A prayer for the ordinary

(Image source:www.clker.com)

     

     

     Empathy is not for real. There is no way you can really know where and how bad the wearer's shoe is pinching him. But if you've had your share of bites, you might just recognise the pain. And when another's pain drives you to tears, you can be sure, a bite has left a mark somewhere...

*****

     I've always been pro-adoption. Supporting 'nurture' over 'nature', I've always believed in the virtue of giving an orphan a home. But I would have to admit that a certain Angelina Jolie-like glamour was part of the fine print. Also, the idea of having a perfect, ready-made, toilet-trained child fit my definition of 'easy'.

     Then I hit upon this blog ( I can't believe I didn't save the link)... An impossibly chubby Chinese baby's picture caught my eye and as I read one post after another, I realised how she was the centre of the universe for one American couple. Living in an orphanage in far-off China, this baby already had her parents-to-be wrapped around her little finger. The earnestness of every waiting moment of the 'expectant' mother makes you want to push the clock forth too.   

     Joanna (the blog's author) is a simple, beautiful and strong woman, who is spending every waking moment of her life counting down to the day her adopted daughter Mackenzie will come home to her.

     Mackenzie is a Chinese orphan with a butterball face, a complicated medical condition of the heart and one missing ear. 

     So much for my perfect, ready-made baby's idea. Why would someone choose a child with problems? I suppose you learn to be magnanimous when you've been through your share of problems and more.

     Joanna has been through the agony of not being able to have a child of her own. I have too, albeit for six short (and unimaginably long) months. When my body refused to do its duties, my world and my identity came crumbling down. For all my fancy life and style, I could not overcome my biological purpose. My self-worth plunged at the thought of being 'barren'. What was the point of being a woman? The thought pushed me into the shadow of depression and threatened to swallow every joy I'd ever known. No consolations or distractions helped. Thankfully, medications did, and Jishnu happened.

     But Joanna wasn't blessed that way. Through days and months and years of trying to conceive and failing, she must have grappled with the worst kind of pain a woman can feel. A sense of betrayal by destiny, God and her own body may have darkened her days. But the desire to be a mother kept the love in her heart alive. She and her husband decided to adopt a baby who would finally complete their lives. 

      Joanna's blog paints a pretty picture of her hopes for a new beginning. She's now lovingly laying out each brick of her dream of motherhood. She will make a great mother because she knows what it is worth.

     Biological mothers, by that scale, may always fall behind. Yes, I rejoiced and I thanked God for the best gift ever when I conceived; but it became a thing for granted, as all things do. It is difficult to keep counting the blessings when you live in a country of teeming millions, have a huge belly and its discomforts and subsequently spend endless, sleepless nights marching along the feed-pee-poop parade.

     But each time you come across a story of someone's naught, you say a silent prayer for being ordinary. You thank God for a child of your own, who is in perfect health and whose place in your life is not subject to others' permissions. After all, it isn't your shoe that's a misfit and it isn't you who is getting bitten.

First fright

     There's nothing more terrifying for a parent than to watch his child suffer. The pain is sheer and the helplessness penultimate. Before you can summon a doctor or even summon the idea of summoning one, panic grabs you by the throat and squeezes out every last ounce of reason from your head. The frantic heart takes over and reels with so many emotions, you don't know what to do with them. Your child cries, you cry. You child suffers, you die. You fear. You pray. Pray that there be one way that will let you take your child's pain away.
     ...All seemed hunky-dory on a regular day of our regular lives - stamped with that regularity which is taken for granted till one of the cogs of the wheel fall out. Jishnu was the model of a happy, healthy baby all eight months of his little life before that horrible retching began. There were no signs of discomfort and like any other day, Viren took Jishnu inside to put him to sleep at about 8.30 in the night. I was in the kitchen readying dinner when Vir started shouting and asked me to come in right away.
     I ran into the bedroom and to my horror saw Jishnu vomiting desperately and Viren looking desperate. I stood there transfixed at the door watching helplessly as my poor baby's body spasmed violently with the effort of throwing up. I stood there paralysed with fear facing something I'd never faced before. I stood there with all sorts of terrible thoughts crowding my mind even as Jishnu wailed in pain and discomfort. My reverie was broken only when Viren yelled, "What are you doing there? Help!"
     The next few minutes were pure hysteria and a frenzy of activity. Jishnu threw up, cried. We cleaned him up and the sheets and the floor and the bathroom and waited. Jishnu threw up again, we cleaned up all again; and Jishnu threw up for a third time. Somewhere in between I found my sense, my cell phone and my voice and called up Jishnu's pediatrician in Nagpur. A few assurances and a prescription later did I feel a wee bit 'regular' again. I cradled my baby in my arms, hushed him, soothed him and cried with him. In the next minute, I turned into a merciless model of practicality as I had Viren pinch his little nose while I forced the medicine down his throat. A few more tears and a phew!
     The medicine and exhaustion soon put Jishnu and our fears to sleep. We spent a partially sleepless night monitoring him, kissing him, caressing him even as he slept between us, blissfully unaware. Morning came and all was well again.
      So, what was the big deal one may ask. It was only a vomiting child for crying out loud (yep, right!). Yes, nothing was earth shattering in retrospect and storytelling. Yet, only a first-time parent may able to identify with this first experience of illness in the most precious part of you. Your world really can fall apart at even the thought of something 'bad' happening to your child. And like all things first, facing this fear as regards your baby is forever etched in your heart.

First kiss (and other firsts)

Before you get any ideas from the title, my dear readers, bored as you are, this is about Jishnu too. All first-time parents think it a great deal each time their child does something for the first time, and I am no exception. And how could I not be overwhelmed when this first something is a kiss! Jishnu is six months old today and has declared himself a big boy with a celebratory kiss. All the obsessive kissing by all and sundry seems to have finally taught him to reciprocate, because when I kissed him yesterday and then held his mouth close to my cheek, he half opened it, poked out his li’l pink tongue and gave me a little licky-kissy!! I was overjoyed! But, wait a minute; was this behaviour just part of his put-everything-in-mouth repertoire? Viren and I decided to repeat the experiment and this time, the J-by-now dad took his turn. Vir kissed him and Jish kissed him right back! Yippee! But hey, Vir and I will stick to our solemn promise that when he learns to point to his body parts and say ABC, we will not bore our guests with demonstrations. For a third party, seeing a baby point to his toesies and belly and nosie and stuff is utterly boring, while the doting parents coo with pride.
But, the incentives are starting to roll by. Though I still may not be at the point where I can claim that it was all worth it, I sure am beginning to collect my reward points. Wonder when I’ll be able to accumulate enough and claim that big gift. Although it is already kind of rewarding to see others covet what I own. My bundle of cuteness seems to win most hearts and leaves them wanting for more, especially my parents. My father is reportedly losing his mind in pining for his grandson and is apparently often caught talking to himself reminiscing about the time Jishnu and I spent there. He, of course, is getting ‘impatienter’ by the minute as the day of our visit to Nagpur comes close. We’ll be there on March 24, 2010 for his annaprasan that will be held the next day. I hear the obsessive grandparents have managed to increase the guest list from 100 to 200 already. Phew!
Even as I get ready to pack my bags, it seems surreal that my baby is already 6-months-old - old enough to be offered rice and a dozen other goodies and have a huge function in his honour. When I was spending those difficult first days, it seemed like he’d never grow up. But he has, and so have I. I am a 6-month-old mom too and no one’s congratulating me. Not fair!

The last six months have been the most eventful months of my life. Even as I fit into most of my pre-pregnancy clothes again, I don’t seem to fit into my old skin anymore. My being in now full of Jishnuisms and has been emptied of all sense of false ego. It hurts to falsify my very own, my precious ego, but once a baby comes into your life, there’s very little space left for anything else. The first thing to go out of the window is ones luxury to ‘eww’. Dude, when you gotta clean smelly shit every day off the baby’s bum and then his nappy and then perhaps the bedsheet, there’s no ‘ewwing’ away. Another luxury that is taken away is procrastination. You cannot not sterilise his bottles, you cannot not feed him, massage him, bathe him and of course, you cannot not wash his nappies. When a baby is hungry, he is hungry. Boss, you just have to get off your arse and feed him, even if it is bloody 2.30 in the morning and perhaps again at 5.30!
  Also, time takes on such value that you can never imagine as a non-parent. You sleep when baby sleeps, and of course finish as many chores around the house as you can. There’s little or no time left to sit back, relax with that proverbial cup of coffee or curl up with your favourite novel. Heck, there’s no time to even fight with your spouse. I’ve surprised myself so much with a change in attitude that sometimes I find it difficult to believe it is I who buries the hatchet so fast and easy. I could nurse a grouse for weeks before Jishnu was born. Now, I just get on with an argument and pretend it’s all over in a jiffy just so I don’t lose out on Vir’s help with the babyworks. I mean, there’s no point anymore in carrying on with an argument if it means I have to do the ‘night duty’ everyday. I know now where and when all mothers acquire the skill of making peace. Lack of time, my dears, teaches it all.

Babies also teach you patience. They teach you that even life seems like it’s offering you no choices, it’s not so bad; because every now and then there is a first that you can fawn over. Ever so often you realise how priceless the exclusivity of those first moments is. Whether it’s your baby’s first chin up, first roll over, first sleep on his own, first intentional smile, first crawl, first sitting up, first snuggle, first tooth, first standing up, first solid meal, first chuckle and a myriad other firsts, each one of them is special. As you scramble to get your baby record book to pen in the date and time of seemingly irrelevant information to a stranger, they become your most prized possessions.

And then one day, there is your first realisation that life without your little one isn’t quite fun.

Mommy and me

8/3/10

“Hello. Is that Urmi…Chanda Vaz?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is X from Y company.”
“Yes X, tell me.”
“This is about a job opportunity. Is this good time to speak to you?”
“Yea, sure.”
“You were working with Pune Mirror before this, right?”
“Right.”
“May I know why you left?”
“Yes, I’ve had a baby. Been on a maternity break for six months now.”

This is pretty much the crux of every conversation between me and potential recruiters nowadays.
Five months of giving those answers and I still feel like I’m talking about someone else sometimes.
I have a 5-month-old? Really?
For a reality this size, it seems to be taking awfully long to sink in. Or perhaps I’m clinging on too tightly to my old self. But for all the shorts and tees, motherhood has been insidiously creping into my personality. It’s like a peel of cling-wrap that you can’t technically see, but know is there.
Urmi Chanda-Vaz, who famously hates kids and continues to advice child-free couples to stay so, is changing. Slow, but firm and perhaps permanent changes seem to be taking place, sometimes even without my permission.
Motherhood’s made me hard. And motherhood’s made me soft. I’ve hardened to Jishnu’s tantrums and can let him wail alone in the bedroom while I do dishes in the kitchen. But a softy has been co-created too, who’ll run from any end of the planet to her son when he bitterly cries for his mamma.
Speaking of hard, my hands seem to have become pretty hard too. Pulling feeding bottles out of boiling water after they are sterilised doesn’t seem to hurt when my baby is hungry.
Jishnu still seems like a big, irritating interruption in my life more often than not, but I almost fired one of my maids the other day when she dared criticise him. (Okay, it wasn’t that bad. She just said, “Kitna rota hai yeh”.)
  Motherhood has become an incessant struggle about integrating who I was and who I am becoming. For the greater part, it is a job I don’t like, but want to do it perfectly, because any job worth doing is worth doing well.
  Motherhood has meant giving up a lot – a city, a job, a waist, a life and heck, even whatever was left of my intimate life what with Jishnu sleeping in our bed! Also, Jishnu has come between Viren and me in more ways than one. I hardly ever have the time, inclination or mental energy to invest in what used to be a very interesting partnership. It’s scary. I’m definitely not liking losing out on Vir because of Jishnu. But I don’t see myself doing anything about it, coz I’m so zonked all the time. Perhaps when I start working again and become an equal on all terms, including caring for our son and the household, will I be able to achieve that elusive work-life balance. Because, right now, the scale is more than skewed by seven and a half kilos of that incredibly cute pile of flesh that is my son, drawing me deeper into that inescapable mire called motherhood.

Best foot forward

 

Day 4, Mumbai

        It's my third day alone with Jish in the new house of 'new' Mumbai and I'm sitting here on the window seat writing this. That must mean I've not lost my marbles yet. That must mean it's not as bad as I thought it would be. That must mean I had some unknown reserves of fortitude someplace. That must mean the theory of first impressions is true. And all that must finally mean that Jishnu is a hard core 'first impressionist'. 

         Vir has always maintained that of our son. He says that our 5-month-old always puts his 'bestestest' foot forward. He eases you into what could be a not-so-nice situation. He leads you to believe you can easily put him to sleep, for instance, and as soon as you start strutting your confidence, he helps you land ground.

         I am almost beginning to believe Viren about this. 

        After living in utter aaram for the last four moths at my parents', with all my support systems in place, I was in absolute dread of the first day when I would be left 'alone with Jishnu'. "What the heck?", you may say, "He is only a baby...and he is yours!" 

       Yes, thanks for that grim reminder of my no-escape situation.

       Anyway, coming back to my boy and his first impression thingy. He used his trick on me and it seemed to have worked. Jishnu behaved like an absolute darling on that first 'dreadful' day. He slept lots, he didn't cry (much) for attention, played by himself, and not to forget, fed properly too. With such perfection personified, I managed to steal a little bit of siesta too. Wow, what a perfect day! Fresh and rested, Mumbai didn't seem all that intimidating, the colony didn't look as unfamiliar, and even the RJs blabbering away on the radio all day sounded like friends. All thanks to that angel child who didn't even demand to be put to sleep. So there, first day spent with a fundoo first impression on Mommy and she was ready to take on the world. By the beginning of day two, Jishnu was ready to rock and roll too...me that is.

         By the second 'alone' hour next morning, I was more than looking forward to my ever-obliging dad-in-law to come over and babysit both of us. Jishnu had thrown all the tantrums he knew of by then. But the day got over, as even the worst ones do. And when I lay down next to my baby, my back aching with carrying him around, my voice hoarse with singing lullabies, all I could do is feel sorry for the poor dear who had been bitten by mosquitoes all over his adorable sleeping face.

        By the end of the third day, I had not only managed to make sense of the stuff lying around the house, but also cooked a humble, but infinitely gratifying gobi ki subzi! Even while I fumbled around my new kitchen, Jish sat rather peacefully in his basket on the kitchen window and played with some of his toys. Joy!!

        That taking care of this little bundle of unpredictability by myself is possible, I'm beginning to believe. As I write this on my fourth 'alone, Mumbai' day, I surprise myself with what I've achieved. And to say the least, first impressions have definitely helped.   

     

         

The last mile

This is probably the last time I'm setting pen on paper as a non-mom. In just a couple of days from now, I'll have a whole new world of responsibility and hence perspective.

The last nine months have been one of the most 'interesting' months of my life yet. There...I'm already shying from using the word 'difficult', afraid I may be branded a 'bad' mother.

It has been a constant game of open secrets. A constant tug-of-war between what was and what ought to have been. Nature vs. nurture. Each time I found a new thing to complain about my pregnancy, I was countered by this holier-than-thou image of a mother who is supposed to take everything in her stride smilingly. From wanting to curse my unborn for causing me all the pain and discomfort to going right into the self-flagellation mode, my emotions have been continually see-sawing.

There were days when I wanted to start an anti-pregnancy online forum where I could pour out my wrath that comes from being so 'helpless' and 'bound'. I wanted to tell all the women of the world that unless they're desperate for children, like REALLY desperate, they shouldn't get pregnant. I wanted to tell all how miserable it can make you and it probably isn't worth the abuse ones body has to go through. I felt like throttling every damn voice that spoke about the glories of motherhood, and by implication, pregnancy. I wanted to tell them that the idea of a glowing pregnancy was a horrible lie and that pregnancy was nothing but getting fat, swollen feet, pigmentation marks, a repugnant self image and probably, a zero sex life. And I wanted to offer my very contemptuous respects to those women who have achieved the stupendous feat of bearing more than one child and want to breed some more.

Then again there were days (admittedly, very few in comparison) when I would be overawed by the sheer miracle of the fact that there was this brand new human being inside of me. I'd wonder at the strength of the kicks and nudges of the little bugger, fondly wondering whether it's a boy or a girl, how it would look like, what talents it will have inherited and so on. I would lie awake some nights looking at Viren sleeping soundly and it would suddenly strike me how amazing it is that this little person in me is partly this man I love so much and partly me. Like any other parent in the world, I'd imagine our baby getting the best of what we both have a becoming a beautiful, intelligent, kind, strong, healthy, "normal" and a talented child.

Yet another inescapable part of this pregnancy package are the worries. When, on days, I could feel little or no movements of the baby, I would drive me crazy with anxiety. From drinking cold juice to eating pungent foods to trying to twist my body into rather uncomfortable positions, I would do everything to get the baby moving again. The amount of responsibility I had without really being able to do anything about it would drive me to tears. Just as I thought I'd better go to the doctor, the baby would start pounding away merrily again on the walls of my tummy distorting it into all kinds of funny shapes. The jabs felt more than welcome.

I would flit from logic to faith to fear and back in admitting my deepest feelings even to myself. Stuff I've read about the power of thoughts and how it affects your life would warn me against thinking nasty things. One has to be careful of what one wishes for, they say. But, having dabbled in psychology, I found solace in the knowledge that it was only hormones acting up and thus perfectly 'normal' to feel what I felt. The next instant, if any fear of disabilities crept into my mind, I'd immediately exorcise them with prayers. I tried to seek comfort in my belief in God and his benevolence.

Today, when I'm days away from delivering my baby, I new set of thoughts has found its way into my head and is bothering me. The foremost of them being...baby don't be born today. Why? Because it's a Saturday today and that's supposed to mean a very hard life, according to my mom. I've instructed my body to not do anything today, but suppose biology gets stronger than beliefs, and baby decides to come today, I have my defenses ready. Well, it is a Saturday, but it is the 19th -- numerologically, number 1 and it's Mahalaya today...so it can't be that bad, eh?

Through the last few weeks of visiting the doc and squatting away to high glory (that is supposed to help lazy babies like mine descend), I've come to be almost certain that a natural birth is not meant for me. So we picked a date for a c-section. Tuesday, the 22nd of September 2009 is what I'd like. 22 is the day of my birth and that'll also make the baby a Virgo-Libra cusp. Cusps are interesting. But, mom's not too happy with the 22nd being a Tuesday (Mangal is not supposed to be a very nice chap), but well, you can't have everything.

There are also fears about the surgery, about rejection, about capabilities among the many hundred things that are doing the rounds at the moment. But all the thoughts, all the words and all the advice in the world cannot prepare you enough for this life-changing experience...and I am no exception.

Out of the woods

Out of the woods -- I particularly liked this expression used by a woman voicing her feelings on one of the many pregnancy sites on the net that I keep browsing. I liked it, because it is especially reflective of my feelings at the moment. Today, I’m a relieved 12-weeks pregnant woman. The don’t-tell-anyone phase is over. The time when one’s foetus could decide to shake itself free from the sack is kinda over. So, I’m out of the woods and free to post a shout out.
Actually I don’t want to. And I’ve been feeling a tad guilty about not jumping for joy. Somehow my ‘maternal pores’ are still clogged. But I did feel all mummy and mushy for a bit today when I saw my little baby sqiggle all over the place in the sonograph and when the doctor put the doppler stetho on speaker for me hear the baby’s rather quick heartbeats. Viren is already more father than I am a mom. Nice. Indicates a lot of nappy responsibility thrust on him in the near future.
Even as I fight the images of my rapidly changing (read fattening) body, rushes of mummadom sneak in sometimes. The cynic in me jumps at every opportunity of crying when I happen to stumble upon some sad story about mothers losing their babies. Can’t bear the thought of losing something that precious. I have made myself too much of a martyr already. Oh, the nausea, dizziness, fatigue was all for real. Three months of pure discomfort.
Meanwhile, Vir has been an ideal husband. And God has been really kind.

More updates, in months to come...

Of butterflies: these and those

These winged creatures seem to be dominating my life right now: the nectar-feeding, garden-fluttering, fiancé-favourite variety and the tummy tickling ones. Myriads of butterflies touch and go my insides as I sit here waiting and worrying and imagining how everyone must be practicing their ‘helloes’. V is meeting babu (dad) today, and to say the least, babu’s meeting V. The two most important men in my life will have an interface today. I can only hope they emerge on the other side unscathed and open…

Everyone’s scared. No one knows anything and everyone’s trying to appear educated. God knows we can put out the largest butterfly garden…if we put together everybody’s: V’s, his parents’, my parents’ and mine. The only real fear is of first impressions; especially when the cultural contexts are impossibly different. Knowing, though, that all the people involved are educated, civilized, etc.; the knowledge of the damage potential of one wrong statement made, even in the most innocent of intents, is what is scaring the hell out of me. These relationships are for life and it is only the least that one hopes for the best, at least to begin with.

I am getting married (deep breath). I now even know when. I mean I know precisely when – the 11^th of February 2008. But of the many dualities that mark and will continue to mark this relationship, a doubt of whether I will be ‘allowed’ to remember this date as my marriage anniversary remains; because the 11^th of Feb is only the first of our weddings – the Hindu/Bong one. A Catholic wedding (date still undecided) that will ensue the Hindu one will almost always demand to be considered for equal candidature as the anniversary.

Choosing V as my life partner was as simple as the rest of it is complicated. Bypassing the argument that simplicity or complication are both just states of the mind, I’ve often sat considering what this relationship entails…and omigosh, for the rest of my life!!!

V and I had this conversation yesterday which led me to notice that no one had asked anyone whether or not they wanted to get married. I was moving along my decided course and V just seemed to have blended in. I had marked my timelines and I wanted to get married. Tick in the first social checkbox – post graduated at 23; tick in the second social checkbox – work for a year; third in the third – marry at 24 and four- a kid (preferably a girl) at 25.

Through my acquaintance-friendship-dependence-unity with V, and my simultaneous break up with A, we never even had what can qualify to be called a courtship. What started out as a virtual acquaintance, transitioned easily into an alliance marked by interminable phone calls of confession and heart-to-hearts to quickly yet un-ostentatiously to this day when we stand engaged.

Its weird and wonderful how these decisions were made pat, in complete doubtlessness. Even as I discovered his love of creepy-crawlies and his mulish ways, the feeling of correctness pervaded. If, as I believe, God speaks through the gut (heart actually… but God and gut are alliterative), I know this is right, and bright and beautiful…just like those butterflies V’s trying to teach me to appreciate.