Natural Instinct.
What does my gorgeous cousin Melanie, and Sai, the lovely wife of Ronni (my close friend and porn-confidante) have in common. They’ve both been infected with the deadly, “Baby Virus.”
That’s right folks they’ve been overcome by the second-most powerful force in the universe, (“gossip” being number one)! Not greased lightning or even a neutron bomb. This powerful force is...dare I utter the name ? –“The Maternal Instinct.” Or TMI
Pierre (Mel’s husband) and Ronni have independently been conducting an experiment over the past few months using the time-tested formula, which is:
a. Take a perfectly normal woman.
b. Get her pregnant
c. Try to stop her from entering every baby-care store over and over again for the next 8 months.
Both Pierre and Ronni now have reason to believe that they’re becoming Dads. And soon will have a tiny person to love, nurture and- above all- become intimately familiar with the poops of.
But so far the big change in their lives is their partner’s behaviour. By my estimation both these ladies blood supply consists of about 95% TMI. This TMI is called “the Adolf Hitler” syndrome because it is moody, crazy and expects instant obedience. And it does NOT want an affectionate hug. It wants a GIANT CHEESE PIZZA with pickles, and wants it RIGHT NOW. You will not question it or the police will find you with a pair of scissors sticking out of your neck.
TMI also wants baby outfits, and baby shoes; at least as many as Imelda Marcos, and if you visit their house for any reason, even if you’re the janitor, TMI will make these ladies show you each of these outfits, one by one, and you’re expected to say, “Oh! How Cute!”
Of course TMI is also obsessed with baby diapers, the baby’s room decor, the baby’s crib, and the million accessories the babies will need. Both these ladies cannot have an opinion in the matter. Why? Not because it’s their fault. They are merely the vehicles: TMI is driving. And it wants an SUV.
Accessorising for life’s success
Back when I was born, during the reign of Emperor Nehru, we babies did not need a lot of stuff. We had our feeding bottle, and that was pretty much it. Then we’d lie on our back and gurgle and amuse ourselves by trying to get our toes into our mouths, over and over again. If we were lucky we would get a rattle and someone would change our diapers. Some of us even learned to change our diapers ourselves.
Given today’s baby industry however, equipping the modern baby is a mind-numbing exercise equated only in comparison to getting the space shuttle ready for a moon mission.
There is a list that your pediatrician (who also just happens to own a “Baby Boutique” ) will give you, a PRIORITY list. It has about 9 categories, and amounts to around 200 plus items.... for example: bedding, outer garments, undergarments, cool clothing, warm clothing, diapers, nappies, bathing shampoos, oils, toiletries, powders, stabilisers, thermometers, sterilisers, bottles, pumps (I don’t even want to think about that) shower gels, transporters, transistors, transvestites, mattresses (the firmness of the mattress is very important: if it’s too hard the baby will have trouble sleeping, too soft and it will be used as a trampoline), something in which to catch and check your baby’s poop, lotions and syrups, feeding instruments, furniture. The PRIORITY list does not say what will happen if you do not get all of these things, but the clear implication is that if you do not, your baby will not get ahead in life and not be able to get into business school.
And you cannot pick out just any cradle, there are many cradles available, but you have to choose the RIGHT one, one that conforms to Cradle Safety Guidelines, because if you pick the WRONG cradle, you could very well be consigning your baby to a lifetime of inadequacy, possibly as a toilet roll replacer at Dabolim airport.
The most stressful part is picking out the pram or stroller. Today’s pram is a high tech piece of equipment comparable in complexity to an aircraft carrier, but more expensive. It is easier to buy a hotel than a pram. You must remember that it is not just a carrier with wheels: It’s a place where the kid will spend much of its’ critical formative years pooping and making strange noises.
In practically all baby stores you will find massively pregnant women, crazed by TMI picking out tiny knitted baby shoes and going, “Aww! How Sweet!” And next to each woman will be a man, holding out his credit card, much like prehistoric hunter-gatherer cave people. That’s when the woman’s job was to have babies and the man’s job was to be a provider by hunting and ramming his credit card into the vulnerable region of his kill.
So anyway you end up with all kinds of stuff, now all you actually need is the baby, although come to think of it, since the baby was not on the PRIORITY list, maybe you don’t really need the baby.
Lamaze – where forewarned is forearmed.
You young couples are now ready to house the baby, but are you prepared for childbirth?? When I say “couple”, I of course mean “the wife”. She will be the most directly involved.
As for the husbands, they should get down on their knees and thank whoever invented our present biological system, under which the woman’s job entails:
a) Throwing up every morning in the early stages.
b) Suffering the loss of her youthful figure.
c) Learning how to stand without falling over.
d) Accumulating water in her ankles.
e) Enduring sleepless nights with the tyke trying to kick its’ way out through her stomach wall.
f) Eventually violating every known law of physics by having the baby somehow go from the inside to the outside of her body.
And all this while the man preens and distributes cigars or mitthai and informs everyone he is going to be a father. Like he had everything to do with it.
All women think that a fair system would be that every time they had a contraction the man can be slammed on a vulnerable body part with a cricket bat. But that’s just how she makes light of matters till her contractions really kick in. After which it’s:“GIMME THAT @#$#%$ EPIDURAL NOW!” and “NO I DID NOT SAY I WANTED IT TO BE NATURAL, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR @#$%^% SENSES!”
If you as a couple have been going to Lamaze or childbirth classes, you will end up sitting in a lecture hall with other couples, and, with a mounting sense of dread discover that the process is like passing a bowling ball through a drinking straw.
Some Lamaze lectures are fairly technical, “ Normally the cervix will dilate upto 10 centimetres prior to the birth.” That makes you confident about having a baby until you realise much later, usually just after midnight, that you do not know what a cervix is, and, “How much exactly is 10 centimetres!!??”
Right at the end of the Lamaze sessions is the media event, the lecture hall lights go out and you end up watching a horror movie.
In the movie the man and the woman start out looking happy and content like any other loving couple. Eventually the woman goes into labour.
Her husband tells her not to worry, but you can tell by her expression that he’s very lucky she doesn’t have a cricket bat.
After a while she begins making sounds that one rarely hears outside of the lions enclosure in the zoo, and the husband retreats to the waiting room in case she gets her hands on a pair of scissors.
Finally, after what seems like the entire span of an election year the movie becomes more explicit, causing watching couples to cringe, some to hunch up, some to assume a posture of protecting as many of their body parts as possible, and others to just, outright, shamelessly, faint.
The woman in the movie makes a sound identical to that of a bull elephant being squeezed through a sugarcane juice press, and the Big Moment arrives.
A tiny Oompa Loompa, covered in strawberry jello, appears in a very angry mood.
A very pretty nurse, perfectly coiffed, beams out into the waiting hall and informs the husband, “It’s a boy and there’s two more on the way!”
Back in the lecture hall, the lights go on, and all the pregnant women turn to face their husbands, with the same expression on their face which says, “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
