A 9-MONTH HOMERUN

June 7 2003: Dylan Zinead Xiv B. Tanji (Dylan—from Bob Dylan and my favorite Charlie’s Angel; Zinead—from Sinead O’Connor; Xiv—the Roman numeral counterpart of my middle name, which is Catorce, 14…get the picture?) came out bloody, pale and slimy at exactly 1:30 pm after 24 hours of f*##*!!@! labor (imagine that!). Good thing, my determination to get Dylan out of my womb was so fierce, it could light a candle at ten paces. I was all worn out and half dead after the delivery. But I wasn’t expecting that a baby would normally look whitish pale and alien-like seconds after wiggling her way out of the tiny orb also known as “her opening” (my opening, that is). Alarmed, I slurred incoherently, “Doc, are you sure she’s normal? She doesn’t look like one” (my eyes half-closed). She plainly uttered, “ho-hummm.” The last thing I remembered was the excruciating throbbing of her stitches (you know where). I knew it, it was a conspiracy! They lacerated my you know what! Damn.

When I opened my eyes, there were these psychedelic floral patterns swirling across retinal blackness…and then Ahmad’s face interrupted the delusional panorama. He had this huge grin bigger than a peeled banana and a happy, sappy set of eyes. He had Dylan in his arms. I allowed myself the luxury of an exhausted, proud smile…

Hours later, I was still too numb and wasted to function. Thanks to all those painkillers and injections the nurse gave me in the labor room! So there I was after the delivery, lying in the hospital bed with all the hazy people by my side fussing over my baby and me like mad dogs. I couldn’t even understand a word they were blabbering except for “oooooooww,” “aaaaahhh…,” and “cuteeeeeeeee.” It’s hard to explain what I was feeling - it was like a cross between nostalgia and homecoming, especially upon gazing at the tiny, wiggly thing inside the crib. All that mattered to me that moment was the spark in Ahmad’s eyes.

It takes one little sperm cell to screw up your plans. WRONG!!!!

It takes one little sperm cell to build you a home (not literally though).

My Logic teacher would have set a debate with me saying such but who could blame him? He’s single. He’s like half of the single population out there who go ballistic and cynical about “baby” talks and stuff. Having and raising a baby at an early age for some are nothing but mere distraction to their path to success. But I might as well advice them to ponder on that matter because they really have no idea what they’re missing…believe me. It’s true however, days couldn’t get any simpler and lax when you’re single but what the heck, my life before has always been a sequence of clashes and misadventures…might as well abuse it*grin*.

Moreover, the hustle and bustle since Dylan came about were not sheer predicaments right under my nose…instead, they kept me on my toes. In most ways my life is still close to my ideal. In fact, my insecurities, emotional troubles, fears and bitterness gradually vanished (I’d take that as a consolation). I may moan a thousand complaints of what my being a young mom cost me. But not one of those petty protests could even outshine the bliss that Dylan had given me.

Looking after little Dylan is madly exasperating (especially during her first few months) yet divine. Having her plays absolute harmony with my pride and lights a fire under Ahmad’s ego as well, I believe. Not only does it imply that we’re like normal couples capable of producing our very own cluster of offspring, but it confirms we’re finally HOME. And as hackneyed as it sounds…there’s no place like it.

Uncategorized |