Regular readers of this blog are probably wondering why I haven’t post something for a long time. Well, the truth is regular readers of this blog site have become as irregular as election promises.
But those who know me might wonder why I am not writing about the new addition in my family, my son who was thrust the above name. Truth is simple; I don’t know what to write.
I actually wanted to write about the entire delivery process and all. One of my favourite humourist, Dave Barry, became a popular humourist thanks to his hilarious article detailing the birth of his first born, a son.
But the circumstance surrounding the birth of Nevin was not hilarious. Far from it, it was one of the most dreadful days of my life, with my wife and child’s mortality hanging in the balance. Okay, I am being dramatic there, but it was not until the next day after his birth where he looked like an ordinary new-born that I felt all will be okay. That’s because on his birth day, he was all tubed up in the baby’s ICU department looking like some oversized dried prune with human features.
The whole experience also affirmed me two things: One, as my buddy Joe Milton promised me before, women are indeed a lot strong, physically! Two, that this baby is a fighter and I don’t want him to lose that spirit.
Nevin is two months old on 14th April the other day. How has he fared? Well, for one, like men discovering the power of wealth, he discovered the power of crying.
At the initial stage, he indicated hunger by making sucking sound, either sucking his entire fist (yes, entire fist, not thumb) or just sucking sound. Later when he understood that crying gets the job done fast, he was up to the task.
Hungry? Cry your lungs out (which is good, by the way). Want daddy to carry him and do a horrible rendition of old Ilayaraja/MSV songs? Cry.
Otherwise, he is a good bloke. There would be roughly an hour or slightly more after milk session where he relaxes, stretches his hands and legs, and kisses his bolster.
Yes, you read that right, he kisses his bloody mini bolster. Like grabbing it and kissing it full on the imaginary bolster lips. I don’t know where he learned that (mommy/daddy are suspects), but I think I will conveniently blame it on actor Kamal Haasan.
The best moment is of course, the singing part. I’d lay his head over my chest and croon my way to his heart which immediately tells his head to “okay, it’s getting progressively worst, sleep bro, or at least pretend to”. And he sleeps. Or so I think.
Trouble is, he is getting heavy. He was 2.5kg when he was born, and now has progressed to 4.1kg in two months. It won’t be long before he is heavier than a sack of potato and daddy develops muscles enough to resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame.
His pooping (in our circle, we call it kakkaa, pronounced, cahcaah, or Kafka if you please), seemed normal. Usually I try to be helpful by asking how are things when I see him giving that constipated look. Useful questions like, “How’s business? How are things on the other end?” Apparently he is not appreciative of that.
I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that he might be a lefty (hand, not politics). The grip of his left hand and the kick of his left leg are powerful. Especially the leg. My younger brother, Shubash, and my wife are both lefties. Which means in future he will have trouble using scissors or potato peeler.
Or become a great footballer.
Whatever it is, I am proud of him, especially the bolster part. Unless the bolster decides sue him for sexual harassment.
|That's Nevin, and his premature combover. He is not looking at the bolster, I tell you. He is not. Oh man...|