorized machine and her mangled, yellowing bristles. It wasn’t until the omniprescent tapworks began to distort her vision that she realized those blasted hormones were at it again.

NP: *yelling at shabby figure in mirror* “The fuckin’ sun’s not even out dammit!”,
Mirror NP: *strangely awake* “The sun never quite steps out, ya know. It’s just the relative position of the earth that counts”
NP: “wtf?”
Mirror NP: “Ok Miss Half Empty, it’s like the darkness. It’s always there, interrupted by a warm glow every day”
NP: “Not so in winter. Can’t remember the last time I saw our toasty friend”
Mirror NP: “Can’t remember the last time you stepped out.”
NP: *spits fluoridated froth emphatically back at the sink*
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.
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As Nibbles hovered around her, blissfully blowing strawberry-pink bubbles, she decided that she was done croaking “Please Forgive Me” a la Bryan Adams (did I just type that in public?) and grated a generous block of ginger into the simmering water to tame the itch. Little did she know that she’d forgotten to stock up milk, which would result in an immediate meltdown at the prospect of having to brave the day in a chai-less daze.

It’s a good thing Nibbles responded to the drama with a crash – pink, Vitamin D milk all over the floor that she struggled to mop up before he lapped it up. She wagged a well-chewed finger at him menacingly and he puffed his cheeks as he pointed a drool-coated finger right back at her. Then they did the sticky kitchen dance and celebrated with biscuits for breakfast. After all, they decided, no point crying over…

Bytes Not Bites

The CoHo donned her habitual scowl as she made herself some milkless tea. Why was it that all those e-mails related to organizing food for a group event had to be sent by women? And no, these weren’t the (exclusively) female admins on the floor – these were women on her team. Tech chicks.

So this is probably why those feminists of yesteryear that had to choose career over family are so pissed off (hot flushes can’t help either). Here she was, consciously trying to mute her nurturing instincts and put on her best ass-kickin’ programmer face, and there was Miss Banana Republic, diligently surveying downtown lunch specials while the boys attacked nasty system bugs. And no, she’s really not interested in the “women are much better communicators and managers” argument. What self-respecting programmer would work for someone that can’t dive into a quicksand of code? (Ok, what self-respecting person would work for someone else – but what is a CoHo, if not a Corporate Whore?)

The CoHo had to leave her Nibbles at backup daycare for the second time today and running away to her cube in the midst of his heart-crunching separation anxiety episode better be justified. You know, the guilt trip of how the working mom decision was not just The CoHo’s to make - she was essentially deciding the fate of rest of her doubly Xed chromosomed colleagues? Really, this whole feminist cause can be a pimple on life’s butt (TM an old pal).

So geek sister, until that glorious day when women do not need to be twice as good to prove that they are half as good, you’ve made my battle in this testosteroned space akin to lifelong abstinence from chocolate i.e. hopeless.

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!

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?