Pause and effect

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a married man in possession of a smart wife must be in want of a pause button.

While ‘pausing’ the wife seems empowering, especially if she’s the kind who speaks her mind (and has too much of it), menfolk haven’t got that lucky yet. It’s right now limited to pausing live TV. The point is, the suckers think it’s a big deal and will do for now.

So ever since we’ve been privy to Aamir Khan and Gul Panag’s tele-banter on prime time, courtesy the onslaught of Tata Sky commercials, the husband has been cherishing dreams of Tata Sky Plus and sure enough, this birthday, he demanded his pound of flesh. I was too zonked out in post partum euphoria to realise what I had walked in to, but once the team arrived with the apparatus, and their tariff plans, it was too late. The damage was done. Another remote had been added to his array. We now had the power to pause live TV, and Sky was the limit (and unlike Khan and Panag, I am delivering this line absolutely free of cost)

Of course, realizing that it would be vulgar to make it seem all about him, the husband was smart enough to centre the proceedings around me. He said, and I kid you not, that since I was now preoccupied with baby duty, I might want to pause programming if I have to attend to the infant, and then go back to where I had left it, just by touch of a button. Also, I might want to record my favourite programmes (which on last count were three) in case I was too busy, tired or sleepy to sit through them, and then watch at leisure. And imagine what fun it would be to have an entire series of Nigella Lawson! Smartly done, mister!

“But why record when you can watch live?” was my point..

"Because it allows you to!” is his.

So while pausing or recording Chew, ITAS, and Hotel Babylon (my new find on BBC Entertainment) are joys that have been added to my kitty, the husband has several. Most of them of course are under the guise of “I thought you might enjoy it.”

It’s been barely three weeks, but our 160 GB hard disk is already full with programmes and movies we might never see. Just like the clothes and shoes he hoards, but never wears, or the freezer he stocks, but never raids, or the games he buys, but never plays.

Meanwhile, the football season returns with the 9th August Community Shield match and the Premier and Champions Leagues thereafter, and with them, a huge potential to record or pause and return. And of course, fast-forward the blessed ads that made us buy this contraption in the first place!

My life has changed just a wee bit. Earlier, he spent sleepless nights viewing movies across channels. Now he watches one and records the other.

Tit-à-tête

If pregnancy makes you shed your inhibitions (I actually posed in a bikini top for a mommy and baby magazine in week 37), motherhood destroys the last vestiges of it. May be it has to do with the fact that the whole of womankind now has a claim over your body and how to rectify (or optimise) it and therefore, nudity (part or whole) is never an issue for starters. Neither is talking about stuff as it is.

But the one thing motherhood doesn’t really prepare you for is a strange phenomenon called lactation politics. It’s as though every woman and her cow (pun intended) has an opinion (or some advice) on your lacto-barometer. Which is why questions like “Are you producing enough?” or “Is he exclusively breast?” or “No top feed?” or “Have you started pumping?” pepper every conversation, no matter whether the said party is one or six degrees of separation.

The problem with nursing is that whatever you do, you are upto scrutiny. ‘Have access, will ask/tell’ seems to be the norm. So your place in the mum hierarchy is decided by whether the baby latched on instantly, whether you have to supplement with formula, or are rich enough in the milk of human kindness (aarrrgh!) not to, and further, how long do you intend to nurse, when will you wean, are you having enough oats/methi/juices/milk/Bournvita/badam/whatever, have you turned to the bottle yet, etc etc.

It takes gumption to get this intrusive, I thought, but turns out, I was wrong. There is no such thing as subtlety in titspeak. Yes, I remember I said no Mumwit, and one reader has actually complained that I am not wicked any more, and that makes me a little concerned. But this, I couldn’t resist.

Asking a woman if she’s doing well on the milk-front is like asking a man if his sperm count is okay, or whether he is getting an adequate erection. Would anyone do that? So why is it legitimate to subject the woman to such intense scrutiny?

On the other hand, may be it’s an opportunity for hitherto marginalized women to re-establish themselves in the power ladder through their lacto-quotient. “I could feed the whole of Bombay”… or “I have enough reserves for six months” or “I am leaking all the time” makes them look good vis-à-vis seemingly over-achiever mothers who have otherwise been ahead of the game.

While me, still basking in my 34C glory, am just happy to have enough for my little one.

And if anyone ever asks me about a rainy day, my answer would be, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. Anything more than what my infant needs is really a waste.”

Therein ends my tit-ology.

Boyzone

“At least he doesn’t have to wax, unless he turns out to be one of those metrosexual cleavage-flaunting weirdos,” I thought and sighed, amid cries of “Congratulations, it’s a healthy baby boy!” at Breach Candy hospital, where I was attended to by an all-boy doctor squad. Since I was rooting all along for a girl, in this column and otherwise, I was a tad disappointed. The husband however made me see the brighter side. “Now you have two men to bash in your column instead of one,” he said. Ah well, we’ll see. Anyway, the bloke has inherited my curly mop and my cleft chin, so that’s reassuring, I thought.

J however made me feel better about the new Y chromosome in my life. “Look at it this way. The good looking guys get the girls, the nerds get the good jobs. He sure has the looks, and he will have the intelligence, at least genetically, unless he screws it up by not reading, or some such. So he will get the girls and the jobs. That’s a win-win. Plus, you don’t have to worry about the hymen.”

Shudder. I never thought of a girl so metaphorically, but he had a point. “Believe me, if she is pretty, the day she steps out in those short skirts, you’ll start having them palpitations, and make dagger eyes at all within vision,” he further explained. He also believes that for a girl, not getting a prom date (God forbid) leaves a deeper scar than a boy not making it to the school football team. Trust J to always come up with a gender theory for everything.

His theory, and it suits me fine, is that since it’s a boy, the job of making him a man is not mine—all I have to do is see him through infancy, and then it’s up to the father. So whether it’s football or cricket practice, archery, or whatever is cool then, it’s not my responsibility, so that’s kind of cool.

Although I’d rather his elegant fingers pick up guitar strings or a paint brush, rather than a Play Station controller, it’s a risk I have to live with. “At least there’s 50% of me, so it can’t be all that bad,” is my only consolation to myself. But each day, as we (father, son, and I ) do family time, I am constantly wondering whether the ambient sounds of Elder Scrolls Oblivion (the husband’s latest PS3 addiction) is going to subliminally corrupt the mind of the infant.

The simple fact is, every boy wants to be exactly like his father or exactly unlike him. Both ways, the dad is a great role model. We’ll see. At least that’s what they call having your boy and having you too.

Yours, hormonally

Yes, I’m back, and no, motherhood hasn’t mellowed me, much to the disappointment of some and sundry. It’s as though they expected me to acquire this ‘touch me not’ aura that new moms seem to cultivate, avoid expletives and questionable language (one of my friends who can only speak sentences that begin and end with the f… word told me he stopped using it for a year after becoming a parent), and turn all soft and somber, chuckling only at baby-related things. Sorry, but that isn’t happening, although I find my little boy Rehaan quite amusing, as he alternates between his Manoj Kumar pose and his Rahman pose.

Which is why this column is not turning into ‘Mumwit’ any time soon and I am not going to be writing about the different hues of poop or the nine ways of tying a nappy, or burping a baby or interviewing a maid, neither am in going down the clichéd yummy mummy road.

Two weeks post my turning mom, people in my universe are surprised when they find me taking calls, reading while nursing, shopping, cooking, answering emails, logging onto facebook, uploading pictures, changing status messages, lustily rooting for Roddick with my baby in tow, while the whole world (including the husband) went ga ga over Federer. I reason it out in my head by thinking, “As long as I am performing my mommy duties, there’s no harm entertaining myself on the side, is there? After all, I have a life!”

Their reactions range from shock to disbelief. “What? You are up and about?,” said one who came to the hospital.

“I can’t believe you answered the phone,” said another. So dude, why exactly did you call me.

“What’s a good time to visit?,” is another common enquiry. Well, I am still figuring that one out, but if you can come and hang in there, or entertain me while I perform my motherly duties, you are more than welcome, any time of day or night.

“Motherhood has not mellowed you one bit,” remarked a third, on my acidic response to a comment on facebook. No, and why should it?

Blame it on the hormones. Fortunately for me, the feel-good ones took over. So oxytocin and prolactin and more estrogen won over corticotrophin and the other bad guys, and as my uterus shrinks back to normal, here I am, feeling bouncy, with no visible signs of post partum blues exactly two weeks after birthing. (My poor mom! Her last chance to sober me down has also gone down the drain.)

My point is, I would have the benefit of doubt even if I was feeling any other way. Like my best buddy J says, “Hormones are a girl’s best friend.” What makes hormones such a great thing is that they tend to legitimize every conceivable state of mind—a privilege that men don’t have—and this unfortunately, is a conversation I cannot have with my little boy for a long, long time.

Daddy’s girl

"How are you? Everything okay? Under control?”

It was a first from my dad… okay, it’s a first for me to be pregnant and ready to pop and all of that, and I notice the dynamic around me slowly change with every passing month, but still… this degree of articulated concern from the father is something I haven’t been used to. And I have been through enough to deserve it.

For the longest time, I was always ‘one of the boys’ as far as my dad was concerned. We went to the same salon for a haircut when I was little, watched matinees together, played rummy, I was his errand girl for ciggies till my mother put a blanket ban on it, he inducted me into watching test cricket… exploring obscure places on the map, and quizzing. What we also shared was a passion for cooking, in which we collaborated quite often, to produce delicacies ‘off the rack’

Of course he also took me shopping, but it was always, “One, two three… pick up something soon, while I have a smoke at the door. Five minutes?”

Later, as I dated suitable and unsuitable boys, he had just a peripheral interest in what they were all about, and rarely went beyond a handshake or a grunt in his communication. To him, they were mere distractions, something that his "limited attention span Gemini daugher" would soon lose interest in, and until I announced I was marrying the man, he was never of any consequence.

It’s true that he never thought I needed to be ‘escorted’ for an early morning class that I had to take a 5.30 am train for (and the railway station was a good twenty minute walk from the house), or even fetch me post a late night excursion. As my mother whined about how times were bad and one had to take special care of daughters, my dad puffed away, “She is a tough one,” he would say. “I wouldn’t worry about her..”

I guess I was, and amply demonstrated it at age fourteen on a trip to Delhi, when a country bumpkin tried to paw me in one of the Teen Murti Bhavan museums… I picked up a stool to hit him with before dad arrived and tried to calm me down. He realized then that I was a woman.

Now, as I waddle into my last stage of pregnancy, dad can’t help but notice how vulnerable I am, physically at least… and I can sense that there is a lot he wants to say and ask, but all he manages, on the phone or in person is, “How are you?”

I guess it’s a big deal for him being a grand dad and all of that. More importantly, he realizes that finally, we will be even. We will soon both be parents, and that’s a bit surreal to deal with.

Some mothers do 've them

"Lap it all up now. Very soon, it will no longer be about you,” said one veteran mom who dropped by last week to check on how I was doing.

She is not the only one. Every woman has something to say about the imminent ‘storm.’

“Try and get all the sleep you can now…you ain’t getting any for months now..”

“ Don’t worry, all the pain will be worth it, when you hold your bundle of joy…”

“Watch TV, lie on your side…”

“Listen to music, read, talk to your baby…”

“Whatever you do, don’t use disposable diapers.. take it from me…”

“That’s the end of your life…only susu-potty now…”

Believe me, these are not regressive, low self-esteem, purposeless women—most of them have been high achievers, super-bright and super-creative, held or still hold good jobs, are attractive, articulate and make good money, but somehow transform into mommy divas the minute they know you are expecting.

Unlike marriage or career, motherhood instills a cockiness in all women, as though they have got a booster shot of hormonal confidence. Everyone, right from the lady in the lift to the maid to random woman you met at the Café to the sales assistant at the mall has this “We know.. we have been there” look and some advice to offer.

I wondered how such martyr mothers get created. Is it that some women use motherhood to create a new power equation that is so fuzzy that the world lets them have the benefit of doubt, because it’s pointless challenging it anyway?

But one friend Vasu who will remain my inspiration said something to me that stuck. “You will realize that there will always be another way … that you could have done many things differently. That someone else always knows more than you do. But when it comes to babies, expect the unexpected… just do what instinctively comes to you.”

It’s surreal, but I feel something is going to irreversibly change about me by the time I write this column again, which could well be next week, or a few weeks from now. I just hope it’s for the better.

Of course I will do exactly what seems right to me, even though I feel more laden with an information overdose than the 13 extra kilos on me. Yes, I am fully aware of the divide between natural birthing and epidural infused labour, of the politics of C-secs versus vaginal deliveries, of actual labour versus induced labour, of nursing versus formula, of super-lactating cows versus existential milk machines.

I do not know where I will fit into all this motherhood hierarchy and frankly, I don’t care. All I know is that I will be one cool mom. And hopefully, I will have enough chick and wit in me to last a while, mommydom notwithstanding.

Parent trap

The mother is over to ease me into childbirth, as I waddle through my last days of pregnancy. We haven’t shared a habitat in a while and have different approaches to things—life, people, food—although when it comes to hospital visits, my mother has much more bravado than I do. She has, after all, squeezed twins out, had valve replacements and dealt with ICUs like it’s second nature to her.

We are both currently in parenting modes in different ways, as she cares for me and I do the same for the little one kicking away inside of me. And then of course there are my two resident feline offspring, who have also sensed that something’s up, so they are ever so gentle and clingy with me, and we also have conversations about the same. The husband, who still doesn’t speak Cat finds it fascinating to hear an ongoing dialogue that me and Nadia (my first born) or Bravo (my three legged James Bond of a cat) have at 6 am every day. Nadia seems concerned that our relationship will change, and I assure her that it won’t, and before she knows it, my child and her will be buddies. Bravo doesn’t have any such apprehensions, and is in a “more, the merrier” kind of zone.

I have always wondered whether I’d make a good mother—even though I have had (and continue to have) a pretty good innings with four legged babies— the fact that one day, my two-legged offspring could tell me (as I do to my mom) that what I’m doing doesn’t make sense, and here is a better way, rattles me.

I also have a high benchmark to live up to, as mine is nothing short of a super mom. She has balanced work, parenting, social life and family ties immaculately, and is a top scorer in each of these spheres. She loved her job till the very end (after having worked close to forty years) and won many accolades in her long career, and is still fondly remembered as a teacher. As a mother, I think she did a pretty good job of us, me and my twin siblings, though she still laments, “If only I had more time. If I could only have stayed at home..”

The problem with being a parent is that one never ceases to be one— it’s a process that begins, but never ends, like it hasn’t for my mother— I had better come to terms with that. And it’s not about cleaning poop or washing butts or feeding or any of the chores. It’s about always putting someone else’s interest before yours. Marriage doesn’t necessarily teach you that; hopefully, becoming a parent does.

Am I ready for it? I don’t know, but will soon find out.