I recently remarked “better luck next time!” to two friends, whose babies look like the fathers rather than my friends. Thankfully they thought I was joking and didn’t take offence… It was intended to be lighthearted, but after doing all the hard work of carrying the foetus for 9 months (the easy part!), delivering it and caring for it at the cost of your own sanity, the least the little tyke can do is look like you, not the dad! I’m quite smug and happy that my son looks like me.
Son of the Soil
Leo has my dad’s caterpillar eyebrows and my taste buds, inherited all the way from my grandmother. He’s more on the toasted side of the colour spectrum (perhaps thanks to fact that I strip him every time the sun’s out – gotta get that vit D!). He will have kheer over custard any given day, aloo paratha over mashed potato or pizza, daal-rice over pasta, and masala omelette over the plain version. He prefers dogs to cats, loves company, especially where he’s the star attraction. This is all submitted in evidence for the fact that my first-born is as Punjabi as they come, and he couldn’t be more like me if he tried. So I think my job is done, in that, for better or worse, I’ve produced a mini-me. This certainly makes looking after him easier, because I can’t blame his whims, fancies and foibles on anyone else. When he grabs my face for wet kisses, he’s mine. When he wakes up bawling at night, and won’t go to sleep for hours, he’s still mine. Sigh.
Quit While Ahead or Carry On?
Darling Husband asked me quite early on whether I’d still love our child so much if he’d taken after his side of the family. Of course I would, I replied promptly, but I’m glad it wasn’t tested. I mean DH tries my patience when he merely tolerates my (amazing) food, and pines for pies instead. Pies are such a waste of time - you cook a stew first which takes hours and then you put it all into a pastry case and bake it for some more hours – so much effort for so little result! And he could live on bread, cheese, cereal and milk if it came to that, whereas I’d shrivel up and die if I had to eat only cheese and bread for three consecutive days. Imagine bringing up a child who’d refuse all the food his mother produced in favour of (a tad bland) European fare – I’d feel rather betrayed by my womb if I’m honest. Ergo, I think since I’ve got it right with Leo and his predilections, there’s no need to have more kids – might as well quit while ahead eh?
Alright, alright, these are all nice, funny excuses to say that recently I’ve started suspecting that I don’t have it in me to produce more children. HOW do people do it? I mean when one doesn’t have children, one thinks one’ll cope, and after all how hard can it be? But after the first one you know exactly how hard it is and women (who have a choice) still go and do it. Foolhardy or headstrong or heroes, or all of the above? One reason could be that they need more kids to entertain the prodigal first who’s bored of all the toys and threatens to destroy the remaining vestiges of your sanity. Well, that’ll be my reason (dumb as it is) if I ever have more!
(The author is a former TV journo and currently the Head of Communications and Marketing at Anthemis Group in London. She became Mama to baby Leo in April 2015. She started this blog as an outlet for the intense, roller-coaster experience that pregnancy and motherhood entail. And for recording the journey with as much humour – black mostly – as she can cram in. Oh and dispensing free gyan as she ticks the been there, done that milestones.)
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