Hush Little Baby...

Reading a book always puts me in a certain mood for writing. When I finished reading Vikram Seth's 'A Suitable Boy' three weeks after my third year finals, I was convinced that I should become a writer instead of an engineer. His style made it look so easy. I remember sitting in a train and describing the things happening around me, as if to set the background of the first chapter of my first great novel, but after 5 pages of just droning on about the engine and the passengers I realised my non-existent plot was nowhere near a short story for a school magazine, let alone the next Booker Prize.

I had borrowed Tash Aw's 'Harmony Silk Factory' from my youngest sister about a week ago. The first part of the book didn't particularly strike me as anything special - the narrative was simple, telling the story of Johnny Lim through the somewhat prejudiced viewpoint of his son, despite the fact that most of the events took place before his birth. It took me almost a week to finish it. When I started to read the second part, though, I began to see the brilliance associated with this first-time novelist. It's amazing how he is able to change his writing style, especially when you consider that the second narrative is the journal of Johnny Lim's wife, and you get to see Johnny in a totally different light. I was able to read the second and third parts of the book in less than 2 days (the fact that it's the weekend may have helped). One part of the book affected me deeply in particular - when Peter Wormwood sees Johnny cradling his sleeping two-year-old son at the train station. This was at the end of the book, which I had read about an hour ago, and which is partly why I am still awake at 1 a.m.

Descriptions of young children often get me into a really emotional state. When I read that passage, I pictured Nuaim as Jasper, his long lashes softly caressing his lower eyelids in sleep. Then when Jasper wakes up, I see Nuaim standing there, holding on as he looks around him, his right eye squinting against the bright light as he is wont to do before he groggily lays his head back onto the shoulders of whoever happens to be carrying him at the time. When I went to bed, I found Nuaim asleep, his arm thrown around Hubby's neck as their heads rest on the same pillow. Somehow, tonight I do not want to put him alone in his cot. Let him share the bed with us, his parents - he'd make his way in at some point anyway, like he does every night. As I tuck myself in, rearranging the pillows to make myself comfortable, I find myself engulfed by the strangest feeling, as if I was about to lose something precious and most dear to me. I realise, as the tears started streaming down my face, that it was Nuaim I was crying for.

It's silly really. I mean, he's not going anywhere at the moment, is he? He's just lying there on his stomach, occasionally murmuring something in his sleep as his chubby hands search for the corners of the pillowcase. Maybe it's because of the pregnancy, although I know that it's the same feeling I had when Nuaim was first introduced to the bottle at the age of three weeks, because apparently I couldn't produce enough breastmilk to satiate his hunger. At that time I knew that I had lost exclusive feeding rights to him, that I could no longer claim him all to myself, that he was no longer solely dependent on me for care and comfort. In public I'd jokingly complain about how he never wants to leave my side, always clinging on to my breast like some desperate lover, but secretly I revelled in the closeness, the bond that exists when your child draws succour from your own body. And yet even as I rejoiced at his development, his growth as he found his feet at 11 months and could walk, then run and climb, I dreaded the day when his feet would take him away from me, his newfound independence releasing him from my smothering embrace.

I suppose I am feeling guilty for not paying much attention to him earlier today (yesterday?). Hubby had gone to KL for a whole-day 'Kursus Pengurusan Jenazah', so he dropped us off at Mak's house in the morning. Mak was going for an overnight trip to Johor with her friend for a wedding, and I wanted to go pick up my repaired brooches and buy some toiletries at Jaya Jusco, so we left together. My brother dropped Mak off at her friend's in Subang Jaya, then sent me to One Utama before heading off to Taman Tun to run a few errands. I spent two hours at the shopping centre, alone, before my legs felt tired and my head started to feel heavy. By the time I got home, it was time for lunch and Nuaim was asleep. I spent the rest of the day watching TV and finishing the book, and Nuaim was left in the company of the maids. I know it was selfish of me, but I felt I deserved some 'me' time. Besides, I stil have a whole day tomorrow (or is it today now?) to spend with him, and I do need my rest, which is difficult to get with Nuaim.

And yet here I am, lamenting how my private moments with my firstborn have swiftly gone by, to be replaced soon with the arrival of another baby, with whom I shall be recreating scenes of crying fits and diaper changes throughout sleepless nights. Will I sing the same songs I used to sing to Nuaim in my attempts to cajole him to catch few winks? Will I still whisper the same words of advice, hoping he'll grow up to become a good Muslim, obedient to his parents, the way I did that one night during confinement when Nuaim just would not stop crying and ended up putting both Hubby and me in a terrible mood? Will I count his fingers in the same four languages as I did when Nuaim used to suck contented from my bosom? And what will Nuaim feel when he sees this new baby in my arms?

Or will I keep these memories only for Nuaim and myself, refusing to share them even with his sibling(s), instead creating new memories with different songs, different toys and different tactics (I'm still stuck with the ability to count in only four languages, and only from 1 to 10), even assigning different caregivers?

The tears have not stopped. But for tonight a least, I shall hold him tight in my arms and not let go.