Could have gotten a Swordman brand ho-hum tub at a fraction of the price, but I love the sling!
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a mother in expectation of a girl, must be in want of all things pink and frilly.”
(Jane Austen, in Pride And Joy, a sequel about post-nuptial Elizabeth and her Mr Darcy never written)
I think I need professional help.
While I’ve overdone the black theme while shopping to clothe my expanding body, I now find myself unable to resist the lure of all things girlie for my soon-to-debut princess : pink, lacy, frilly and so-cute-I’d-just-buy-it-first-and-see-if-there’s-any-use-for-it-later kind of stuff.
I just got an all-pink bathtub, complete with a sling. I’d worry about the colour inappropriateness later, if ever my second child is a boy.
My shopping cart in various online baby stores contains all sorts of nice-to-have but not necessarily essential gear : pairs and pairs of fancy socks in the sweetest colors imaginable, leather booties with floral appliques, pretty leggings, bow-and-lace headbands, rather pricey bibs with cute statements like “I Love Mummy” (aww…), dresses in petite sizes mostly likely to be outgrown in a matter of weeks.
There’s also this 0-3 months infant swimsuit from Baby Gap…Never mind that she’ll outgrow it before we have the opportunity to head to the nearest pool or beach (Port Dickson is so polluted, Damai Beach in Kuching - when we return next year - isn’t great either)! Thankfully, I haven’t caught the cloth diaper craze yet - another bank account bleeder.
The last thing I want is to raise a girl so engrossed in gender stereotypes of her own mummy’s doing, so after much deliberation and a helping of self-restraint, I got the infant seat and stroller in BLACK. But I have no doubt how lovely she’ll look in a pink car seat…
Someone help me!!!
The Injury
Took a tumble while walking the short distance from my parked car to my regular chap fan lunch joint.
I stepped on a pebble and lost my footing. In that split second 3 things flashed before me : A shifting field of vision, the face of a lady in front of me contorting in horror, and the sudden realisation that I’m in trouble summed up in 2 words - oh s**t! Thankfully my pillar of support (literally) was there to catch me, but not before one knee hit the asphalt. The damage : Nasty abrasions, nearly-torn tights at point of impact, and a bruised ego.
Haven’t had that grand a display of incoordination in a long long time. The last time I took a very public tumble was at KLIA - I went flying into the air as the passenger conveyor I was on reached its end with yours truly riding backwards, engrossed in a conversation with someone.
Will be walking around with a yellow-stain on my knee for a few days.
Baby Ashley - one day-old
My sister-in-law delivered a lovely baby girl last week, and we were back home in Klang to welcome the first baby on my side of the family.
Besides, I could do with a primer. My last contact with a baby was way way back when my little sister was born, with a wide 9-year gap between us. I don’t remember much of those early months, probably because I didn’t help out as much as I should - only sketchy details of baby poo, oversized baby clothes (she had a low birthweight) and lots and lots of diaper changes.
So we were all thrilled, and I was actually amazed at how calm my brother was, this usually kan cheong young man who’s just become a father.
However, the bundle of joy exposed us as bundles of incompetence as soon as she started crying and staging an escape from her swaddle blanket ala prison break.
Brother aka Daddy : Arghh! Arms free. Mittens off. Long fingernails alert (she’s had a few superficial scratches on her perfect facial skin already, and I think her daddy’s heart must have bled a little each time a new injury was inflicted)!
Little sister aka Little Auntie : *runs away* I only said I’d be helping with the laundry.
Little Ashley continued crying. She’s just been fed. The room temperature was just right. What could be wrong?
Me aka Big Auntie aka Genius : Hey people, maybe she’s wet!
She hadn’t been changed for the last 4 hours since returning from the hospital, and true enough, her diaper was wet!
The father brought down the whole jumbo pack of disposable diapers and shoved it into my hands.
Mum aka Granny : (last child birth 24 years ago): So squirmy, how to change?
Me aka Big Auntie aka Not-Quite-The-Genius-Anymore : *stares at Winnie The Pooh on the diaper, trying to figure out which side should be in front* Can I see the instructions on the pack? (and thus cementing my reputation as the nerd in the family who reads manuals that come with every single product I use)
Hubby aka Uncle aka The Big Surprise : Let me do this.
In an impressive display of adeptness he changed little Ashley, while I cleaned her and swabbed her umbilical cord stump with chlorhexidine, eliciting coos of adoration from my mum (meant solely for her son-in-law of course). All right then, I’m the lucky wife - there’s already someone I could count on during those early bumbling-motherhood days, but I wonder…where and when did he get so much practice? Hmm…
This is so much more daunting than doing your first HO call duty. Wish me luck!
(The only edible available on a warm, hungry night - also the fastest way to a cardiologist’s cath lab. Double patties wrapped in egg and dripping with mayo and chilli sauce. What a mess. Felt sick afterwards, and I wasn’t even craving for it)
The nose is a little bulbous and my ankles swollen after a long day at work.
The wedding band doesn’t fit anymore. Prying it off my ring finger and having it stuck at the proximal inter-phalangeal joint was akin to applying a tourniquet and sadistically inducing gangrene. Finger intact, the ring now sits next to my pendant, on a chain around my neck.
The shoes have been outgrown, soon to be relegated to cold storage. The only pair that still fits happens to be wedges widely perceived as a hazard to a clumsy pregnant woman struggling to find her center of gravity, inviting comments from everyone including the husband who’s usually non-opinionated when it comes to fashion issues (the other remark being not comprehending a woman’s need for MORE bags). The last straw was the motherly reprimand from my own obstetrician. Ok doc. I’m quite happy now with the flats I wear to work (although buckling the ankle strap is a laborious effort every morning - bump in the way and all that) and Ipanema sandals for everything else. I’d need more shoes though.
The first and second trimester semi-fitted tops have become, err, rather fitted, with some unflatteringly riding up the bump. Shopping for clothes now have become a less angst-filled affair, with easy acceptance for loose garments now that I look bulky whatever I put on. I wear leggings and tights to work with more ease, like lycra is every pregnant woman’s birth right.
The speed is down several notches, though surprisingly many people still ask me to slow down when I walk.
The umbilicus is now nearly flushed with the surface of my abdominal wall. Eeek.
On the other hand, some things remain unchanged.
My abdominal skin is still pristine - no stretch marks, hurray! - save for a faint linea nigra. Baby is still breech, so the forceful kicks are still directed southwards (my bladder is being traumatised as I type this). Lower abdominal cramps are still making a regular appearance if I don’t take care NOT to exhaust myself. And am still addicted to Bejeweled and craving coffee at the slightest suggestion.
Welcome to the last trimester of my pregnancy.
Discreet and demure...
...but the filling will leave you rapturous! (Nyonya rice dumpling. Minced meat with finely chopped groundnuts and sweetened winter melon strips with a sprinkling of spices)
My mum makes darn good rice dumplings.
When I lived at home I used to have bit parts in her production. I played recurring roles year after year - that of the leaf washer and the official taster. Washing bamboo leaves used as wraps for the dumplings, I totally loathed, but mum assured me there was no one better for the job than me (even then she saw the perfectionist trait in me). Tasting, on the hand, was an honour. It wasn’t just a job, it was a responsibility. Is the rice too bland? Mushrooms too salty? On my recommendations a pinch of salt would be added here and a little sugar there. See? Whether her finished products would elicit nods of approval and hit gustatory pleasure spots from Klang to PJ/KL to Ipoh (where the rest of the extended family are scattered), I had a part in it, even from the tender age of 8.
But I digress.
Mum recently had some dumplings sent over, and they taste better than ever, which goes to show that no one is indispensible. I hadn’t been her taster since I left home for med school, and certainly not since I started working. I know I will never do her recipe any justice, but a part of me still wants to be a crew member, even with dubious credits. Maybe I could actually try wrapping a dumpling for a change, and if that doesn’t work out I could still TASTE. Or I could stay out of her way instead and unobtrusively do a photographic documentation of her endeavour, all in black and white. So cool, huh?
You see, as I’m about to become a mother myself, I find myself reflecting on my own relationship with the woman who went through a difficult 16-hour labour for me. Whatever creativity I have I must have inherited it from her (sorry dad, but you’ll always be the catalyst in my life-long love affair with books). She had tonnes of cookbooks and craftbooks - origami, knitting, crochet, embroidery , beading- that I grew up leafing through. While I clearly had no affinity for the kitchen, I picked up knitting and crochet on my own, and surprised her one day when she came home from work - my Barbie doll was dressed in a kick-ass tight-fitting halter-neck crotchet dress that flared out in frills below the knee (hope to find the dress so that I can post a pic here). I was nine then.
She’s entirely self-taught. In fact, she hated instruction books which she believed never told you everything. She only used them for ideas, and would improvise ingeniously. This is a lady who made her own maternity dresses that looked as good as store-bought (maybe even better, as they were custom fit), with pretty smocking and embroidery. I remember the pretty dresses I had as a little girl. Maybe I was set up to be a picky dresser. Thanks mum.
Here I am, tucking in to another delicious dumpling, suddenly touched by the fact that I’m feeding my daughter a portion of her granny’s labour of love. Beyond dumplings and needles and yarn, she’s left a legacy. A legacy I doubt I will be able to pass on to my girl. What indelible memories will I leave my daughter? What special qualities can I bring to motherhood? Wistfully perhaps, I’ll have to concede that there will be no mother-daughter bonding cookout sessions in the household, no fancy hand-sewn dresses for her dolls, and sure enough no regular home-cooked meals (unless I get a maid). She’s more likely to grow up exploring my photography magazines, pick up a camera at a way earlier age, and be accustomed to parents who work long hours.
But you know what? She’ll have our unconditional love, just like how my parents loved me. Dumplings or not.