Impatience

I yearn for you and in yearning realise
I have never felt anything like this before.
The fear, the love, the passion,
The overwhelming sense I have been waiting for this.

For so long.

I am dying to touch you, to hold you, to smell you, to cuddle you.
Even to have you puke and dribble on me.
I won’t say I am overjoyed at the thought of,
Ballistic baby potty…

But if it means you have good bowel movement,
I will be enthralled at the efficiency of your li’l bowels.
And your little hands, little toes, round little bottom
And the eyes that I so imagine now.

Eyes like mine, eyes like his.

The eyes that I will look into
And behold the wonder at what you see.
To wonder at what you think
And what or who you will grow up to be.

I cannot wait to have our first argument,
When I will know that you are expressing your will
And despite wanting it my way, an old habit
I will revel in the fact that you have your own opinions.

And moan at how stubborn you can be. (I know it)

I am terrified sometimes that you might not be
But then I banish those thoughts as easily as they come
For you have my will and your father’s strength of being
And I believe you shall be and be all that you can be.

You are the epitome of my hopes, my dreams, all the love I can possibly have.

I know there will be times when you will think I am silly
When perhaps I will not be as cool, calm or smart as other moms
But I hope you will see that I am trying for you
And that at times I will seek your help in being all I can be.

For I do believe there will be things you will know better than me.

I am dying to dress you up, to marvel at the beauty I know you are.
To relive everything I could not be, am not.
I know that soon you will not want to wear what I decide
And I hope that perhaps then you will pick out what I should wear instead

And think that I am the prettiest mom you have ever laid eyes on.

I love you. Already. Totally. Irrevocably.
And I desperately hope you will love me.
It’s not fair, I know, to want so much from you.
But I am weak and I have my faults

And I hope that just like your father, you will love me despite my faults…

I hope you will enjoy head massages and give them to me as well
I want to see you swim even if you laugh at how scared I can be in water
I want to see you dive and hold my hand and teach me how.
I want to see you play and teach me new tricks…

And new words, even though I fear they might be slangs.

I am dying to touch you, to hold you, to smell you, to cuddle you.
To have you and be blessed that you are mine.
Ours. To love.

Stranger danger

One of my earliest random memories is from when I was 9-years-old. I had just won a prize for a dance performance (on Jahan chaar yaar mil jaaye from Sharaabi!) at an army function and was being pretty much adored by everyone around. ‘Everyone’ then included lots of army ‘uncles’ and ‘aunties’ and particulary a large number of ‘young’ uncles. Young uncles in the army are unmarried lieutenants and captains who are (or were back then at least) usually treated as the kids at a cantonment.

What I clearly remember is not the dancing or the prize but of some young uncle picking me up in his arms and throwing me in the air while the others cheered and applauded my (excellent) dance moves… and later, of Papa growling at Ma for ‘letting’ that officer pick me up, Ma whining her helplessness and Papa finishing off with, “You don’t let any bastard touch my daughter”. I remember feeling bad for Ma and being confused at Papa’s reaction (didn’t he like my dance?) and yet understanding then (and for the rest of my life) that Papa did not want me picked up or cuddled – even as a 9 year old – by other men, even nice young uncles.

kaise ho?

There's really no point in me apologising for vanishing acts since I know I could (and would) be doing it again. Lots has been happening.

For one, Bub is kicking around, not very hard and you still cannot feel it from the top (as in if you place your hand on tummy etc) but I sure can feel the flutters. Doesn't seem to like spicy food since it kicks more after curries. Hrmph. I am determined that Bub shall like curries -- and all Indian food -- as much as its mum does; though I shall compromise and feed it vegemite as well. Personally I can't stand the damn thing.