Memoirs of Baby Joelle

Monday 23rd June 1997, 6.30pm
Dearest Jo
I have just purchased a pregnancy-test kit from Guardian pharmacy at Serangoon Gardens. Since last week when I was in England for a Literature trip with my students, I have suspected that you may have decided to be a part of our family. My period was two weeks late, I found mayonnaise and tuna very nauseating and I was completely air-sick, although I rarely am, on my 18-hour flight home. I watched the indicator in anticipation. Daddy and I have been planning to have you since January. In thirty seconds the indicator reveals a positive test. I am thrilled, and a little apprehensive. Would we be able to handle parenthood after three years of living only for ourselves? Daddy must have shared my feelings but being a man, his version of joy was to assure me with, "Well, we ARE financially prepared." That's the romantic man your Daddy is.

Thursday 26th June 1997, 3.40 pm
Dearest Jo
After waiting an hour for Dr George at KK Hospital, she runs a couple of tests on me and the reports confirm it. You are to be born on about 18th Feb 1998.

Saturday 6th Sept 1997, 9.30 am
Dearest Jo
I feel you kick for the first time. It feels like a little pulse at first but after looking at my tummy move, I confirm that it isn't gas or hunger pangs. And boy, do you kick. You seem to always be doing that when I am teaching a class, talking to people or playing my guitar at jam sessions with Uncle Ian, Alex and Peter. I sometimes wonder if you could hear all that din and whether you were approving or protesting. I even fantasize to Daddy that it would be great if you would play the guitar like me one day, to which he replies that it would be even better if you could earn some money of your own playing. You know what Daddy's like by now, I'm sure.

Monday 6th Oct 1997, 5.30 pm
Dearest Jo
I saw you for the first time today. The doctor put this probe on my tummy with some goo and I not only heard your rapid heartbeat but I could see your cheeks, your tiny hands and your spine. It left me speechless, with an inexplicable emotion of thrill and fascination. They printed out a photo image of you, which I have put in the later pages. Instinctively, I knew I love you. Why, I guess I can never explain it, nor understand it.

Monday 8th Dec 1997, 8.00 pm
Dearest Jo
Daddy has just left for France on a two-week trip. I am absolutely miserable. Some intuitive feeling tells me I will need him to be around this week and I feel abandoned and scared. I guess I almost knew you may come early but I dismissed my doubts as the typical maternal worries of someone in her third trimester. I suppose these instincts can only be understood by someone pregnant with her first child. And my instincts have usually proven to foretell something real.

Tuesday 16th Dec 1997, 12.45 am
Dearest Jo
I've just watched Cybil on TV. This episode wasn't all too amusing. Apparently you agree as you kicked in protest at the lame jokes. But what else is there to watch on TV this late & I'm starved for entertainment since Daddy's so far away in Paris. I really miss him badly. I'm sure you do, too, since you've been expressing it quite clearly in your abode. I've never had such bad cramps in decades. Well, bedtime. It's been a tiring day. Daddy woke me up at 6am yesterday after he got back from taking a wrong line in the Metro. I was too sleepy to hurl the abuses I had planned at midnight. I had wanted then to re-confirm his hotel telephone number but it slipped my mind in my semi-conscious state. That was a mistake that would cause a lot of grief later. I'm lying in bed & there I feel it - a trickle of the amniotic fluid (or commonly called 'my water'). This startles me as I'm thinking to myself, "Hey. You're only 7 months old?what's up, baby?" I don't even know if you're a boy or a girl. Daddy & I are supposed to only find that out on Christmas Eve next week when we see Dr George. I get up to find out if I was imagining it. The trickle I feel again confirms my greatest fears. So I take a deep breath, try to remain calm. I make a mental note: OK, shut the windows (it's been raining bricks lately), gather up some clothes, leash the dog, take off my precious diamond jewelry in case I need an emergency Caesarian operation, then call the cab. It's 1.00am. I'm standing at the void deck in the chilly night like a demented woman running away from home in her maternity frock. A couple of passers-by, probably back from their late shift, throw me curious glances. Where is that cab? The automated operator service promised, "Your cab will be there in two minutes." It's been five?feels like hours. First a trickle. And then as in a nightmare, I feel a tsunami wave gush through my loins and down my legs. Oh God. It's really happening like in a B-grade drama serial. I'm going to give birth to you right here in the car park and all residents will be privy to the spectacle. For some strange reason, I decide I'm going to try that cab service again. I stride purposefully to the next block, insert my phone card & try to communicate without breaking down, "Send me a cab NOWWWW!!" Then I dial grandma's number & blubber, "Mum, my water broke." Grandma, from dazed confusion to gradual frantic realization, "Oh, ke sian (poor thing). Wait there. We'll pick you up." "No, mum, the cab will probably get here first. I'll see you at KK Hospital." "Wait?" She gets the tone when you hang-up. I see the cab in a distance as I'm uttering a prayer to God to keep you safe. I tell the driver to step on it because my water broke and she replies calmly, "Oh, not to worry. My sisters have gone through this before and they have healthy children. And if a policeman stops us, just tell him why and he'll even provide an escort service." So that's what they mean by taking comfort in strangers. We make idle chatter about her intriguing life as a cab driver, her impending diarrhea and how she would try to get me to the hospital without relenting. I recommend the rest-rooms in the hospital as they are clean. She thanks me for the advice. We arrive in 6 minutes. The fare is $13.10. I give her $14 and tell her to keep the tip as I scurry off to the Emergency Room. The admission staff takes my identity card, puts me on a wheelchair and brings me to the first available delivery room. I couldn't believe I was going to have you. This wasn't the way I envisioned it in my fantasy world. You were supposed to give me the signal at work in mid-February 1998, I tell my class, "Sorry, guys, but I'll have to continue this discussion in two months - I'm going to have a baby, lah." and then I'd drive myself to the hospital to bring you into the world. But I suppose you've taken after one of my undesirable traits of being an impatient control freak. You just felt compelled to see the world outside two months ahead. And like the spontaneous rascal you are, you had to pick the most appropriate time, when Daddy was away. So he really missed the melodrama of the delivery -- something he will never live down, or at least he won't be allowed to!

Tuesday 16th Dec 1997, 4.45am
Dearest Jo
As I try to make sense of where I am, staring at the white-washed walls of this cubicle of a room, it begins to sink into my woozy brain that it was not a dreadful nightmare. I am actually hooked up to an IV-drip which is supposed to help keep you in me for as long as possible. It dawns upon me that I didn't dream the countless jabs, probes or wires attached to unusual parts of my anatomy worthy of a laboratory rodent. Nor did I dream the doctors telling me in intermittence that "this would hurt a little" before they either added to or extracted something from my arm. I definitely did not dream the needle in my thigh which simulated a gun-shot wound, with the consoling "we will give you another one in your other thigh in twelve hours". I endured it only because I was told these jabs would help your lungs develop faster. Perhaps it is the human psyche which withdraws into absolute denial and makes the entire experience surreal. But you were and are real. I felt you kick, turn and even hiccup with each contraction. The only sound besides the distant chatter or hospital staff changing shifts was your heart beat which was amplified by the machine wired up to my tummy. This was the only assurance I had that you were doing fine. I knew somehow that no matter what, you had to come out fine. There was no way I was going to give up on you. I could only hope that you would take after this stubborn trait - to fight the adversities which Nature may have put your way.

Tuesday 16th Dec 1998, 10.30 am
Dearest Jo
I'm awakened by Dr George. She lays the cards out and doesn't mince words. Somehow I was prepared for whatever her diagnosis or decision would be. Perhaps it was my drowsy state. Perhaps it is just my child-like faith in God. Perhaps both. She tells me that you are only 31 weeks old and in a breech position. You have been since my last scan on 6th Oct 1997. Somehow you favoured sitting upright * and you wanted to 'moon' the world in your irreverent way. I guess I should expect it from the daughter of a rebel who made it her mission to break every conceivable rule in school. Maybe divine retribution does exist. * note your chubby cheeks Dr George then puts the critical decision in my self-incriminating signature: I could take you out with a Caesarian section or I could try to bring you in the way all mothers would aspire for their own children. I choose the latter for the two reasons mentioned a paragraph ago. She tells me that the risks are high but I am resolute. She then advises me that a lot would depend on your weight and the size between my pelvic bones. They wheel me on a stretcher to have you scanned and then to the X-ray room to get a shot of my butt. I have never seen so many florescent tubes or fire-sprinklers in my life as I took in the view lying on my back. I still recall the curious stares from mums-to-be and visitors to the hospital as they wondered what sort of critical condition I was in to have to be wheeled around like a cadaver.

Tuesday 16th Dec 1997, 7.30pm
Dearest Jo
I reach for the phone beside my bed and try to keep all family and friends informed on the latest state of affairs. I was allowed no visitors except, ironically, Daddy. Well, I suppose it is true that when it rains, it pours. I tell Auntie Irene and Margaret that you would be delivered tomorrow while they assure me that Daddy has finally been contacted, despite the erroneous telephone number he had given me. He is to fly home by Thursday morning, which means that he would miss your birth. My heart is heavy. I call Grandpa and tell him the same. His assuring voice and prayer brings me tears of solace and desolation. But I feel better after that. I realized that I have not cried since I arrived at the hospital. Perhaps I had finally acknowledged that this is not a surreal experience after all. I utter a prayer for your well-being and also for God to keep Daddy safe and calm. I can imagine the worries that must have plagued him on that long and dreary flight home. The sub-zero Winter temperature must have been an added woe.

Wednesday 17th Dec 1997, 2.30 pm
Dearest Jo
The Staff Nurse with a cheerful disposition and who would play a major role at your birth (whose name I regretfully forget) assures me that she would take good care of me. This helps to take my mind off the sense of foreboding I feel every time I hear a woman in agony in a room nearby. I could hear women cry out in every ethnic dialect but their pain was universal?and I could almost empathize. I felt like an animal in a queue of the abattoir. Dr George tells me that after a long conference with other senior consultants, they have decided to let her perform the rather delicate procedure. On my part, I have to cooperate and refrain from 'pushing' every time the urge to do so comes !?! This is like telling a person who is having severe constipation to hold back. Well, I guess I was already at rock-bottom so I was game for any new challenges which I never knew my body could take on. Auntie Yvonne pays me a visit to check on your medical file and mine. She gives me the hard facts and I ask her to keep Grandpa and Grandma posted on the progress.

Wednesday 17th Dec 1997, 5.30 pm
Dearest Jo
I try to get a quick nap, to sleep off the increasing contractions which are induced by a drip introduced two hours before the delivery is due. I can almost feel your impatience as I hear your heartbeat quicken with each contraction. If you are wondering now how a contraction feels, well, it is like your menstrual cramps to the power of infinity, well, maybe fifty, if I don't exaggerate. Let's just say at some point, you would rather have a million paper-cuts than one contraction. I'm sure you get the picture. Strangely, I found my thoughts wandering to what I would like to eat when I get out?and at another moment, I was trying to hum a tune.

Wednesday 17th Dec 1997, 6.30 pm
Dearest Jo
I think I must have reached a delirious state by now but I can vividly recall bits of conversation (yes, I could actually talk, or grunt, in coherent sentences). I remember Dr George telling me not to push until she gets back at 6.45 pm and to heave the 'laughing gas' every time I feel the urge to relent. I also remember watching the red digital clock and see the numbers tease me with what seemed like an eternity as the contractions overwhelmed my will to follow the doctor's orders. I remember the young houseman who bore a striking resemblance to a colleague at the teaching college (I think her name was Lei Ying) ask me while I assume a writhing fetal position if I wanted a girl or a boy and I croaked, "As long as it's healthy." I recall this houseman holding my shoulder to comfort me and then she glanced below and tried to appear calm as she reassured me, "I'll just step out for awhile, OK?" From the way that her worried expression did not match the calm tone of her voice, I knew that something was amidst. Indeed, when she returned with two other young doctors, I knew, and felt, that you had also decided to increase the stakes and live life on the edge. I distinctly remember overhearing the three frantic doctors' vain attempts to whisper their verbal exchanges. "Where's Dr George?" "I think she's in the Tea Room." "Can you page her?" "I'll go fetch her." Again, your will was stronger than my attempts to resist the contractions. I could almost visualize the cleavage of you butt showing itself to the world. I will always remember Dr George come in, glance below and sigh, "Oh well, I guess you couldn't wait." I wasn't sure whom she was referring to. Then she methodically takes off her designer off-white linen jacket as if she was going to sit down to an expensive dinner, slips on the latex gloves as the nurse frantically tries to remove the bottom half of the bed to put my feet up on the stirrups. Of course, just to add to the frenetic pitch of the moment, the bed gets stuck and Dr George's comment, "I really hate these things. They always fail you when you need them to work most," really helped allay my fears. With what seemed like an eternity, as Dr George gave me the final cue, "Push as if you're having very bad constipation, Vivian," as the rest of the cheer-leading team's "Push, Vivian, push" resounded, I felt you slip out with a warm gush. I have never felt more relief than on the day Grandpa did not punish me for breaking my neighbour's lamp with the golf balls I drove from our garden.

Wednesday 17th Dec 1997, 7.01 pm
Dearest Jo
I look at your bluish frail body. I am so tired I can only look speechless at you and pray in my heart. I hoped that you could read my mind and hear me cry out for you to be strong, to fight it, to live.
Thursday 18th Dec 1997, 1.45 am
Dearest Jo
I am awakened by the nurse who tells me I will be moved to a room where I will recover in comfort. I hadn't realized that I had slept for five straight hours since you arrived - the longest since I came in on Tuesday. It takes me awhile to recap the previous event. Like these past two days, everything seems to be part of an extended, ambivalent dream . As they wheel me sitting on a rubber ring down the corridor, I relive the similar mixed emotion of relief and pride when I strode down the aisle on my university graduation ceremony, my wedding day and now, the new chapter of my life - motherhood.

Thursday 18th Dec 1997, 9.15 am
Dearest Jo
As I attempt to walk to the bathroom for the first time in two days, Daddy walks through the door, luggage in tow, weather-worn, jet-lagged and what looked like tremendous relief. There was so much I would have wanted to share, but I was just so tired and yet also thrilled that he was back safe and sound. I remember the night before tempting fate in my most cynical moment when I thought, "Wouldn't it be the ultimate blast if his plane got into trouble in the winter storm? That would just complete my wonderful luck." We then go down to the Intensive Care Unit to see you together for the first time. I don't really know how Daddy felt looking at you, but I know that I felt a mixture of joy, relief and yet a sadness of not being able to ease your discomfort of having tubes and wires coming out of your mouth and your tiny limbs. But I knew that whatever the cost, I wanted you to survive this ordeal, just as I have mine. I could only hope and pray then that some of my resilience had rubbed on, and you would pull through this stronger. As I watch you struggle to take each breath and reach out as if for solace, my heart breaks at the sight of your agony. Why should someone so young and so small have to put up with this at the start of her life? I walk away. Not because I don't care; but because I do so much.

Monday 22nd Dec 1997, 3.30 pm
Dearest Jo
We've decided to name you, 'Joelle', which means "The Lord is willing"; and indeed I believe He was or we would not have survived this tribulation together. As for your pinyun name, we've decided to honour our parents by taking a part of cousin Rachel's name (Hui Hsien) and cousin E-Wen's name to form, 'Hui Wen'. This would probably unravel the mystery of your name should anyone be curious. We get your birth registered and as I peruse your birth certificate, it finally dawns upon me that we have made that transition from 'DINKs' to parents. It is a moment of awakening which is both thrilling and daunting.

Thursday 25th Dec 1997, 2..30 pm
Dearest Jo
We pay you a visit after church and the best Christmas gift I receive is when the doctor tells me that you would be off the tube soon and I get to feed you with a bottle or directly at the breast. This may seem insignificant but to me, it meant that I could start being and feeling like a real mother. Since the day they took you to the ICU, I felt as if I hadn't really given birth and was not a mother, unlike full-term babies who are held by their mothers immediately after their births. This had made me very sad for weeks. But today, I changed, fed and held you in my arms for the first time. I heard your strange little gurgles, hiccups, lip-smacking sounds?I can never explain to you the thrill of seeing all these signs of life. Even when I hear you fart it is something I react with amusement and a sense of assurance that you are taking on the activities of a full-term baby.

Saturday 3rd Jan 1998, 4.00 pm
Dearest Jo
Daddy and I see your eyes for the first time. It is thrilling. As they say, the eyes are windows to the soul. I could almost sense your rascal personality from your beady eyes and pretty folds. I could see that Daddy was very amused and proud, especially when you bear an uncanny resemblance of him in all your features, except for my chubby cheeks. Your face is taking on a very pleasing healthy, ruddy complexion. Save for an eye infection, we are really exhilarated by the progress you are making. You should be home in about two weeks. Funny how a year has flew past and so much has happened in '97. Besides milestones such as Hong Kong being returned to China by the British on June 30th, the Asian stock-markets plummeting to an all-time low in October and the plane crash tragedy of the Silkair Flight MH185 on 19th Dec; on a personal level, I had accomplished almost all my resolutions. I was to lose 5 kgs, see England, get pregnant and save more money. Save for the last decree, I managed rather well. What I hadn't put down was to be a mother. I suppose I could add to my resolutions in '98 that I would be the best mother to you and try to make your growing years special. Reading this now, you could decide if I have achieved that objective.

Tuesday 20th Jan 1998, 12.20pm
Dearest Jo
After waiting like what seemed an eternity, we finally get to bring you home. It's been a frustrating week of waiting and wondering as the doctors couldn't seem to give us a more precise date of your discharge. I was getting very distressed every time I visited you at the hospital to find your eyes not cleaned, a milk rash developing on one side of your cheek and your skin getting increasingly dry and peeling from lack of moisturizing. I knew that when I got you home, I would try my best to ensure that none of this would recur. Carrying you down the elevator in your little bag-crib, Daddy and I start to realize the change in our lives. We jest that it felt like we were taking home a new pet, no different from the day we took home Manja. The only difference is that we played a part in your creation, and that made it very special, almost a miracle. You sleep throughout the journey home, oblivious of your new surroundings, let alone your new life with us. I pray in my heart that I won't screw up, that I would give you the best life I could although so many anxieties plague me constantly. In contrast, you seem totally at ease, a serenity that I observed enviously; yet it inspired me to draw from your cherubic tranquility. You are, after all, a gift from God.

Wed 21st Jan 1998, 2.30 pm
Dearest Jo
I'm sitting here in a state of zombification. You were impossible last night. As it is I was walking on eggshells all of yesterday because was I was so afraid you might develop some physical complications when adapting to new surroundings. And my worst fears materialised when I notice your milk rash deteriorating, you regurgitating more milk than usual and being totally agitated after your night feed. Every whimper, wheeze, cough sent me into a state of panic. I guess I'm just a worry-wart. So there you were, having us both eating out of the palm of your hands with each protesting wail. I've never felt so helpless before. I could almost imagine you being quietly amused by the power you wield. And only when I put you on our bed to my left breast did you relent, albeit with significant resistance in the way you nearly took out the whole nipple. I have never slept in such an awkward position since the days of my school camping trips. I kept dreading that I may awake to find you steam-rolled by your mother. Sigh...

Friday 23rd Jan 1998, 9.15 am
Dearest Jo
We've decided that you have to be the biggest princess to rule the household. Last night you successfully kept Grandma, Daddy, Manja and I think the whole neighbourhood within a 1 km radius with your relentless bawling?you seem to always pick the best time -- first it was 3am the previous night when everyone was sound asleep and last night it was at the prime time of 12.30 - 4.00 am when everyone in their right minds would not be up to listen to your aria?what can I say, Jo, your singing talents, which you willingly displayed at the eye specialist's clinic yesterday afternoon was testament to your Puccini potential. So after an entire night of sleep deprivation, which you so kindly shared with the whole family, you are now fast asleep like a gallivanting drunk who had spent the whole evening out, oblivious to the strains of rock music coming through the speaker above your tranquil head. Well, all I can say is that I always look forward to the surprises you have waiting for us every evening till dawn -- it's like you gear up the entire day in slumber for the performance which would top the Three Tenors* any day.
* Careras, Domingo & Pavarotti, all of whom have probably passed on by the time you read this.

Monday 8th Feb 1998, 2.45 pm
Dearest Jo
I'm cradling you in my left arm as I type with my right hand? You are unusually tranquil before your afternoon feed, almost like a sweet, ruddy cherubim as your head is lodged in my cleavage - a place several men used to covet?you are the envy of many!! It's been three weeks since you came to stay. I'll admit that I was really under a lot of strain the 1st week, but things have really started to fall in place since -- your incessant wailing, your night feeds, diaper depletion, and our sleep deprivation. I guess looking at your sweet cheeks, listening to your gentle breathing and you occasional gurgle make it all worth the while. A strange reward for our pains but maybe it's only something a mother can fathom.

Thursday 11th June 1998, 3.45 pm
Dearest Jo
It's been more than 4 months since my last entry. The simplest explanation for this is that I've been back to work for 10 weeks and it's been a whirlwind of changes, sleepless nights, fatigue but most of all, an inexplicable sense of accomplishment. The first day back to work was hard. Separation anxiety - on my part, that is. For three months I spent every possible waking hour (yours, that is) with you. I practically lived and breathed my relationship with you. I admit that at times it was saturating, especially during your bouts of colicky, irrational, inconsolable bawling, but nonetheless, it was endearing. I felt necessary in your life. I felt as if you were so much a part of me, and at times when you nursed, even literally an attachment. By 8.00am that first day of work, I was pining for my chickadee. It was shameless and pathetic, I know, but that's the effect you had on me. Taking you home that day at 4.00pm was like winning a lottery - and you were the prize for the day! (as you read this and feel the urge to guffaw, just remember that you will understand this if you have children of your own (something déjà vu from Grandma). Now I look at you take you afternoon nap -- three months, 6.5kg and 70cm later, and I can only smile to myself as any proud mummy can. It's not a self-crediting joy; more the pleasure of watching you grow, develop and learn. Your first real smile, as opposed to the false alarms of releasing abdominal gas, will always be etched in my heart. The way your rose-bud lips curled into a toothless, rascal smile and the impish crinkle of your beady eyes melted all my frustrations and fatigue. Your first gurgle, albeit brought on by the inane sound of flatulence, will always be an aria to me. Your heart-warming coos of curiousity, often untimely in the middle of our slumber, still draw sleepy smiles from us. Your first intentional grasp of my eyelid brought both tears of agony and amusement when you chuckled at removing two of my precious eyelashes. I don't know how you do it, but the power a grub like you wields on your parents is amazing. I can only hope that as you read this, this power has evolved into a closeness that only mothers can envy. Yesterday, we went swimming together for the first time. I put on your yellow 'Kooshies' and still holding on to you, I gently lowered you into the pool. The expression on your face was priceless. It was a mix of marvel, apprehension yet a dare that I can only assume is genetic. As we paddled around the 1.2 m-deep baby pool, I remember wishing out loud that you would one day do the triathalon 5km swim which I have yet to accomplish. Well, a girl can dream, can't she? I guess what I treasured most from our first swim is the innate trust you had that I wouldn't let go (much as I mused at the response that might draw from you) and the singular experience of being what we simply are.

Thursday 13th October 1998, 3.45 pm
Dearest Jo
Watching you scoot around irrepressibly in your walker puts a secret smile on my face because at about 10 mths, you have grown to be the cheekiest hyperactive kid in the block -- your 5a.m screeching in irrational exhilaration endears despite its untimely outbursts. What can I say except I thank God everyday for blessing you with the energy only a healthy child could have. As I watch you grow from strength to strength, it affirms that He is real, as His blessings. I can only hope that by your 1st birthday, you would have 'caught up', so I can stop adjusting your age 2 months behind. Till then, I treasure all the private moments we share -- your delightful screams a bath-time, your pensive moments during night feeds, that connection in the middle of nowhere when you realise who I am to you -- priceless moments only a mother & daughter can share. =]

If you've picked this up because you're feeling bored at this moment then welcome to the club. I am a thirty-year-old homemaker with a 21-month old toddler and 30 weeks pregnant. That alone should make lucid to all mothers and mothers-to-be out there my sentiment at the moment. My husband of five years, like many others, is a dedicated member of the working society. In his case, as a design engineer, he spends 12 - 16 hours at the office, unless he is otherwise on those month-long overseas trips 4 - 5 times a year. It's a 'Catch-22' situation. We both used to be educationists (to use the term liberally) and we put in the combined working hours of 16 a day. Of course that also meant that we took home the amount to match the hours. What that meant was that we could spend more time at home with our precious sprout but on the flip side, we could not provide her future with the many material promises accorded to the child of the new millennium. So we compromised. One of us had to explore the frontiers of material well-being while the other partner willingly succumbed to the life of banality and restfulness. After all, one of us had to carry the unborn child. Initially, I welcomed the domestic bliss with open arms. Having worked for 6 years straight since graduation, I felt it was a well-deserved hiatus. I couldn't have been more wrong. The first week was like a dream. I would kiss my hubby goodbye at 7.30 in the morning, console him for having to face another dreaded Monday morning and then promptly return to the warm comfort of the bed. Having a live-in domestic helper also meant that I could play with the cherub when I felt I was awake and ready. So the week went on like this. Up by 9, breakfast at 10, shopping / gallivanting by 11. It was hard work but someone had to do it. And then the monster of boredom arrived. Suddenly I found myself speaking like a toddler, or worse, sounding like a broken record with the usual maternal instructions, "wash your hands", "stop tugging on that", don't touch the hot plate", for the thirtieth time in the day. Then I would check my e-mail, read some hilarious anecdotes from ex-colleagues and have a few witty exchanges with them in adult language. It occurred to me during those moments how I missed and longed for the working world. Not for the actual work, of course, but for the companionship of like- minded people taller than yourself. Well, as they say, grass is always greener. It's not that I don't treasure the many laughable and heart-warming moments with my daughter. Believe me, I sometimes catch myself just marveling at her development, drifting into those typical motherly moments of nostalgia, of the Kodak variety, with strains of music in my mind, of her days in the NICU, her grubby months, her bald and fumbling days, her drooly, non-responsive times when all she could do was grunt and point. These days, apart from surprising me occasionally with a well-articulated phrase, she would do something hilarious like draw a convoluted image which she would insist is a flower and smile impishly when I gasp in admiration. These are moments I could only witness in the middle of the working day? So the Catch-22 situation persists. *******************************************
Today, I face the dreaded needle. Any pregnant person will tell you that the road they will try at all costs to avoid is gestational diabetes. Unfortunately, despite futile attempts to restrict my hormonal urges to indulge in everything the doctor did not order, fate didn't quite smile at me this time around. So, I pack my bags for my well-deserved retreat -- at the hospital?sigh? I guess we should be clearer next time when we wish for a getaway. We ought to be more specific about the place and accommodations.
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Well, as it turns out, the procedure was less complicated than I feared or imagined, much to my relief. I only had to see a few key personnel at the diabetic clinic and was put on a mild dosage of insulin (8 mg, twice a day). The needle for the injection turned out to be slightly thicker than an acupuncture one and all the blubber on my tummy insulates the nerves from pain. So, it's merely the psychological challenge of inserting a needle into yourself, which I have to overcome. After three days of self-administered injections, I can now claim the status of being an official insulin-junkie. Ironically, prior to my insulin-dependent days, I was a control freak in terms of what and how much I put in my body, for fear of riding up both the weighing scales and the blood-glucose monitor. Now with my little safety-net, I'm suddenly living on the wild side, popping a chocolate treat here and, gasp, drinking a full glass of chocolate milk there! After all, a shot of the miracle hormone would keep things in check, I kid myself. I guess it doesn't help the morale when everyone around you, including the check-out auntie at the supermarket, is telling you that you look like you're about to pop anytime soon. Hello? I believe I have another 8 weeks or so to go? So this baby threatens to be the blimp of the century and no prizes for guessing who will be enduring the impossible in the delivery ward. I keep imagining the horrific scenario of a 20-hour labour followed by an emergency C-section. Could I have it any better? The only consolation I can take is that I'm going to be narrating this story to the little tike one day as her favourite bedtime story. Either that or using it as emotional blackmail material every time she yells at me when I forbid her to have the chrysalis-motif tattoo on her butt. *******************************************
Today, I faced another challenge which the official books on parenting hardly warned us about -- how to deal with 21-month-old bratty behaviour which happens to be backed up by the defense mechanism of projectile vomiting when crying after being reprimanded. Yes, I've been saddled with offspring endowed with such talents. Another Catch-22, you might add. I could walk away from this kind of tantrum-throwing and possibly prolong my existence on earth while reducing blood-pressure, or I could masochistically pursue it and face the trauma of such displays, for myself, that is. In any case, it's a no-win situation because I either end up 18 years later with a rebel from hell with no regard for the law or a teenager with an eating disorder because she can throw up on command. Sigh. Of course, to say that motherhood is without its joys is to do the maternal population a grave injustice. The heartwarming moments, though on certain days few and far between, are rewarded you. Today, as if overcome by an impulse, my little sprog turns to me, strokes my hair and smiles. Not the kind of smile when she is entertained or is trying to get out of spilling the juice on the bedspread. Rather, the very subtle lopsided twitch followed by an almost inaudible sigh. I know I'm self-indulging here? But ask any sober mother and she'll tell you that these are the priceless instances which will simply wipe out the third trimester backaches, the bloated limbs, the breathlessness, the varicose veins, the lumbering gait, the 24-hour labour, the sore or cracked nipples, the two-hourly night-feeds, the diabolical diarrhea, the projectile vomiting, the terrible teething tantrums? Well, you get the picture? Simply put, that brief moment of understanding between mother and child is what I term as reaching the Zen of life. The point where someone can drop the bomb and you say to yourself distractedly, "Well, that's nice?" What made that exchange even more rewarding was that it was unsolicited, spontaneous and certainly caught me off-guard. I guess that's what made it special. It was assuring to me that at least all which I agonize over on a daily basis was not futile. It ascertained that my child knew I love her, and she me.
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I pop in two weeks. This came as much a surprise to me as my previous premature labour. I guess I'm just not one to do things conventionally. My gynae looks at my scan at 35 weeks and tells me that the baby is 3.5 kg (Joelle was only 1.9 kg at her 32-week birth). She said that if I carried it to full 40 weeks, it would weigh at least 4.5 kg (about 10 pounds!!). The very thought is dreadful, let's not even begin with the 80kg I've acquired so far? Anyway, I've decided to just be as zen about the forthcoming event as possible. First, I simply gathered all of Jo's old baby clothes in a box, bought bags of newborn diapers and got her bassinet ready. Keeps the level of anticipation up and level of anxiety down. I've also taken to getting some new furniture so as to accommodate the babe in our bedroom. I've decided to breast-feed with a vengeance since it had done Jo a whole lot of good. That means that I'll have to co-sleep (a recent no-no according to some 'experts' on baby deaths) but heck, it comes with the territory. Poor hubby will probably end up on the living room couch if he wants his 6-8 hours. Finally, I've made all the relevant calls to family members whose help I'd probably need that week. I guess the bright side of an induced birth is that you don't get caught one rainy midnight with the water-breaking on you while your hubby's in Paris, as was the case with Jo. Looked carefully at the latest scan of the babe and lo and behold, she's a whopper. I could actually see her big tummy and chubby face! It was surreal. I was almost convinced she was looking resentfully at me for keeping her in such a confined space. So as the days go on, between my insulin injections, sleepless nights imagining the worse scenario of a forceps-cum-C-section delivery, I'm more or less trying to just detach myself from the reality of it and prepare myself for an experience that was as surreal as the last birth. Here's to another round of maternal challenges. The consolation I can take is that it'd definitely be my last round. *******************************************
I will be induced in two weeks , the doctor tells me. Partly because I'm getting too big to see through a normal delivery. The baby's estimated to be 3.5 kg at 35 weeks. So if I bear it till full term, it will be a 5 kg baby, the stuff which nightmares are made of? Mentally, I've been preparing myself for the big arrival. It is a whole combination of dread and expectation topped with physical relief since these days the swollen limbs aren't doing much for my mood swings. As a typically type-A control-freak, my hospital bag is all packed and ready. *******************************************
Today, my doctor did a vaginal examination and estimates that the baby is now about 3.8kg. She has scheduled an induction in two days but somehow, I think the baby's going to come sooner. I've been experiencing mild contractions all day since the discomfort of the examination. Somehow I think she had induced them unknowingly?
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Friday, 29th October, 5.30 am I was experiencing the most excruciating contractions every 5 minutes. The amazing bit is I still managed to bring my toddler to sit on her potty, clear it up and give her a wash, while contracting? We made it to the hospital by 6.00, by which time I have reached an insane level of pain. They put me quickly through the 100 questions to which I grunt my replies. I am just amazed how these doctors are so detached from your trauma when they interview you during active labour. It's like these silly dentists who try to carry on a conversation with you with the intention of alleviating your agony, this while 101 instruments and contraptions are sticking out of your mouth. But nothing quite beats the ridiculous extent to which these two medical students decided to use me for their research material, awaiting my response patiently although at some point I could only feebly sign my answers. Sigh?anything for the benefit of medical science. They had better attribute me in some footnote in their future medical journal articles. By the time the doctor arrived, I had reached an insane level of pain. Because of the gas I was wheezing with a vengeance, I also felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, only the pain bit still remained very much in-body. I can only vaguely recall the midwife telling me "not to push" and myself mentally saying, "so what if I do? Why don't you try it!" and my hubby trying to help me with my breathing by telling me to breathe through my nose and out my mouth. I could have slugged him of I had the energy or will. Anyway, after what seemed like an eternity (four and a half hours really), I gave a push that left a searing pain below and what followed was an almost wonderful sensation that I had just expelled the largest crud in my life! What made it even more special was that this 'crud' resembled something of a reddish shiny ball with the most pissed expression on her face! She didn't cry, yet, but she certainly looked annoyed that she was disturbed from her previously pleasant surroundings. *******************************************
After birth?the best experience after sex, I must admit. It's hard to describe the feel-good experience except that it may be a combination of relief, accomplishment, endorphins and definitely from excessive inhalation of the laughing gas. Just lying there waiting for the midwife to clean me up, drinking that cup of warm Milo through a straw and reflecting on what just took place a half hour ago is stuff which the simple pleasures of life are made of. Of course, the pain which follows after all the anesthesia runs out is another subject for discussion. But for now, let's focus on the justifying reasons for women having children, sometimes hordes of them, since time immemorial. *******************************************
One week later and all the chaos has relatively died down, save for the occasional tantrum my toddler would display in a fit of jealous rage. They say it's part and parcel of the adjustment phase when you bring a new baby into your home, especially when she has been the flavour-of-the-month for nearly two years. The hardest part is trying to spread yourself thin as diaper-changing service, 24-hour dairy provider, comforter, disciplinarian -- all this while nursing your own 'war wounds' from the hospital, namely the dreaded stitches below which render ease of mobility almost useless. Other than that, all's relatively quiet on the homestead. And until the next vomiting session, diarrhea display or colicky scream-fest , I am just going to put up my feet, have that long-awaited menthol lights with a warm cup of latte expresso?