Situational Comedy: Fodder for Fight

Z has a knack for saying and doing just the very things that tick me off, of course it helps that my moods are highly volatile and of late I find myself instantaneously combustible (all credit to Z again).

Situation 1: I'm frenetically packing for our weekend trip to RAK while Z lounges with the laptop. This, in Z's books is giving me space!
Z: Keep a nail cutter and file in the bag.
Me: Why? Didn’t you cut your nails at work, you took these things with you to office.
Z: I was busy.
Me: Heavens forbid, were you actually working at work today?!
Z: I was uploading pics on face book!


Situation 2: Driving to RAK (I’ve to keep up a constant and annoyingly inane chatter to make sure Z stays awake, he’s been known to fall asleep at the wheel, driving on the highway at 120 kph!) Z and I’ve decided that a woman can either be brainy or beautiful (I did say inane).

Me: So which of the two am I? (I’m smug and cackling with glee that an answer either way would mean a neat fight lasting the weekend)
Z: erm…
Me: What?
Z: I thought I was marrying a brainy woman!

When I Am Me

I just realised that my last update was SIX months ago! And just now, signing in on blogger I'd forgotten my username and password. Says it all.
I'm alive and doing well, as well as the mother of a teething Tyke should be doing, for those 0.00001 occasional reader(s) who still harbor hopes of some new material on this blog...
The thing is, my life has become so mundane and mommy-like that blog as I would want to about it, I have second thoughts, I mean why would anyone be interested in Tyke's doings and cooings that my life is all about now? I can't talk if there is no audience, there is no one to listen to. Also I can't repeat my stories, so I've told Abu Tyke all that Tyke has done in the day, for me, the story's been told and even a passing mention here would be a repetition and oh sooo not me.
But there should be something in my life....anything...taking stock...no, there is nothing.
I still manage to give vent to my crazy verbosity cuz an old friend talked me into a monthly column out of me for her magazine...and poor thing has to yank her hair out every month as copy closing time approaches cuz I am usually AWOL. When I finally promise her to send her the article by the evening or next day (or two days later) and sit down, I amaze myself by the drivel I'm still capable of creating...inanities just shoot off my fingers and materialise before my eyes into a 900 word piece of fantasy that's sheer genius. So I'm me post Tyke...l but it comes out in te time of need, like Clark Kent/SuperMan.

Once upon a time...

Yaad e maazi azab hai ya rab,
Chheen le mujh se hafza mera

Three in the morning is an abysmally dejecting time, the wisest course of action, if you happen to wake at this unfortunate hour, is to turn on your side and go right back to slumber land. Not tonight. As I woke up at three to feed the Tyke I could not go back to sleep, partly because my back was shooting painful needles of discomfort up and down my spine and there was not one comfortable position to try and lie in, much less attempt sleep. Then there was the matter of a trip down memory lane…and wondering what if…it took better part of the next hour and half till I gave up on sleep altogether and came out to sit and struggle to string together my thoughts.. Write down and get those nagging self doubts out in the open to air-dry and die a natural death!
Once upon a time in the land of pure and plenty, there was a girl who had it all. And then she gladly gave it all up to get married and have Tyke. Yes, that pretty much sums up her life. She still has it all, only the ‘all’ has changed altogether.
The alarm still rings early in the mornings, but now she wakes up to fix breakfast for her husband. Once he’s been seen off to work the day takes a semi-start as the Tyke wakes up and has to be fed, changed and put back to nap till late morning. The nap over Tyke demands that he be changed again, has his breakfast, plays a while and then has to be bathed and put back to sleep again, a set of tasks that go into early after-noon. If lucky the girl manages to squeeze in some breakfast, else she has to wait and have a hurriedly fixed brunch. Whoever said anything about leisurely brunches was never in Tykesville. Post brunch is going about the house, gathering things, cleaning up, endeavoring a semblance of order and cleanliness, take a shot at cooking…trying in vain to be a picture of domesticity. Old habits die hard though and there are few breaks clocked on the laptop, browning and surfing, logging onto facebook and conducting social life online. Time that has her guilt-ridden. Then as the sun sets in, hubby comes home and takes over the Tyke and she withdraws into the kitchen and fixes dinner. Post dinner is another hour putting the Tyke to sleep, then an hour of cleaning up the kitchen and finally to bed. The times change but the drill stays in place. The girl of course is me and such a sham to be labelled a girl, I am now a certifiably over-weight matronly auntie.
Two years ago, I had a career, a social and family life I was entirely pleased with. I was the cat who was content with all the cream. And yet I complained f monotony, of going back to work each morning, and coming home to dinner, TV and sleep. But I mastered my own life and time. There were outings and shopping trips, there was not a sale in town I did not pay a visit to with friends and family. Dressing up was a seriously taken affair. I had shoes, bags, scarves and dresses; putting the right ‘look’ together was such a delightful, fulfilling task. Women, I think or at least my experience says so, dress up not to show off , but to get a sense of satisfaction themselves; that they are presenting the best and most collected face to the world. If they carry themselves with an elan that others mistake for a jaunty flaunt, tough luck.
I’ve been thinking and comparing my past life to my present more often now. And it strikes me most unexpectedly…like three in the morning. I look back to a wonderful day I’d spent with W and A, my ex-boss who’d come for a visit. I took off from work, W played hookie and we cruised DCC, shopping for shoes and bags, lunching at Ikea and talking. After we’d left A back at her hotel, W and I had gone to another mall. I still have pictures of that day somewhere at Ma’s place back in Karachi. All tit-bits of that past life, come to think of it, are stowed away in Karachi. All I carried with me when I got married last year was vague vestiges of these memories and hopes for the future.
Those hopes now lie by my side in the angelic face of the Tyke. As the grayish dawn light breaks into my dark living room, I first think that I will lie on the couch and try to sleep till the alarm rings off signaling the start of another day. Then I realize that I won’t be able to manage a wink. ‘cuz when I turn to my side, there would be no tiny little face rising out of a blue blanket to greet my sight. And then the Tyke smiles in his sleep and it washes away everything, all the bleak comparisons that kept me awake. He’ll wake up soon and flash his gummy grin at me…after that look of utter adoration that he has for me alone…followed by his adorable coos and squeals. What’s another diaper change and a slummy existence?
Dawn has broken the gloom, things are looking up and now I have to get back to be at my son’s side when he wakes up. He's not at all what I'd hoped for...he's better than anything I could've wished for myself. As I said earlier, I still am blessed with all. Just that 'all' has changed.

Month two into mommy hood

All baby books, guides and sites suggest that babies at two months tire easily, two hours is the maximum they stay awake, then they have to replenish their energy supplies and take a nap. The Tyke, of course can not read at two months and does not realise that he’s tired and should sleep after two hours of fussing/crying/playing, he does not know. So he gets cranky when he’s tired and he cries, then he gets more tired and hence more fussy till he’s had his tantrum for a further two hours and then he does not mind being cuddled to sleep. During his awake time, he manages to squeeze in all possible activities a two month old is capable of; he feeds, burps, throws up, gets his clothes changed, poos, pees, gets his diaper changed, hiccups and is picked up to be patted into relief, coos and plays a while, is put down in a seemingly good mood and promptly starts protesting, fusses, looks around, cocks his head to figure out if there’s anyone around to pick him, locates target and starts flinging his limbs and making adorable noises and squeals to get noticed and picked up, is picked up, he cries some more because he’s tired but does not want to sleep, he’s fighting off sleep by now and fighting with anyone who tries to put him to sleep…after he’s so tired he can’t keep his eyes open any more, he drifts into sleep, and God help you if you put him down any second before he’s deep in slumber land…his eyes pop open the moment his itsy bitsy bum hit’s the bed and the cycle is repeated all over again. No book, guide, site mentions baby tantrums, nor do they warn new moms of baby projectiles.
The Tyke has marked me as the perfect target for all his bodily ejections. I can’t claim a fresh change of clothes for more than ten minutes. Soonest I change, the Tyke will have to be fed, changed, put to sleep etc. and he will lay claim to his mom in the only way he knows…a smelly release from his teeny tiny orifices or a vile missile at nappy changing time. As long as I smell like he does, he knows where his mom is.
The Tyke is a spoilt brat now. His grandmas were here for nearly two months, he’s of course marked them as his own in the only way he knows, targeting his shots at them, and the grandmas cuddled him into believing that he ruled supreme. He does in a way, he’s taken over the entire house and dictates my routine. Nano talked to him all the time, the Tyke expects non-stop chatter during his waking hours, he may or not deign to reply. He was massaged and bathed daily and he lorded in his little bath-tub. When Nano left he was restless for two days till we figured he was fussy for a massage and bath.
Dado cuddled and rocked the Tyke deep into sleep, he held her dupatta, shirt, chain, anything he could grab and fisted it tight. Only deep in sleep his hold could get lax enough to release Dado and then he would be put down to bed.
The bed, Nano got him a velvety bedding set. We tried putting him to sleep on the living room sofa so that he was before everyone’s eyes but he started getting restless again…and then his Dado figured out that he found the sofa hard and wanted to sleep on his soft bed. Now his velvety bed goes where he goes, sleep or play, the Prince.
Nano left and Dada came for another round of pampering. The Tyke made sure his grandpa would not sit idle, literally. The Tyke expects, nay, demands that he be picked up and walked around.
More later, my allotted 45 minutes of rest have signaled a crying end.
The Tyke is awake and demanding my ministrations

The Tyke Taketh Over

So this happens when a little bundle takes over your life. The Tyke arrived on 12th Rabi ul Awwal, also 20th March 2008. Ma was here two days before The Arrival, so I had help, all the same I find Mommyhood overwhelming. I panicked into day three into Mommyhood, had loads of other issues that had to be battled and over come. The Tyke would be a month old day after tomorrow and I blog about hime today..it's not as if I was waiting on SZI, that's Tyke, all the time 24/7 for a month. I've left him with his Nano and Dado twice now and run errands with Z. We've been out and about, even doing grocery when he was barely a week old!

So we now have a baby boy to put all those lovely clothes on, cuddle, clean, bathe, love and generally have our lives taken over by him.

I just don't know what to write when it comes to him, my Tyke Tikolo...my life has changed entirely and I don't mind it one bit...in fact, I'm lovin' it!

On another note, I've been blogging since ages now, December 2002, to be exact...long journey and what paltry content to show for it!

Why is it when men play they always play at killing each other?

The world’s gone mad, or perhaps it already was and I’ve started noticing it and worrying about its lunacy more often now. It simply isn’t worth the while to switch on the idiot box and tune into any news channel. One day as I put on Geo, a slide flashed by, announcing of blasts in Lahore. I called up at home, they did not even know of the blasts at the time, but calls were made all around and every one was fine. Then the other day I switched on the telly again and there was news of two blasts in Lahore again. This time I did not call Lahore, the blasts were too close for comfort, in Model Town Block F where Z’s khala lives. I called up Z instead who told me all was fine…and that people in Pakistan were calling him up to know that he was alright after the TV informed them of the 200 car pile-up on Sheikh Zayed Road. I switched off the TV. Later in the day we learnt that the FIA building bomb was a staggering 65 kg of explosives, that the Model Town blast was so strong that windows and shattered at khala’s place…and the death toll…the disturbing images of the the building about to fall any time, footage of the pick-up knocking down a constable to enter the FIA premises. All in a day. Trying to learn more about the Sheikh Zayed road inferno I landed on this.
Whether by accident or by design, or designed to look like an accident, when there is so little respect for the lives of ordinary citizens, when law enforcing and security personnel, when the very people who have pledged to defend you are ordered to take action against you and your family, what are you to do? When you see your loved ones die before your eyes and no reason else to live, suicide bombing must come easy.

I'm these days in a total feminazi, man-hating phase, and such news does not help in placating my dislike of man-kind. Then there is the political circus in Pakistan. How can anyone, even the most vegetatively brainy, intellectually challenged of men believe for even a second that the public believes in their shenanigans, their make up and shake up in the parliament for power? How can anyone one day show disdain for public office and then let know that they are in the running for the PM’s slot? And that's just one example of a total volte face men are so prone to. Not just in politics and in Pakistan, world over and in all spheres of life. I have so many examples handy, so much reason to hate men in general for the wretched state of things in the world, before I get any more vitriolic, I'd better stop...not advisable in present circumstances.

tagged!

A book related tag? These days? Luckily there is enough reading fodder littered round the house for me to get out of this with some respectability vis a vis my reading habits.

The closest book I had is 'The World is Flat; a brief history of the twenty first century' by NYTimes staffer Thomas Friedman. I started on the book quite ambitiously but have not yet gotten round to reaching page 123. Let's see what it says...

For a brief time, he (John Seigenthaler Sr.) was thought to have been directly involved in the Kennedy assasinations of both John, and his brother Bobby. Nothing was ever proven.

This is about an entry on wikipedia. One of these days I would eventually finish off this book and start on Freakonomics and Ideas: From Fire to Freud. Intelligent reads that look impressive sitting and gathering dust on the bookshelf. Now whom to tag...I've been out of the blogging scene sooooo long and such a lethargic being these days, even thinking five names is such a task. Can the tag end here please?

The Tyke's New Clothes

It's strange how you've never paid attention to any baby thing before and now that you're enceinte, you need blinkers every time you go to the mall else you end up at shops selling teeny tiny stuff. Ever since I bought the first two sets of clothing in n/b size December, I can't, simply can't keep myself from being drawn into such shops. First it was Sis and SiL's impending motherhood that had me scouting for stuff. And the first trip to Mothercare. I did a whole lot of reading and researching on the Internet, browsed through any and all baby shops in the malls we visited...and that's a lot of malls in the emirate that has a whole festival planned around shopping! That was before DSF even started. And then came DSF and the whole shopping/whopping discount mania that ensues. The whole of DCC was on sale, crazy sale...we of course had frequented Mothercare enough times already before any sale was announced and when eventually it was announced, went in too late to get any good bargains. But I'll let you in on what we did get...absolutely jaano stuff from Zara Baby, Adam's, Carter's and some basics from BabyShop.

It's a whole different type of obsessive-compulsive shopping that I've gotten hooked onto. Anything tiny and I want it, clothes, shoes, socks, bibs, blankets, vests, towels, pillows you name it, I want it. And all that is when I have a whole list of essentials in my bag all the times, that and a time-line of the tyke's age in 0-3, 3-6 and 6-9 months onwards in months, just to be sure I don't end up buying fleece jackets for a 5 month old and pray it snows in July! Has all that planning helped? Hardly, I have my side of the wardrobe taken over by teeny stuff...not that I have anything that I can actually wear these days to hang in there. So while Amma has to make do with just three joras through her last trimester...the tyke has clothing it can wear when it's 6-9 months, InshaAllah! Actually it's just one tee that I had to get.

The problem is with all those hormones raging inside you and a wait that lasts eight months, you have to do something to keep busy, asides lashing out at Abba and waddling and pottering around the house...and complaining of various aches and wishing some of all that you're going through, not all, just some, let's say 10%, pays a visit to Abba for not a month, but just a week so that he has an idea of what it's like to become a mom...and so that he appreciates his mom more. I know for a fact that now I love Ma more than anything...I may still fight with her and resent her at times, but all the same, thinking she went through all this to get to me and then my siblings later on makes me admire her more than ever.

Mostly during the day when I have nothing else to do, I go to the wardrobe and take out little clothes and measure them against each other (how short is a n/b size when compared to a 3 month size...and how do sizes at Mothercare and Carter's stand up etc.). After Z failed to show the required enthusiasm when I was showing him things he'd seen and bought with me for the 5th time, I decided NOT to include him in my game lest he dampen my spirit with his insouciance. I know the clothes can not have changed overnight in teh wardrobe but need he point it out so?

Now for reviews. When it comes to basics in clothing or even the layette, nothing beats Mothercare in terms io variety, comfort and sizing. It may be dearer than BabyShop but I stil find myself gravitating towards Mothercare. For other essentials, BabyShop is the place to go, be it items like push-chairs and car-seats to changing pads for teh li'l spills that would dictate the better part of next few years of your life. In terms of clothing, I found it boring. Yawn inducing boring. While at Mothercare I may go round and round in circles trying to figure out what to actually get, at BabyShop all I do is wonder why would anyone want to limit their child's dressing from the very beginning, thus damaging its sense of style for the rest of its life.

When it comes to dressing up the baby, Zara Kids, Adam's, Woolworth's and even BHS are good options...but my heart is set on Carter's. Of course it helps that there was sale at these places last month but the kind of clothing they have makes it worth teh while to spend all that money (Abba and the tyke's shopping at Zara amounted the same; teeny stuff costs more...and it needs more creativity to design small clothes you simply can't say no to...)I found myself going bonkers on learning that it was the last day of sale at Carter's two days ago. No other shop can make me drag myself to the mall and back in a cab these days. It's a small cubby-hole of a shop they have here at SCC but enough to make the mind reel. It also helps that their sizes are generous and roomy.

I talk as if I'm an expert in clothing and dressing babies. Honestly, when you look at all the brats and babies around, you can't be sure if they've got their dresses from Carter's or CarreFour...but it gives the parents a sense of well-being and providing well for the kid, I guess, when they frequent such up-scale shops. The tyke may grow up and decide it does not want to be branded by brands, just as its Amma doesn't care much for them. But quality is one thing I am not compromising on and so far, I've only known these retailers and their quality. Once the tyke's a bit grown up and out-grows clothes at a rate more than Abba's paycheck and raises, we'll have to re-think its wardrobe...At the moment Amma and Abba find it fun shopping for the tyke. OK, so Amma finds it more fun, Abba just indulges Amma lest he be subjected to another emotional outburst and a rankling that would spoil his weekend.

Once upon two feet

I love footwear ... and bags. My excuse for buying more chapals, sandals, mules, slip ons, sling-backs etc. is simple, I may have a blue pair of chapals but they are not the right shade for some of my clothes, or the right type for a particular 'look'. The variety of footwear available is staggering there are casuals, formals and smart casuals...my shoe size and preference in heels (or lack thereof) kind of limits my purchase options but I do love my chapals: the ones I'd bought and accumulated pre-nup, the ones I bought with wedding as an excuse, the ones I bought apres marriage each time I visited any market in Lahore, the city world famous for its footwear, and the ones I've bought since I've come landed here. Most of my pre-nup collection was taken over by sis and ma, who are the same shoe size as mine. Couple of real good ones I managed to salvage from the take-over and brought along here...and wore them quite smugly for a while.

So this is what I had here...and going out was fun 'cuz it meant I could dress up to favor my choice of footwear...


But that was a past life of course, I quit wearing the slightest of heels months ago and then early this year I learned that even flats made my life a standing/walking misery and I opted for comfort.
Now, with feet the shape and size as this, I can't even manage to get past my toes in any of my chapals...walking/standing is no longer a misery...my feet shoot pains even at rest...how much abuse can a pair of feet out up with anyways.


So now as I think of how much to accomplish any given standing/walking time I can manage, these are the footwear options I have...of this the yellow one is the latest acquisition after a trip to the mall promised to be a trying affair just as I'd set foot inside...and with what the signs of things, I'd be running out of foot space in these as well.

Good Luck

Luck is returning home with all your bones aching and cursing you to high heavens for the fatigue you put your body through...with a trunk full of grocery...braving a freezing wind that locks your spine into immobility and all vertebrae-tibio-fibula combinely refusing to bugde an inch to drag your weary self into the building entrance...and finding that only one lift/elevator is working in your building. And there is a long, long queue of disgruntled people waiting for it. After a painful wait the lift arrives, people flock in and the signal for excess weight starts blaring in the lift; you haven't even stepped in! Luck is then gathering all your will power and trudging up the stairs to your second floor apartment...sans any grocery bag because of the earlier chill-induced temporary handicap. Good Luck is waiting for an hour, fretting over frozen grocery that might thaw and get spoilt, but waiting out the lift rush and then venturing out to get the stuff...and finding that the only working lift is also now out of order...so walking downstairs, again earning the wrath of your weary body and a back that no longer aches...it's venomously shooting pains all over. Then comes will power...getting slapped by the arctic-close winds...lumbering to the car and picking up grocery bags, bringing them to the stairs, dump them, go back again for the second lot...and slog up the stairs - whose lights are set-up to stay alight for only a minute -landing by landing...finally making it home. And realise there's another trip to make to the car for some more things, and as luck would have it, heavier than the last lot...

That's extremely good luck, 'cuz you live on the second floor, both the lifts are out of order and there are NINE floors in your building!