Tag Archives: baby

What A Difference A Year Makes

24 Nov

A year. It’s been a whole 365 days since this happened and I played a cheesy Disney song to announce it.  Clearly, I’m not going easy on the cheese anytime soon, for here’s a letter I wrote my baby today, on his 1st birthday, as I watched him sleep and plotted how to sneak in a few kisses while he couldn’t protest. Thanks for being patient with my absence from this blog and coming along on this journey with me. Things will be more regular around here, fingers crossed, because we have a new series starting on the blog next week!

~

My precious pumpkin, Daddy’s titto tapeto, our babyjaan,
Today is a day I did not dream of. Blame it on your Mummy’s limited imagination. I couldn’t look past my pregnancy beyond the point of your birth. I knew the months that followed would be a whirl, a blur, and require all my resources, so your first birthday wasn’t something I actively thought about. Yet, here we are. And I’m short one infant and tall on a trailblazing toddler.

I have frequently wondered after having you why people (and parents in particular) focus so heavily on the hardest bits of those early months. They go on about sleep deprivation and 360 degree life changes. Nobody actively comes up to you and simply says this:
It will be more wonderful than you ever imagined.

And it has been. It is.
Except for 3 hellish days in the hospital at 9 weeks old, when you smiled at us through a haze of 103 degree fever, every day has been pure joy, every moment a blessing, every smelly diaper as fragrant as Kate Spade’s latest perfume. Okay, I kid about that last one.

From beaming megawatt smiles starting at 6 weeks to calling out to passersby in the park to charming a planeload of passengers, people are your thing. In your universe, there are no strangers, only babies and big people waiting for the immense privilege of showering Your Royal Divaness with attention. First-born much? To steal a line from Plath, you endow the sun with gold, our gleaming California raisin.

Before you arrived, I was convinced you would be your own person, with independent attributes and characteristics. So it came as a surprise (and a burgeoning sense of alarm) to see you were so like me. Not just the shape of my eyes and my poker straight hair and large flat feet, you have a giant dose of your mother’s rather… umm, wilful, voluble personality, and poor Daddy doesn’t know what hit him. Two fire signs in the house are a shade too much roaring for your patient, gentle father, the love of your life and clearly your preferred parent.

I am your dal chawal, your constant, your everyday. You can’t miss someone who won’t go away. But Daddy, he’s your tandoori chicken, the cherry atop the icing atop the butter sponge cake, and my gladdest, most contented moments this past year have been watching the two of you together, mock-wrestling, giggling, grabbing hair and collars and using Daddy’s ears as handles while perched on his shoulders.

You complete us in ways we never thought possible. Physically, Daddy and I are ready to retire and nap for 7 years. As late 30s parents, the relentless exhaustion of it all has taken a toll, to be honest. But we wouldn’t have had you at any other time. Because it is now that we are mature enough to enjoy you without sweating the small stuff, stable enough to be a team and provide well for you, and old enough to know what matters to us without getting into skirmishes with other parents on their opinions and preferences.

With the exception of your refusal to sleep through the night consistently, you’ve been an easy baby, doling out radiant smiles to everything in your path, staying on a schedule like a clockwork mouse, adjusting your own meal and nap times as you grew, and amusing yourself while I tended to chores. You are secure in the knowledge that you can roam free, Mummy is a mere grunt away at any given time, and I love how you look back to check for approval for just half a tick before you hurl yourself into new discoveries or at an unsuspecting person not used to your friendliness.

And this is what I wish for you today, my solitary-candled babe: Fly into this world that so fascinates you, fling your arms around it, I will ardently wish for it to love you back. And when you need the comfort of home, my sweet child, your dal chawal will always be waiting.

Happy birthday, mein Liebling. Mummy’s got the whole world in her hands. ❤

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Monsieur Monster Of The Two (and a half) Teeth

7 Oct

In California a wee monster roams
Waiting to creep into all of your homes
Flat of foot and frugal in teeth
I can assure you his name isn’t Keith

Explorer by day, hell-raiser by night
This shoe-chomping tot is quite a sight
In the home of the brave and the land of the free
He takes liberation seriously

Screeches and wails
To be released
Tries to eat snails
And every odd beast

He knows how to charm
From here to LA
Turns off your alarm
Then makes his foray

Don’t you be fooled
By the coos and the smiles
His parents are ruled
Until they’re slumped into piles

Before his appearance, Mummy would dine
Without the backdrop of a ceaseless whine
How must silence feel, she’d love to know
But when it’s quiet, it’s alas and oh no!

Now here’s the queer thing, this monstrous child
Makes Mummy’s heart sing and her hair look wild
She’ll take no sleep, she’ll embrace a mess
He makes her weep, she will confess
But this ball of Sun, every inch of her heart,
He’s the One, Prince BurpinFart. ❤

Some Dates More Than Others

10 Sep

Apologies for being AWOL! I’ve been cheating on this blog with other social media and should really enter rehab. Or maybe just post oftener. Which would you prefer? I hope you enjoy reading this straight-from-my-bleeding-heart piece. And come back after you’ve wiped off all the mushy goop! I’ve got more posts lined up as penance.

In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you. What you’ve been up to, the most annoying thing about last week, your biggest accomplishment since I last posted, to tell me that there’s a universe beyond Baby Pooped Today!!!….or simply to say hi? 🙂

~

As teenagers, we would go shopping and she’d rein me in. “No, you cannot buy all seven tee shirts. Choose two.” And I’d grumble that she was my mother all over again.
When I was between degrees and unemployed, I packed up my life in far too many boxes and landed up to share her little room with an eccentric heater in Philadelphia. Freezing Philly winters were no match for this girl’s warmth.
When the Boy and I decided to get married and all hell broke loose, she gave me the confidence that I was doing the right thing. She spent the night before my wedding holding my hand and the morning of shedding quiet tears as I was dressed and made up.
Her hand was on my shoulder as I signed on the dotted line that would legally permit me to torture the man forever.
Her baby is my first baby. Moving away from him was physically painful. Forever a cheerleader for little girls, he taught me how to be mad about baby boys, setting the stage for the full blown Raja Beta Syndrome I now live with.
I informed her I was pregnant using an inside joke we had laughed about since college.

RRV[Credit: Raja Ravi Varma, Lady Holding a Fruit]

I named my son in her honor.
Considerate even as a zygote, she arrived on the planet 10 months ahead of me to vet the place for suitability. “It’s fine,” she yelled, giving me two baby thumbs up, “head on down!”
This girl I met a month shy of 16, I don’t know how I would have lived these past 21 years without her. But thankfully, I don’t have to know. Because we’re going to grow old and crotchety and annoy the eyeroll out of each other across the continents, an Indian in America and an American in India, for that’s how we roll, her and I.
Happy birthday, my J.
I thank the powers that be for September 10th, 1977.

The Blogger Formerly Known As OJ

20 Apr

Helloooooo! Greetings from Namibia!

Just kidding.

Or not.

Because SAHMhood is sometimes like being in a desert. Maybe on a desert island. Where you just got done weaving your colorful hammock of artisan rope and are about to climb into it when wait! Laat Saab needs his doodoo-on-the-rocks. Make it a large one. Oh, and could you have that ready in 3.457298 seconds, because there are some pretty pitch-perfect wails coming your way.

So.

I’ve been doing grrrrreat you guys! Just GRRRReat. Training for a marathon and all. Don’t you just love my dedication? We begin training at 6 am (human alarm included in the package deal) and basically drop dead after Diaper #7. The obstacle course, where I get to skip over Blue Ellie and Hormuz the Horse in a bid to dash toward Moaning Myrtle’s just-born twin is where I truly shine. I even have one ankle left to prove it!

And in other news, we now have a Very Valuable Cooking Aunty. Seriously, that’s her name. Or not. I can’t share it with you because then you’d take her away from me and I’d be left to wallow in my dal-less state. Cooking Aunty is a proper Poon-jabbi, so the Boy, drawing on his Dally childhood, educated me about the ways of Them Up Nawth. Apparently, I need to address everything with a ‘jee’. But Cooking Aunty looks at me funny when I ask her not to add the Dhaniajee to the Bainganjee. Why jee? Am I blundering jee? Me, the poor heathen from Bombayjee.

Cooking Aunty firmly notified me that she is ‘vag’. And I’ve been hurling all 700 lbs of puppy fat at that imagery, but it won’t budge from my head. Or ‘had’. You pick, jee. In the meantime, we’ll continue eating…you-know-what jee.

Oops, there stirs my Pork Chop. I have 6 seconds to share the rest of my exciting life with you:

6. I subscribed to Birchbox, received my first box in March, and OMIGOD YOU GUYS! The Boy just got bumped to Love of My Life position #3. You wants this product. You needs this product. You totalutely musts this product. Review coming up soon! (10 years is ‘soon’ if there are no posts in-between. Technically speaking.)

5. I had this divinity last Thursday. And walked the streets of San Francisco LIKE A NORMAL PERSON (a.k.a. Carrier of One Small Handbag). Am I shouting? Could you plug those ears? This could get out of hand.

4. I’m attending what promises to be an interesting event at Santa Clara’s University’s de Saisset Museum this week. The universe and its grandfather(jee) knows about my fascination with the partition, so this should come as no surprise:

Voices of Partition

Thursday, April 23, 2015, 6:30 p.m.

Nearly 2 million people died and over 15 million were uprooted during the 1947 Partition of South Asia. Explore the Partition through a free screening and crowd-sourced survivor footage followed by witnesses sharing their stories. This program is co-presented by the 1947 Partition Archive and the de Saisset Museum with support from API Chaya.

 

3. The Ghost of Reader Past:

The Ghost of Reader Present:

women-and-weight-loss-tamasha

The Ghost of Reader Future:

2. I need cropped white denims for the Spring that don’t look like Jack the Ripper went blade-happy on them. Gimme label/store/link suggestions, y’all!

 

1. We made it all the way to #1! Woot!

Okay, that was my downtime for the decade. See you in 2025!

Just kidding.

Or not.

As they say in OJville,

bye-shy, jee!

*poof*

A Comprehensive Dictionary of Parenting for Beginners

3 Feb
  • Diaper: A piece of absorbent cloth Mummy wears between her legs because between feeds and singing and communing with the washing basket, a toilet is a once-familiar entity in a faraway universe.
  • Sleep: Word not found.
  • Blowout: Since we’re in polite company, let’s just say it’s not the fancy things a dryer does to your hair.
  • Midnight feast: Sod Blyton, sod Mallory Towers, it’s a full blown party of one to which a certain someone’s parents are very reluctant invitees.
  • Rocking: Formerly used as a descriptor for parties and weekends, this calorie-burning tool is the perfect substitute for pumping weights.
  • Shhhh: What you find yourself saying to the person responsible for 50% of Creature, because:
    1) That’s the sound you emit most these days
    2) Advanced language is highly overrated
    3) I just may be incapable of sophisticated communication at this point
  • Fun: Non-REM cycles of shut-eye.
  • Schedule: That hilarious entity that people who haven’t birthed a person ask you to share. Also known as “When’s a good time to chat?” Erm, 12 years sound good to you?
  • Jelly: Formerly an edible substance, now an apt descriptor for your mid section. Also, how your innards feel when a newborn smile is bestowed.
  • Sleep: Word not found.
  • Doorbanger: A special kind of Beelzebub spawned for the sole purpose of waking your finally-asleep child.
  • Anticlimax: Fitting into your pre-pregnancy jeans a few weeks after delivery, only to have them puked on three minutes later.
  • Social life: Be grateful you have the latter word. ‘Nuff said.
  • Auto pilot: Discovering yourself swaying side to side long after the baby was put down.
  • Freedom: One whole hour of your body being your own. 60 entire minutes. That’s 3600 seconds of alone time. What Marquez meant when he wrote One Hundred Years of Solitude.
  • Sleep: Word not found. Stop making up lingo.
  • Parenting: An extreme sport designed to challenge every ligament in your body and synapse in your brain. Not for the faint of heart, this lethal activity will put you through the shredder and your entrails will emerge smiling.
  • Spouse: Trusted general of your tag team. Your partner in tasks of increasing difficulty. The one who has your back and frequently rubs it too. Future old age home roommate if you mess up this gig.
  • Luxury: A hot shower. Water! Soap! And preferably no one else in the bathroom.
  • Love: An abysmally inadequate word to describe the tidal wave of tenderness, fierceness, punch-me-breathless-with-mineness, indescribable biologically engineered response that comes with the territory. Universally unique. Uniquely universal. Blabber blabber. Gufhndslsladpoo.
  • Romance: Having a free hand to hold your hubby’s.
  • Spatial intelligence: The higher ability to know your boob from your face. I’ll get there. Someday.
  • Pain: You think you know all about that from going through labor. And then you watch your child being punctured by needles.
  • Blessing: Lying in bed at night, parked between a snorer and a tooter, congratulating yourself on landing two gorgeous men.
  • Insanity: Loving every bit of this existence and not wanting it to change a jot. (Wait…could the poop be less ummm…poopy?)
  • Sleep: Persistent little gnat, aren’t you? Come back in 20 years, I’ll have an answer for you.
  • For Unto Us A Child Is Born

    25 Dec

    …Unto us a Son is given

    ~Isaiah 9:6-7

    Nope, not referring to Jesus.

    Tunneling through me in record time in a determined bid to flag off the holiday season, our wee Liebling made his entrance into the world last month. Specifically, into a room full of cheering nurses, an ecstatic daddy, a relieved doula,  and our darling gynecologist, who I am convinced is the planet’s most amazing doctor.

    it's a boy

    Was I in the room too? I suppose so. But somewhere halfway through that first wail, as he was lifted out of my body and I lay back relieved and thankful for not pooping after all, I suspect I ceased to exist in the way I had for 36 years. Without moving a muscle, my sense of self took a quiet step back, and I watched my heart float outside of me and lodge itself firmly into that tiny, wriggling body. This feeling, it isn’t love. It’s unadulterated biology. And us, we’re the mere puppets of a flipped switch.

    I’d have burst into song, had I the energy and wherewithal after an intense labor sans pain medication, but this played in my head instead, and since I’m doing such a botched-up job of this birth announcement, I’m going to rely on good old Disney to convey my emotions:

    Over the past month, I’ve been high on happy-making hormones. (Clearly, birthing a human does nothing to change pre-existing alliteration allergies.) Except for the day he turned a week old and I wept that he’d head off to college soon and leave us. Apparently, there are parents who stand outside their kids’ dorm windows and secretly follow them on their honeymoon and I don’t know why you’re looking at me that way, I’m only educating you about the world, really. I’d just watch over him from a safe distance. Of 3 inches.

    In other news, these lines will never mean the same thing again:

    • Our father in heaven (He’s been turning cartwheels between burping sessions.)
    • Blood on the dance floor (Before the poop came the goop. Bleedin’ bucketloads of it.)
    • Ice ice baby (The nicest present the Boy has ever given me is a handmade icepack on our wedding anniversary, three days later. Heaven, heaven!!)

     

    So there we have it. Seven years since the day we met and knew this was to be, we’ve been married four, moved continents, made a home and a life together in a gorgeous corner of the world, and created a person we hope will share our love of bacon and potty jokes. (What? Everybody has their dreams!)

    Now excuse me while I take off to get my fix of milk-and-skin-and-mewling-and-spit-up. We hope you’ll wish us well and pardon erratic blogging behavior. There’s a little babe-on-a-nose that needs all our besottedness.

    Merry Christmas! Joy to the world! Earth today rejoices!