THE word “positive” glared at me from the lab report. I stared back at it dumbfounded, as if expecting it to dissolve and fade away with the sheer power of my gaze. Wishful thinking. Far from being subdued, it dawned on me its full horrors. A second bundle of joy on the way. I was torn between the urge to laugh or cry. This, after such caution!
I still remember that in the aftermath of my first baby, I vowed never to go through it again. My husband, a dazed and reluctant witness to this universal trauma yet peculiar to us women, covered me in flowers declaring that he shall never put me through this again. We successfully sailed through the general demands of trying for a daughter, boy needs a sister, blah blah. For full three years, then fate struck.
Seven months down the line I was lurking in mother shops. My heart melted with the first ultrasound, it skipped a beat on listening to the baby’s first heartbeat and with the newborn in the doctor’s hands as she lifted him with his umbilicus still tied to me, I had lost the battle. My husband and my elder son were no less affected.
Coming home was another thing: my son peered at his tiny brother, pronounced him useless since he can’t play and suggested I should take him back to the hospital. Sibling rivalry seeds were sown.
As I browsed around in the working-moms section of the book sale, I was bombarded with free advice — all tried and tested at that — screaming at me from helpful volumes. A Treasure Chest of Truths for Every Working Parent, Perfect Motherhood. I regarded all with a wry smile. And the last straw — Father as a Friend. Imagine my state of mind as I read Father as a Fiend. I did a double take. Am I finally losing it?
It was not beyond possibility though. Only recently, I was forced give up work to be a full-time mom of a very inquisitive three-year-old and a demon of a toddler. Do not be amused as in this scheme of things, somewhere in my (warped, says my husband) mind, he became the scapegoat. Can’t you see what happened? Here I am, cooped up all day at home trapped in menial, mundane jobs of cooking, cleaning, washing plump little behinds, eternally grubby hands and basically doing what my granny or my mommy did so cheerfully and dutifully (hey people, did anybody ask them?) all their lives.
Then there’s the daddy. Who gets away with murder under the cloak of the breadwinner, the exhausted-at-the-end-of-the-day stranger whose life goes on with little or no change. Motherhood is the crown of all women. But then so is fatherhood. Or isn’t it? Since it comes so easily. I remember my husband quaking while he sat with me when I was in labour for the first time. He held my hand, crooned to me, bucked me up, stroked my forehead. Exemplary, impeccable. The next time he was there alright. But he hid behind the newspaper, sitting ramrod straight on a stool. No sweet nothings this time! Even heaven is promised after your death. But what about now?
Specially exasperating are the sitcoms. Their kids don’t fight. They say please and sorry. They never muck up their clothes nor do they squirm and wriggle in their baby diapers. Nobody spills cereal on their clean shirt front or on the table. Husbands are always home pat on time, ready to don aprons and help out in the kitchen. The scene is so serene, the roles are so well-defined that it can turn you schizophrenic. You feel like tearing your clothes and ripping your hair when for the life of me, I cannot conceive that a utopia like this exists. Where o’ where is this world of superlatives, infallibles?
Being somebody to religiously avoid ‘How to win friends and influence people’ types like a plague, I have always chided my friends who look for solutions in books. So consider my misery and desperation when I ended up buying those very books I laughed at. They still look very handsome on my shelf. To the infinite amusement of my husband....
“Well, well, what happened to your skepticism?”
“It flew out the window.” I retorted. “As soon as I gave birth to your sons.”
“How about a daughter?” There’s a twinkle in his eye....
THE word “positive” glared at me from the lab report. I stared back at it dumbfounded, as if expecting it to dissolve and fade away with the sheer power of my gaze. Wishful thinking. Far from being subdued, it dawned on me its full horrors. A second bundle of joy on the way. I was torn between the urge to laugh or cry. This, after such caution!
