Aryanna’s Updates

            Tum dee dum dee dum and it’s already 47 days since I made that journey down the birth canal and left my beloved watery home forever.  Do I still miss it?  Hell yeah, u bet!  But not as much as before, fortunately.

            Let’s see, what have I been up to lately?  Other than the usual newborn business of growing pretty and dining on boobiejuice and pooing and peeing and boobiejuice again and sleeping; quite a bit, actually.  Let me start with the hospital visit.  Well, Mummy and Daddy brought me to the hospital to see Dr Paediatrician.  The visit started off well, with Mummy and Daddy chatting to Dr Paediatrician and me nice and snug in the crook of Mummy’s arm.  Then, I was put on a narrow bed, and then I was stripped and prodded and I started thinking hey what’s going on.  But then Mummy held my arms and started crooning to me and calling me her brave little girl.  I relaxed and was happy again.  I wasn’t doing anything particularly brave at that time, but I wasn’t going to contradict her!  And then all of a sudden, Dr Paediatrician (Dr Evil, more like!) stuck a needle in my thigh.  Holy stinky poo, it hurt sooo bad!  All thoughts of bravery flew out of my head and I screamed blue murder!!  I noticed with great satisfaction the guilty looks on Mummy and Daddy’s face.  Note to self: the next time Mummy and Daddy mention seeing Dr Paediatrician, I should start screaming and kicking.  Other than that unpleasant episode, Dr Paediatrician pronounced me healthy and strong.

            The next worthy-mentioned event is my party.  Yup!  I had a party held in my honour, to celebrate the fact that I had been born into this world.  I’m liking this world more and more!  Some of the guests came bearing packages wrapped in colourful papers, which made Mummy and Daddy smile.  Others came bearing small rectangular red envelopes which made Mummy and Daddy smile even more.  There was pleeeennnnnty of food which was served boofay style.  We had fried rice and noodles, fried chicken, ribs in plum sauce, butter prawns, sambal sotong, veggies and mushrooms, wantans and fishballs, steamed dumplings, yellow glutinous rice, chicken curry, red tortoises (honest! Tortoises!), soy bean drink and ABC, slices of papaya, watermelon and honeydew and most special of all, red eggs made specially by Maa, my maternal grandma.  Thank you Maa! 

            I guess the food was good, seeing as how all the adults dug in with great gusto.  Not me though.  I mean, I’m a newborn, duhhh… and I don’t have teeth, duhhh.  But I wouldn’t go near those blobs of food even if you paid me to!  No siree!  Boobiejuice for me!  I had a few rounds of those.  Om nom nom nom nom nom.  Those big chomping adults don’t know what they’re missing. 

            What else… ahhh yes, my passport.  I need it for a long journey that I’m going to make soon.  Hmmm, I wonder if it’ll be longer than the journey I made last 12^th Jan.  I highly doubt it.  Anyway, Mummy and Daddy took me on a long ride to go get my passport done.  The car ride was soothing, so I took a lovely nap but I had a nasty dream of being splashed with cold water by a great big elephant.  I opened my eyes and saw that Daddy was the great big elephant splashing my face with cold water!  Daddeeeeeeee!!!!  I wasn’t happy at being so rudely awakened from my lovely nap, but I decided to be gracious and not cry and pose nicely for the photo.  I thought if I flare up my nostrils a bit, it’ll take the attention away from my bigger than average nose (courtesy of Daddy) and if I pout my lips, it’ll make my full lips (courtesy of Mummy) more kissable.  As for my eyes, I’ve already got lovely eyes and lashes and besides, I was too sleepy to do anything anyway.  After several tries, the photographer finally got the best shot.  He did quite a good job and I thought I looked gorgeous in the photo.  It was confirmed when we got home and Mummy and Daddy showed everyone my passport.  They all smiled and laughed and I was happy that I brought so much joy into the lives of the people around me. 

            Yesterday everyone dressed up and the ladies put on makeup.  I thought we’re having another party, but it turned out we were taking a family photo at a studio.  I can understand the excitement of everyone else, but you see, I’m used to having my photographs taken.  I’m not being blasé about it, but it’s something that happens almost everyday to me anyway.  So excuse me if I wasn’t as excited.  I went to sleep instead.  As expected, I still look gorgeous in the photos. 

            And now, I need my beauty sleep.  Yes, that is the secret of my gorgeousness and my sweet disposition.                

Acquired Human Overvalidation Syndrome

            So, was watching the rerun of American Idol a while back.  Boy, were they sucky.  Well, most of them anyway.  There were a few who undoubtedly deserved the coveted yellow (not golden!) ticket to Hollywood and fame.  And there were some who humble me thot deserved the ticket, but the judges begged to differ.  Oh well, I’m not Simon Cowell, (or Randy or Jen or Steve) so what do I know.

            As for the sucky ones, how do they suck?  Let me count the ways.  They sucked because… oh, too many to count.  Too lazy to count.  But I really applaud their sense of worth and their high self esteem.  And also, their impaired hearing.  And also, the impaired hearing of their mammas and their poppas who keep stoking the fire of their ego until it becomes an uncontrollable massive inferno.  I’m all for guarding children’s sensibilities and cultivating their sense of worth.  All children want, need and deserve validation.  Heck, adults too want, need and deserve validation.  But when it is misplaced and given in too enormous doses, it leads to self esteem that pierces the stratosphere and produces individuals who think they are the greatest gift to universe.  What’s more, they can’t, or refuse, to see otherwise.

            I call this the Acquired Human Overvalidation Syndrome.  This is what happens when children (and non-children) get abundant praises that are untrue or exaggerated.  Now, I tell my Sophie she’s beautiful and smart all the time.  But that’s because they’re true!  I sure as heck ain’t gonna tell her sings good if she doesn’t. Instead, I’d very gently but firmly steer her away from any ambitions of becoming a crooner.  I’d tell her that while I’m sure she’d succeed as a singer if she really puts her mind to it, I simply don’t think she has the time to really pursue a singing career.  So let’s just leave singing to other people.  She should instead concentrate on her real calling, which is finding the cure for AIDS and cancer and winning the Nobel Prize.  

The World As Aryanna Sees It

            My my, how time flies.  One moment I’m bouncing in my sac and playing with my cord and minding my own business and the next I’m being squashed and pushed through the birth canal and now I’m 32 days old already.  The last time I wrote I said that I’ve revised my opinion of the world.  It’s not such a bad and scary place after all.  And it’s a lot bigger than I initially thought!  Way way bigger.  You see, I thought the world consisted of only the hospital and my cot, but boy!  Was I wrong!  Only a green few-day-old would think like that.  And I, am definitely NOT a green few-day-old.

            I still think it’s noisy and bright, and I always get this gnawing feeling in the pit of my tummy, and it’s decidedly not dignified to have my diapers taken off and my perky bum cleaned with wet cotton.  But when it’s too noisy and bright, Mummy will make it better by closing the door and drawing the curtain, then it’s nice and cosy.  And when I get that feeling in my tummy, I just open my mouth and bawl and Mummy will give me boobiejuice.  Yummy yum yum!!  Boobiejuice is the best thing in the world!  It settles my tummy in no time at all.  It almost makes up for not having my cord with me.  And as for the indignity, oh well, I’m a newborn so I guess I can live with it.  Plus, it’s definitely better than lying around in a smelly poopy diaper.

            After a feeding session, Mummy always holds me up against her chest and rubs my back so that I burp and feel better.  And when Mummy does that, I can hear her heartbeat.  It’s very faint, but it’s there.  It does bring back fond memories of being inside Mummy.  The steady rhythm of her heartbeat was my constant companion in utero, together with other murmurs and gurgles of Mummy’s insides.  Sigh…. those were the days…  Anyway, when I’m in that position, Mummy likes to plant soft little kisses on my head.  I am so loved! 

            The world is a great place to be in. 

              

Confined To The Confines of Confinement

            For many Asian societies, confinement is the period that ranges from 30 to 40 days postpartum in which the new mother rests and recovers from the rigours of labour and delivery.  I think this whole concept of confinement is a great one.  It gives the new mother much needed rest and sleep, two of the most important ingredients for a speedy recovery.     To optimise recovery, the mother is also expected to observe certain practices.  

            For the Chinese community in Malaysia, the main principle of post natal care is to avoid getting “the chill” or “the wind”.  Getting the chill or the wind is supposed to be the absolute worst thing that can happen to a woman who’ve just had a baby.  This can result in the woman suffering from various ailments in her old age which includes rheumatism, gassiness (apparently so!), and an assortment of aches and pains which can make your life in short, a bitch.

            The practices that the mother has to observe run the gamut from the sensible to the practical to doubtful and well… plain ridiculous. Case in point, restrictions on bathing or washing your hair for the duration of the confinement.  I mean, what the heck???  How is not cleaning yourself suppose to aid your recovery?  I just don’t get it.  If anyone out there gets it, please help me in getting it.

 I think it’s not only ridiculous, it’s also bad hygiene practice.  There you are, hugging and cuddling and breastfeeding your newborn with his/her immature and underdeveloped immune system and you sweaty and sticky and greasy-haired.  Hmmm… something not quite right there…no?  I have no idea where these practices originate from, but if I have to hazard a guess, I’d say they have their roots in ancient China.  Now, far be it from me to diss the wisdom and medical knowledge born from 2000 years of civilization.  I guess in ancient China where the water probably came from polluted sources and the temperature can fall to subzero and where people really did suffer and die from pneumonia and bronchitis and whatnot, the restrictions made perfect sense.  But in modern, tropical, SWELTERING Malaysia?  I’m sorry, but I’m not convinced.  I need my twice a day shower just to feel human. 

Admittedly, other than this restriction, I have no problem at all with being “confined”.  Some people bitch about being stuck in the house and not being able to go anywhere except the hospital.  Not me, I have no problem staying at home.  It does get boring at times, but I don’t want to be traipsing anywhere with a poopy newborn and a sore stitched-up perineum anyway.  I’d rather be sitting at home with my feet up and doing my Kegels, thank you very much.

As for the restrictions on food, some really does make sense.  Some of the “forbidden” food can do funny stuff to the baby’s fragile digestive system and give them extra gas or discomfort.  The result?  A fussy, weepy baby who’ll wake up at night and make you weepy too.  No fun!  Sure, I dream about eating all sorts of things, but hey, it’s just 40 days, not 40 years.  Besides, I like some of the confinement food.

Also make sense are the restrictions on limiting walking and stair climbing, not lifting/carrying anything heavier than your newborn, and oh I absolutely love the urut and the tungku (hot stone) sessions.  What’s not to love having someone knead those sore tired muscles? 

            All in all, it’s not such a bad thing to be confined after all.

            

Roar and Hoppity Hop

         The year of the tiger goes out with a roar and the year of the rabbit comes hoppity hop in.  The tiger has left behind a wonderful parting gift for me, a beautiful little tigerette.  What gift would the rabbit bring?