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(^,^) 3rd Mo

     
     Along with your turning of your 61st day was August’s gush of wind and longer pitter-patter of the rain on top. There are the scales of proof you are every inch growing if not for the tops that used to be draping until your ankles; now  inching above your protruding abdomen. Thanks to your ravenous appetite both for sleeping and suckling. Your tiny toes and prickly fingers to your arms and thighs were ballooning. Your cheeks are stuffed and are puffed some more. When you wriggle to stretch – told to tickle your growth plate, contract your abdominal muscles, fix your stare, squeeze your forehead into redness with some folds that ashen, will mom has to hear the passing of gas of abominable sound? Chuckles are registered on mom’s face but the worry of formidable colic ebbs away. Your lids droop to slumber with your arm draped over your forehead or somewhere else over your face. Even to the innocent sounds of everyday, you stir up into either slow prying of your eyes with some or even no coaxing brings you back to dreamland, or, crying for mom to pick you up and let her do some Lisa Macuja steps and Anne Curtis hum. Mom’s unbelievable talents are known each day and skills are whetted. Some days, mom frets for your taming and toning down. When mom is not sure would she keep you tucked in her arms for hours until she gets convinced, she painstakingly sends you to cradle. Mom’s baby after an hour or two would be awaken on a wet nappy or rooting. Baby’s mom frantically has to be unexpectedly fast in finishing the laundry or whatever that spins her like a non-stop top.
     Fainting from my thesaurus, pleasure became synonymous to work as sleeping homonymous to slipping into the world of mom-hood. As mom clips your nails, tousle your pinchful of hair, caress your belly buton, sniff your milky breath, and tickle your feet, she leaves panic at bay with the checking that you are all OK.

     Today you wake up with bedding creases on your fledgling skin and everybody gets to you simultaneously as if there was a crowd to weave through and the need to elbow one out to who will carry you. Tomorrow you will skid harum-scarum around getting everyone’s attention, and will chortle, “Moma. Dada… Yoya Ema, Wowo Ludi, the other Yoya Wima and the other Wowo Emeh are the best in the world!”  Yesterday was a learning of first timers: first-time parent, first-time aunt, first-time uncle, first-time granny and first-time grampy.   

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WOMAN-ified ME

I was born a woman but ended up acting the opposite. Clumsiness and its cousins in the thesaurus is what I am. Finesse goes unsaid and unheard in my world. I preferred oversized tees over fitting blouses. I refused figure-flaterring dresses for loose pants. I would choose a paintless face even being merged with a bin of all-made-up pretties. But I knew I am a woman inside. So are the secret feelings that have silently died. It was only me who knows everything of what-really-is. It was hard shifting to finer moves. Oh graceful me in sweat! I hate being with someone who I cannot see myself. Because to me, gaudiness is parallel to fun. Not long after, I’ve been to stores of pallets. So the smudged me emerged. Little by little, I’ve added garments I thought I can never wear. These changes of seeing ourselves that can improve us.   
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