Bite me.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you" has lately become my regular saying whenever i am with Qube.

A joke that he does not yet get, but one that i keep on repeating nonetheless because i love how his Dad reacts and shakes his head, as if wondering how in ef's world did his Qube end up with a crazy mom who talks in idioms. And i love how Qube looks up to smile at me after i say those words, as if confirming his Dad's thoughts.

But really, i am not talking figuratively whenever i say that to Qube because, at 7 months, Qube literally bites everything, my hands included. Put him down on the bed and he’ll surely attack Panda’s and Leopard’s noses, Turtle’s head, Spongebob’s arms and feet, blankets, pillowcases, mobile phones, everything. Give him his frozen teethers and he’ll chew on them nonstop, a stranger would think we are not feeding him enough (if not for his very plump arms and legs).

Last week, his first front tooth appeared and just the other day, i noticed two of them already. Given this recent development, i might now revise my saying into: “Don’t bite the breasts that feed you”, which i am sure will make Qube’s dad cringe even more, especially because i am posting this for the public to read.

And yes, i am talking about breastfeeding and my now emerging fear of  being Qube’s human teether.  But biting or no biting, i still hope to continue breastfeeding Qube long after his next sets of teeth appear.

Here are pics of Qube at seven months (totally unrelated to this teething entry):

 

the F-word

Last night, while we were trying to get Qube to sleep (picture this: my arms over his body to pin him on the bed, while he was shouting, squirming and squeezing himself out of my embrace), he did it. He said the F-word. Twice.

By now, Qube's speech is comprised of the monosyllables Bee, Kii, Boo, Peee, Nee, and when he is super annoyed because i keep on ignoring him, he blurts out Mamamamamamama with this look on his face:

And last night, he said Eff to Mama and Papa for forcing him to sleep at 1:30 in the morning. And another Eff for taking the laptop away from him while he was still enjoying Garageband.

Here's a photo of Qube at play:

Dear Qube

You weren’t the Qube I imagined. First of all, for seven months in my tummy, you weren’t Qube. I used to call you Azira, your would-be name had you been a girl. But since it took us forever to think of a perfect name for you, you were Azira for the longest time, even when we already knew that you would be a boy. Your pre-birth documents and pictures all have Azira in their file names too (which reminds me that I have to change all of them.)

It seems to me that your goal in life at this point is to surprise us every day and bend our plans your way.

You were born a month early and, while I had in my purse a print-out list of all that we should bring with us to the hospital when my and your due date comes, your dad and I ended up bringing shopping bags of unwashed newborn baby clothes and towels to the hospital (thank God, we advanced some of the items in our baby shopping list!). All because you probably decided that you already want to spend Christmas with us, which was really sweet, but my Dear Qube, you almost gave your dad and me a heart attack – your dad, especially, because it is not a secret to everyone that he hates hospitals but he did not have a choice then because it was just him and me at our house when I felt you were about to come out. This, ladies and gentlemen, is surprise number one.

The second surprise was when you finally came out after my 10-hour long labor. Although I have fairly managed not to expect too much in terms of size, I was still not prepared when I was told that you were four pounds and 11 ounces. My immediate thought was that it was a mistake. I remembered asking the nurse how to convert ounces into pounds and how many more ounces is needed before you reach five pounds.

Silently, I blamed myself for not drinking Anmum, for having an occasional soda and coffee, for sometimes missing my pre-natal vitamins, and for simply not being healthy enough to provide you with the nutrients (and genes!) that could have made you bigger, heavier, taller. What will become of your dad’s dream of letting you join the PBA? Subconsciously, this might have become my biggest motivation to breastfeed you, even when I had no milk the first few days after your birth.

When we were about to leave the hospital, your in-patient pedia told us that she thinks you are turning yellow which could mean that a) I get to leave the hospital but leave you behind for photo sessions (I was told this is not the photo op that vain people do); b) I could decide to stay and wait for you to recover but this would mean additional costs for me, of course; and c) we both get to go home and spend our very first Christmas together. And because this is a happy story, we were able to go home together and we spent our first Christmas eating take-out food from Jollibee and Ineng’s (because all the other nearby restaurants are closed for the holidays). The end.

But the surprises kept on coming.

There is the realization that you had just taken away one more month of freedom from me when you were born early, but that it’s okay because had you stuck to the plan, your Papa would not have been there to witness your birth, your first cry, your first smile because he had an out-of-town work assignment during your supposed birth week.

There is the realization that when I decided to breastfeed you, I had also given up small pleasures like shopping and going to the movies (for two months), drinking tequila, soda, coffee, and eating unhealthy food (for as long as I am breastfeeding) because I don’t want any of these in your system.

And this one is quite painful for me: I also had to give up the dream of having straight long beautiful hair (after nine agonizing bad-hair months), because I was told that I can’t get my hair rebonded just yet – and what’s the point, anyway, when I just have to tie it all the time because the strands coming in contact with your skin might cause you allergies.

There is the realization that I can no longer sleep all day during weekends because there’s you sleeping between your Papa and me: waiting to be fed, to be held, to be told stories that I am not even sure you already comprehend, to play with, to spend the entire weekend with.

In return, you grace us with your smiles, with your squeals of delight whenever we make funny faces and sounds while playing with you; you stop my story-telling with your own speech comprised of ohhs, ahhs, kiii, and other monosyllabic sounds that I and your papa pretend to understand to encourage you to talk further, and just lately, you amaze us with your ability to sit by yourself, to jump up and down nonstop when held in a standing position.

I know that this is just the beginning. Your surprises will keep on coming and I will be here to witness you becoming the Qube who is way way better than anything I had imagined.

Panic Attack #768

Somewhere between my eager anticipation and happiness, there is fear. And it is becoming more real everyday:

I fear that your birth will bring about a 360 degree-turn in my life;

I fear that once i look at your beautiful face, i’ll never be able to look at anybody else the same way again;

I fear that once i get to hold you, it will break my heart to put you back down;

I fear that i’ll never want to leave your side once i get used to being with you;

I fear that i’ll love you a thousand times more than i love your dad (and i don't mind at all that he'll love you a thousand times more too)

I fear that your smile could ruin every ounce of objectivity in me;

I fear that when you wrap your little fingers into mine, my whole world gets wrapped in it too.

and in about 60 days, i fear that you will define for me what life is really about. :)

contemplating.

Last day

Sana i could make this come true.

My dear eldest nameless child.

By now, you can probably hear me and your father talk about you endlessly every night, heck, every moment that we are together. By now, you probably already know that our goodnights revolve around what your name will be after you are born and about how I always complain that my name will be reduced to a mere middle initial because your father wants his name imprinted all over you. Don’t worry, I have no qualms about it at all. Truth be told, I am actually even prouder that he considers you to be his own wonderful creation. And that I co-created you with him. (My conversation with your father will have a different perspective though: “He co-created you with me.” Don’t mind us. Someday you will understand and will laugh about our silly competitions)

By now, the conversations you hear between me and your father may already have wielded your opinion about how we will be as parents. So, as early as now, am writing this to manage your expectations (and in the same way, manage our fears of not being the best parents we hope we could be).

Your father and I, we are not perfect. We’re far from it actually. At 29 and 30, we’re still children prematurely pushed into adulthood because of you. Let me tell you a little secret: I haven’t planned a future with your father because I never really believed we’d end up together. And you coming into our lives is a welcome change from that mindset. As you can probably tell from our nightly discussions and arguments.

Though I cannot speak for your father, I can tell you little things indicative of how I think he will fare as a father:

• Am not sure if you remembered the time we fought about him waking up at 2am to watch a football match between Spain and Netherlands? I cried a whole lot then because he preferred watching the FIFA finals over me losing sleep, turned out he was blogging about how he would wake up the same wee hours of the morning to take care of you when you are born.

• Your father tosses and turns a lot when he sleeps, that is why I am having second thoughts about having him sleep in the same bed with you. However, now I am pregnant with you, he always makes it a point to check whether you are comfortable, if my sleeping position does not hurt you, and if his embrace is not squeezing you inside my tummy. And he does not like my idea of keeping his bed separate from yours.

• He has zero organizational skills. In fact, he even voluntarily refers to his life as an “organized chaos” – Not to worry though; he is learning to clean up our house for starters. Lately, he has claimed the kitchen and the bathroom to be his domain.

• He’ll insist on turning the music louder than a normal person can tolerate, but I can assure you that he’ll instinctively cover your ears to shield you from the sound of thunders during a storm.

• He does not like talking to people, except a select few. And you’re on top of that selection – since he apparently talks to you a lot, even tries to verbalize you thoughts sometimes. Which I do not always agree with.

• Your father never learned to say goodnight to me. What he learned to do every night though is to listen to your heartbeat, though most of the time, it’s just my stomach digesting my dinner; to kiss and have a short conversation with you; to kiss and hold my hand till I fall asleep; to wake up to turn the aircon off whenever I complain that it’s cold already.

• Your father has had lots of women before me, a few serious ones, but he assured us that none of them could claim to be mothers of his child. You’re his first. (We might need to revalidate this one though. :)

• He is a wonderful child to your grandparents and a great kuya to your cousin. I am sure he’ll be even better as a father.

• Your father is my best friend. Sure, we fight a lot, we criticize each other a lot, we compete a lot about who is better at everything, we throw tantrums to annoy each other. But at the end of the day, we accept and try to live with each other the best way we can. I look forward to the day when you, too, could be best friends.

Coming Clean.

As a rule, I never open the topic of weddings in any conversation. But I do not necessarily hate the subject. In fact, weddings excite me just as much as the prospect of buying new shoes come sweldo weekends. Well, mainly because it does involve me buying new shoes the nearest sweldo weekend if I am to attend somebody’s wedding. I like looking at wedding pictures and formulating my own fashion dos and don’ts based on the same photos. I like watching prenup videos better than watching sappy Tagalog soaps. I like seeing people in love and declaring it to the world.

But my excitement ends just about there.

I dread having to listen to the whole procedure especially the part where couples recite their wedding vows. I have yet to hear somebody deliver lines that do not sound like an excerpt from an 80’s greeting card. I dread having to gather with all the other female guests for the ceremonial tossing of the bouquet because I hate the thought of it landing on my hands, with all the silly superstitions and beliefs that come with catching it. I prefer going alone, without a date, rather than be with my boyfriend during weddings because it would mean that he would be among the other guys who might end up with the groom’s wedding garter. I am sure I’d hate to watch him place it on the leg of the person that is not me amid bellows and catcalls from the crowd. I hate attending weddings but I do not hold my feelings against those who want to participate in this primitive ritual.

I could probably come up with a thousand reasons why I hate weddings. And just to be fair with myself, I have also given it a lot of thought, all the while wondering if I am just being illogical and short-sighted when looking at weddings. After weighing all my facts, I have decided that there is nothing wrong with me, and my bias is not at all that irrational.

Why? When we go down to the bottom of it, I haven’t really mentioned that I do not want to get married someday. I hate those generic and cheesy wedding vows, but that does not mean that I cannot come up with something fresh and original, even if it comes to the point that I myself have to write the lines for my groom. And for my own wedding, I can just ditch the other traditions that I hate and I am good to go.

The reason it makes me uncomfortable discussing it now is because I do not have ready and honest answers to the question “When are you getting married?” or “Why are you not yet married?.” Well, the severity of these questions largely depends on the personal circumstance of the person being asked. For me, the second question is worse because it has a tinge of finality and hopelessness as opposed to the first question. I have answers in my head but good morals and simple etiquette would not allow me to reply with “because I can see your life and I do not want the same for me” or with the simple but effective “I don’t see how it is any of your business”, especially when it your family who is bugging you with these types of questions. For family, my normal answer would be “I am not yet ready for something that serious”; for friends, it will be something like “what do I need it for, as long as I am with someone?”, all the while knowing that both of my family and friends are not buying any of it.

So why indeed? While both of my answers above are partly true, a much more major reason would be because, when all the shoe-shopping and other preparations are done, the fanfare would not change the fact that a wedding is a symbol of something really major that I am not sure I could sustain for life. Being so self-righteous, I honestly believe it is selfish to bind another person into a life contract with no escape clauses given the volatility of human emotions. What if the other person feels differently after two years? What if it is I who would feel differently sometime in the future? I would not want either of us to suffer needlessly because we were so in love then and we failed to look at things as objectively as possible. In short, I am fair and selfless. Second reason: I am a big spender and my annual net income is still not enough to cover all the debts that I have accumulated over the years. Given this plight, being wed is the least of my worries. Besides, it would be unfair to the person I am marrying to share in the mess that I am in. Third but not the least bit unimportant: Because he hasn’t asked me yet. Given an actual proposal, who knows? I just might flush all my arguments down the drain. After all, nobody would really believe that spiel about selflessness and fairness, when I have been consistently unreasonable and stubborn all my life, especially when it comes to getting what I want – from toys to boys – to a concatenate of both. And I really do need someone to share my finances, for better or worse.

But for now, I am content to be with someone who I hope to be with long into the future. Depending on how volatile our emotions would be. Or on how long he could tolerate my cooking.