"Your Son Is Just Like You!"

My baby boy scorns all toys that are not noisy. Also, he refuses to reach for anything apart from his diapers, wipes, the remote control and my phone. I'm hoping this is temporary.

His other favorite plaything - noses. Other peoples' noses. He's developed this sudden fascination and squeals and giggles as he reaches for the biggest, shiniest nose he can find. We were at a wedding yesterday and as we stepped up to the happy couple to congratulate them, my son shrieked and lunged for the groom's nose. When he saw that his Amma was about to play spoilsport he held on with both hands and screamed delightedly at the top of his all too impressive lungs. This soon developed into a free for all that included a highly thrilled baby, a polite but not-thrilled groom (who I have never seen before and will be avoiding for a very long time) and a very embarrassed, blathering me. I managed to pry my baby's hands away by bribing him with my ponytail, and hastily made my apologies as he happily tugged my hair out with both his pudgy hands.

My own Amma was watching all this happily from the audience. And as I huffed up to her she beamed, "Serves you right!" And I knew exactly what she was talking about.

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Circa 1989 : Amma was not pet-friendly. In fact she absolutely refused to believe that a 6 yr old girl could be completely responsible for a puppy, despite what Enid Blyton had to say on the subject. So I just had to work around that, didn't I? I did, by collecting head lice in a little plastic bowl. My great plan was to breed them, and thus prove to Amma that I can definitely take care of pets, several of them, in fact. So I sat down one afternoon and combed a whole lot of lice (oh I had plenty to spare) into a round plastic jar.... and promptly forgot all about them. Some time later Amma walked in to find lice crawling all over the dressing table. Fireworks exploded all around, and I walked around with a sore bum for a week.

Circa 1993:  Still working on convincing Amma to get that puppy. By now we had moved to a house on the banks of a river, which opened up a whole new world of possibilities. This time I talked some fishermen into giving me a handful of mussels. Pets, you see. I had the bright idea of hiding them in the wardrobe. And then I went off to have lunch, and forgot all about them. A week later Amma followed the stench to the wardrobe and found a pile of green, stinky, worm infested mussels among her silk saris. I was done for.

Circa 2008 : I was working in Bangalore at the time. Amma called up one afternoon, panicking over the bomb blasts that were ripping the city. "I can't talk now! Apparently a bomb went off near my bus stand, I'm going off to explore! Oh and my phone will die any minute. Don't worry ma, I'll call from a booth. Sometime".

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Over the years I have attempted to run away with beggars, caught trains headed in the wrong direction, made a long list of dubious friendships, earned a reputation for being chronically accident prone, and generally tried my very best to get my Amma to strangle me. She never did.

Now she's sitting back and waiting to for the show to start.

"He's going to be just like you", she smiles.

Proof of Identity

When I was in the 7th STD, I turned in (what I thought was a brilliant) essay on my ambition. I wanted to be a housewife. With three children and two dogs, reigning serenely over a house that was drenched in sunlight and stuffed with books. Oh and I also wanted to write.

My essay was not received the way the others were. Even as I type this, I'm still seething at the way our English teacher took my composition book to other classrooms to laugh at my expense.

But I'm wandering off the point of this post.

My point is, I've always wanted the life I have now. No more worrying about deadlines, a husband who is more than everything I dared dream of, and a wonderful baby boy. I finally did it. I should be thrilled.

So why am I feeling all blurry around the edges?

Maybe it has to do with the way I cannot recognize this new woman who gapes back at me from the mirror. Who has gone in the space of one year from seemingly-anorexic to definitely-wannabe- fertility goddess.

Perhaps it has to do with the stage whisper that I overheard. The one about how I pissed away my education "for nothing, to be nothing".

Or the way my heart crashes near my swollen ankles every time my husband reassures me that he really doesn't care what I look like. When did that go from being comforting to downright scary?

But what brought it home was the way the pen pusher at the local village office laughed at my attempts to change my maiden name today. Apparently they don't let you do that because husbands can and do change, while you can only have one set of parents all your life. So my husband and son have the same surname, I don't. What the hell!

I spent over an hour convincing said pen pusher that I have every right to take on my husband's name. I even waved a page from Femina that gave details on just how to go about it. No go. I'm allowed one name, one identity all my life. I'm always somebody's daughter, they couldn't care less that I'm also a wife and mother.

After a whole morning spent running from one government office to another clutching a file full of 'identity proofs', I staggered home sweaty and exhausted. And screeching at me through the window was my 8 month old son. This was the first time I had spent hours away from him, and his tiny heart was broken. He squealed till I walked into the living room and then he flew out of his grandmother's arms straight into mine, puking in delight down my neck. And after I was done apologizing profusely for sneaking out, we were back to our favorite game - trying to teach him to say Amma. As always, he stared at me as I said "Ammmmmmaaaa" and then dissolved in helpless laughter as if it was the funniest thing he's heard all week. And it probably was.

There we were, rolling on the toy-strewn bed, laughing, squealing, cuddling. Was I really feeling low only a few minutes ago?

I'm his Amma, the best he's ever known. And I intend to do my darned best to stay that way.

Here we go!

So here I am. Back in Gurgaon. But this time I'm armed with a baby and the 3 month post-delivery honeymoon has officially ended. My Amma dumped me here and promptly retured to Kerala ("Hey I didn't teach her how to make a baby! She'll figure this one out too.") and now I'm here with a husband who has more enthusiasm than information and a baby who is rapidly figuring out that his Amma is a wimp.

There are odd moments when I get it right. I stay awake after the 5am feed and flit about the flat cleaning, dusting and talking my plants into staying alive. But somehow this energy dwindles and before I know it I'm crawling back into bed, sometimes whimpering louder than my (now hungry again) son.

Those are the good days. There are others that are doomed from the start. For instance when I accidentally give my colicky baby Nasivion saline solution instead of Colimex, wake up my neighbours to borrow Vim to wash his bottles, or curse Fabindia loudly and vehemently for coming out with baby clothes that ALWAYS stain the rest of my son's carefully chosen wardrobe.

But through these days both good and bad there are moments of endless laughter. I love the way he leans forward to stare at me when I pick him up. His neck is still wobbly and he ends up landing slobbery kisses all over my face, much to my delight. He freaks himself out when he farts in his bath tub and stares at me as I howl with laughter. I could feel my face turn purple when my husband's friend pointed out that my son was giving me very meaningful looks as he sucked on his Pluto doll's pointy snout.

All in all, everyday is still an adventure and I'm learning every step of the way. Now if only I could stay awake long enough to know what the lesson is all about.

I exist. Therefore... I call for help!

Its been 4 months since my baby boy decided to make a rather dramatic arrival into my arms. Perhaps it was only a small indication of how things will be for sometime, a lesson in panic, to make it very clear that no matter how ready I think I am, I'm only as ready as he chooses to let me be. Its been 4 months of  exhaustion, laughter, pride and of being overwhelmed by a love so strong it knocks the wind out of me.

I was so sure I'd remember everything about him. The way he smiled at the NICU, how he rocked his bilirubin glasses, how frantic I was when I thought I didn't have any milk for him.. Now the more I try to remember through tightly closed eyes, the faster my precious memories dissipate.

So here goes. A journal of sorts. Or a safe room for me to exhale and just be. Or perhaps its my way of reaching out to those who started this journey before me.

(Hey! So I'm starting a Mom Blog for the exact same reason as countless other moms! Surely thats something I'm doing right!)