Seven months have passed. More than 210 days since I last had eight hours of uninterrupted, blissful sleep. Since I went to the movie theatre and munched on some popcorn. Since I idled over a meal while watching the television, unafraid of things abruptly ending because of a beep from the nursery.
Taking care of a baby can be excruciating. Sometimes, it seems harder now that my son is seven-months-old as opposed to when he was a newborn. Dressing him is a daily battle; I have to sing and jostle and recite poems to keep him from being a nudist. Getting him to nap is an Olympic event. He may yawn incessantly and rub his eyes from exhaustion, but hey, won’t sleeping take away from his enjoyment of the world? What if the lion on his pillow leaves for the jungle when he naps? Preparing meals requires elaborate recitation of the recipe and constant “hey, mama’s now doing this” from the kitchen. Encourage independent play, they say. My baby loves his own version of playing-by-myself-as-mama-sits-next-to-me-on-the-dratted-playmat. It is his favourite kind of play, next only to biting-mama’s-boobs-during-the-third-lunch-of-the-day.
Not too long ago, R and I were worrying about NST reports that depicted his breathing rate. We discussed labour and induction and mode of delivery for hours on end. Today, we discuss solid foods, how our baby is learning to sit up, how he giggles and squeals when we meow and woof. How time flies!
Today, my baby is seven-months-old. I have been a mother for seven months. Have I adapted to it? I don’t know. Will I ever? I don’t know. On some days, all I want to do is lie on the bed and read a book and drink a huge glass of wine. On other days, I spend hours gazing at my baby as he chews his rattle, babbles nonsensical sentences and tries to get my attention with little squeals of delight. When he is such an angel, it doesn’t infuse me with a sudden surge of maternal hormones or a gallon of energy to face all that parenthood entails. But it does make me feel warm and loved. A better person than I give myself credit for. A more hopeful person who anticipates greater gifts on the horizon, never mind the greater challenges.
Maybe, just maybe, I got this.
The universe is conspiring to give me chronic insomnia. Sleep is toxic; it wastes precious, productive hours that people can spend engaged otherwise. For much of this year, my baby boy decided it would be fun to party at 3 a.m. Now, after he has moved his partying to more respectable hours, someone else decided it would be incredibly fun to keep me up. The hyperactive stray dogs in my locality.
Now, before doggie lovers pounce at me in protest, let me make this clear: I love dogs. I have always wanted to keep one at home but have been obstructed by various reasons. When I meet a happy, eager-to-please stray, I offer biscuits and pats, sometimes to R’s disapproval. Never have I been cruel to one of these canines.
Why then are they so cruel to me?
Every night at 3 a.m., Continue reading
If Mom had been with me today, she would have made me a hot cup of coffee in the morning. She would then have forced me to go and sit in the sunshine and listen to the birds as she soothed my baby into his nap. I would have felt the sun warm my skin and my soul. I would have stretched my arms, sore from rocking and holding the baby for hours on end, and smiled up at the blue sky. Continue reading
Well, I cannot be sure anymore. It has been over a month since I last saw it. This morning, I stood in the balcony with a cup of coffee and tried hard to ferret it out. I looked at this corner of the sky and that, squinted, even burnt one finger, but nope, no sun. The sky was lined with bad-weather clouds; thunder growled ominously in the distance. It is official: the golden glob over our heads is a thing of the past.
In this sun-less world, I barely get by. The laundry needs to be artificially dried, which means our dryer is perpetually on. Just one of the many perks of having a newborn in the house who looks his most content when he is pooping. After a long night of glorious sleep—give me a moment to do a deep-belly laugh here please—all I want to do is feel the sun on my skin. But all I get are raindrops. And dampness. And mosquitoes. And a general brooding sense of malaise. Continue reading
Ironically, the last post on this blog was about reaching a personal zenith (completing the April Blogging Challenge) and veering dangerously toward zero immediately after. Today, more than 2.5 months since that post, I am here, accepting that life indeed throws zeniths and zeroes in quick succession (even simultaneously?). But behind this absence lies a reason that I am still struggling to fathom. To comprehend. To believe. Continue reading
When I was in Class V, a little boy my age taught me a life lesson. The results for the term exams had just been announced, and I had come first. I was proud and happy, excited about the gifts my family members would get for me. The latest Malory Towers book was certain to be on the list. One of my classmates appeared almost as excited, jumping about, digging into his tiffin box between classes.
“You look happy. How did you do on the exams?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
“I came first.”
What a liar! “That can’t be. I came first!”
“Maybe you did, from the top,” he responded nonchalantly. “I am first from the bottom.” Continue reading
You giggle like a merry child when soap bubbles brush against your cheeks. You look up at the sky—so grey and ominous—and smile as if it were the most awe-inspiring sight you’d ever seen. Your conversations are full of rapture, your eyes full of dreams.
It isn’t that you are particularly young—at least not the young and oblivious they talk about in classic books. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you were old enough to have experienced loss—of friends and friendship, ambitions, perhaps a parent. Your fluffy yellow sweater with the polar bear imprint doesn’t fit you anymore. I can’t believe that you escape ubiquitous villains in daily life—a tyrant boss, an obsessive ex-lover, or at least a street that gets jam-packed with traffic exactly when you’re in a rush. Continue reading
They had already drunk two cups of tea each and finished a trayful of snacks. The conversation had thinned, and there were several silences punctuated by comments on “how polluted Delhi was getting”. But no one made an attempt to get up, grab their bags, and leave. It was 8.30 p.m., and since that was past both my dinner time and reading time, I was getting more fidgety by the minute.
Someone else in the living room fidgeted almost as much as I did. But the limitations of adulthood stopped him from doing anything about it. It was my Dad. Continue reading
“So, how is your holiday going? Must be lovely to chill at home.”
“Actually, I am working from home.”
“Yeah, same thing, no?” Titter, titter, chuckle, chuckle.
Amidst large sections of the society lingers the belief that working from home is basically a fancy term for holidaying. You stay in your pyajamas all day, binge-watch your favourite TV shows, eat crisps and wafers and instant noodles, and, when tired of relaxing, turn on your laptop and send a few random e-mails. Working from home isn’t serious work, after all. You don’t have a boss to grill you; you don’t need to commute to the office; you are spared all the grime that comes with being a “working professional”.
Except: Most of that is UNTRUE. Continue reading
“He is really hot. Hot enough to get me fantasising about, you know,” a distant cousin winked at me meaningfully. We were at a coffee shop, sipping cappuccinos and nibbling at a cake. The cousin had refused to order a slice of cake for herself because she didn’t want to “get balloon-y”. But that didn’t stop her from taking generous bites of the treat we were supposed to share between us.
“Really? That hot?” I enquired. “But isn’t he kind of creepy? I mean, he is a vampire who goes about slashing throats and sucking blood.”
“I wish he would suck mine.”
Her level of dedication amazed me. She was willing to donate her blood to satiate a random bloodsucker’s hunger only because he was, apparently, hot. This man appeared in a TV series about vampires—a “million times better than that crappy Twilight”—and was the latest obsession in the young girl’s life. Previously, she had fallen for werewolves, zombies, and tomb raiders. These mythical creatures were responsible for most of her sexual awakening.
When I was a child, vampires appeared in spooky Dracula films and classic novels. They kept me from going to the bathroom alone at night. I am pretty sure I had crushes on actors from televisions soaps, but they were usually people I could imagine running into in marketplaces, libraries or restaurants. They didn’t slink up on me from dark corners, pretending to like me only because they were thirsty for an iron-rich liquid. Continue reading