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.

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.