Black Swan

[In honour of the Oscars and because I found everyone’s dresses super-boring.]

What is it with me and films these days… let’s make it these past two years? I don’t seem to be enamoured of any of them. I feel like Hollywood has not produced a truly great movie in a long time, choosing instead to hype less-than-amazing offerings as if they were genius. Case in point – Inception, which was good but not great seeing as it was somewhat a recycling of the Matrix concept, and though much easier to decipher so much was said about how complicated it was that you ended up overthinking it, convinced that there must be more to it than there was. And there’s wasn’t.

Anyway, let’s just say I had high hopes of Black Swan.

And after the opening sequence, which was admittedly beautiful, I found myself cringing and tsking while around me, I could sense everyone else determinedly remaining enthralled.

So, in honour of my positivity vow, let me start with what I liked (and request you ignore the obviously negative first paragraph):

1. The ballet bits. In which case, I should just go watch the ballet instead of the twice-removed filming of it. However, the rehearsal parts – including the blood and gore involved in the training – have been beautifully shot. Of course, ballet always makes for filmic beauty so it’s kind of like if you choose to make a film involving the ballet, you’ve got a winner right there. But I will give it points for the very evocative cinematography.

2. Natalie Portman, who I generally have a crush on. I don’t think she was as amazing as everyone is going on about but seeing as I am in love with, I’m just going to put her in the positive part for just being her. On that note, can someone name one film (prior to this) which Natalie Portman was truly great in?

3. Mila Kunis, who I think is better than Natalie Portman in the film. She wavers between the free spirit and the seriously creepy so skillfully that there would be a big gaping hole in the film without her. In fact, I’m going to switch my crush to Mila. Or given the next point, both of them.

4. The Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis sex scene. The first unabashed lesbian scene in a mainstream film I have scene. And what a scene it was!

5. The creepy schizo parts and not being able to tell which was reality and which was a fragment of a fractured mind. I like how the film played on the intrinsic creepiness of ballet itself, how the ballerinas can all look like clones of each other, in performance and in life. How their uptightness can unravel. I liked that (thank god!) they didn’t explain the mysterious cuts on her back. I liked the grittiness of the blood though I shut my eyes through most of those parts.

Now what I hated:

1. Most of the dialogue except for Mila Kunis’s lines. I could have written that dialogue (and I’m only just discovering how difficult dialogue is to write but I still think people who get paid to do it should put more talent into it). So now I’m wondering whether she just improvised brilliantly, because I find it hard to accept that she was the only one with believable lines while the same screenwriter came up with utter tripe for everyone else. Another film which I wish had been made in the silent era.

There were so many lines that we just straight out of other films – instead of being really interesting things that the clearly interesting characters would have said – but the worst of them all were reserved for Vincent Cassel, who plays the artistic director Thomas Leroy. Everything he says seems to come from the pen of a scriptwriter instead of from inside the character. Maybe it’s because he’s supposed to be French, and French people just don’t speak like that. Maybe if he was an American, the obviousness and trying-to-be-profoundness of his statements wouldn’t jar so much. The only authentic thing he said in the whole film was when he asked the male lead about Nina – “Would you fuck her?” This is doubly amusing because in actual life, the guy, who is also the choreographer of the film, did (ie- Natalie Portman is now pregnant by him and they are all in love etc. In an amusing twist, she referred to it in her Golden Globes speech saying something on the lines of “He lied. He would and did fuck me.”).

2. Another example of irritating dialogue (monologue?) was when Thomas is explaining the storyline of the ballet to the ballerinas. This struck me as exceptionally stupid because Swan Lake is one of the most famous ballets of all time and if the dancers didn’t know the storyline already, they didn’t deserve to be there. Now, obviously this bit was put in for the edification of the audience which again is deeply patronizing. Why does mainstream cinema mollycoddle the audience in this way? A really great film would not make these kind of concessions. It would assume that the audience would either know the story – and really it’s quite an obvious storyline – or look it up after the film. It is not the duty of directors to spoonfeed their audience at the expense of the authenticity of the film. To make matters worse, he does the whole explanation thingie twice… just in case the audience didn’t get it the first time seeing as innocent-virgin-swan-discovering-the black-sawn-within is rocket science and all.

3. And on the subject of overkill, very obvious imagery also. A pink bedroom with white stuffed toys, except for a black swan. A painting of white swans behind Nina in the bath. A music box that plays the Swan Lake score and then the statue on the top of it breaks as Nina does. Nina in pastel shades and Lily in black, except for their night on the town when Nina borrow’s Lily’s camisole and then proceeds to let her hair down. Though, the last one turned out kind of cool.

4. Overall, I’m fine with the simplicity of the plot – uptight young thing discovers the dark side of herself in art and in life – but the whole art director as catalyst part was too boring. I’m sure such things do happen in ballet companies – ballerinas sleeping with the artistic director for the lead role – but the whole thing in this film was just so trite. Couldn’t he have just urged her to let herself go – and she was unraveling anyway – instead of physically trying to push that process on himself?

5. Poor Wynona Rider was quite wasted in the film. That was another overkill, that Thomas had been having a relationship with her before. Such a cliché. The whole film would have been fine without her raving on screen at all, it would have been more effective if the relationship had been suggested in rumours or something.

I was not thrilled with the ending either but on some reflection, I guess the director is entitled to it. It was unexpected in a sense. At least by me.

But clearly this film did something right because I’m still thinking about it two days later, aren’t I? I think it’s the cinematography. Puerile dialogue be damned, the entire thing was beautiful shot including (particularly?) the schizo bits. The tension between the women – Nina and her mom, Nina and Lily, Nina and the other dancers, even (albeit expendable) Nina and Beth – was authentic, even if the tension between Nina and Thomas was not. The soundtrack was great, at least I think it was because like a good soundtrack it was so intrinsic to the atmosphere of the film that you cannot actually remember it for itself. And, of course, the ballet bits.

On the whole, the film is truly great in retrospect because I can edit out the annoying bits in my head and just replay the stellar parts.

PS: Do women really look like that when they masturbate. I have no idea what I look like, since this is not an activity I have an inclination to perform in the front of a mirror, but I think I’m not so dramatic in my movements. So is this portrayal authentic or a figment of director’s fantasizing. Ladies… care to confess?

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Foreign Return

When I was young, people who lived abroad had glamour. Well, not the ones who lived in the Gulf – there were too many of them and they were too Indian anyway, despite their occasional American accents and their gifts of Kraft cheese and Lindt. But those who lived in Canada, Australia and the penultimate US were more exotic, visiting as they did more rarely, with stronger accents and presumably lifestyles that harked back to the TV serials that we still had to watch on video or Sunday children’s hour because cable TV didn’t exist then.

Nowadays, though, the US is too ordinary with entire batches of college students migrating there en masse. Do people in India still feel a frisson of interest when someone says they live in Boston or California (let’s not even mention the semi-cities that most people land up in). New York still holds some charm (for the person not living there) as does London, but other places?

I find though that living in Hong Kong produces some reaction. It’s unusual enough to be interesting, I suppose. Maybe people are more aware of it.

It seems that living in Hong Kong clothes me in some of the glamour that used to imbue my foreign-return cousins. Where I was hitherto a not very attractive, not very sparkly person, who could be relegated to the fringes, now suddenly I am someone because I am from somewhere.

This was brought home to me very cogently last year when a friend introduced me to a friend and left us alone at the table for a bit. The guy, who had till that moment been unsociable to the point of rude although pleading a hangover which I suppose makes rudeness cool, suddenly realised I lived in Hong Kong. His hangover literally dissipated before my eyes and he began to be decidedly animated. It helped, I guess, that he had just been telling me how he wanted to move to the Far East (double minus points for using that term). Anyway, I could almost see the charm that drew my friend to him though I still found his accent irritating (he lived in the Gulf and had grown up in India but somehow ahd acquired a thick Brit way of speaking).

But he’s not the only one. I see it everywhere I go. Saying I live in Hong Kong is the key that unleashes the interest that had earlier been lacking.

I find myself using this conversational starter more and more often. It has made me complacent, I no longer have to work to draw into a conversation. Mention Hong Kong and they are already hooked. It has begun to amuse me, and even as they stare at me with wide-eyed fascination, I feel a little smirky about these people who are still in awe of the foreign.

It also makes me vaguely sad. Is there nothing else to me?

Even as I feel a bit condescending towards these people, I admit I am guilty of making similar snap judgments. For me, generally, it’s people’s jobs. There are certain ‘cool’ jobs that I admire, probably because I would’ve wanted them, and I do perk up if I meet someone who works there. I must sheepishly admit that I have a pecking order of investment banks also (a legacy of my finance magazine days).

The job-interest thing has happened to me too – I used to work for the main English daily in Hong Kong. It instantly took me up several notches in people’s eyes. Now that I work in a more dull-sounding job, I can literally see the “hmm” in their expressions. Most interesting were the reactions of those who I used to know before I had quit the newspaper but who I hadn’t seen for a long time. They would literally go “oh”, I could bewilderment cross their faces (“why would she quit that job?”) and my interest-appeal slipping down several notches.

As I said, I do the job-thing too. I think the job thing is less superficial than the where-you-live thing because at least a job tells you something about your personality. A city? Well, one just happens to live there no?

Of course, it could be that people are curious about the city you live in. I too am interested when people say they live in unusual locales – like Prague or Lagos. But people don’t generally ask me anything about the city or what living there is like. It’s like – oh you live in Hong Kong, then you must be cool and fun and worth investing some interest in. Huh.

On Change

One of the worst insults a friend can throw at you is supposed to be “You’ve changed!” Somehow this statement is uttered with a sense of betrayal and almost always inspired defensiveness in the accussee.

But what’s so wrong with change? Isn’t change natural?

Of course, the implication is “for the worse” but isn’t that only perceptual?

I’ll admit there are parts of me that have changed. I used to be quite awkward, anti-social and lacking in confidence through school and a large part of college. I functioned confidently only among small groups of people I knew really well. Actually, this is still the case.

But somewhere down the line I discovered I could be attractive. The minute you discover you are attractive you become even more attractive. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I also discovered that pointless social chatter of the how-are-you variety, which I believed to be too braindead to be bothered with, had its uses. It got a conversation going. I could still try to keep a conversation real by not continuing endlessly with platitudes – and this keeping-it-real strategy works very well because it surprises people to get honest answers to questions like how-are-you.

I realised that honesty is not always the best policy and sometimes one has to keep one’s mouth shut (very hard for me), dissemble or outright lie.

I also realised it didn’t matter if I looked like Ally McBeal while dancing. As long as I enjoyed it.

Suddenly I was Miss Popularity. Well, not quite. Kind of.

There are, however, parts of me that have not changed. I remain cynical and idealistic at the same time (maybe cynical because I’m idealistic?). I like to argue (though I don’t play devil’s advocate so much). I think therefore I am. I am essentially a blunt person and find it hard to lie (except in work settings where I’m getting better).

I have many people who I have been friends with for ages who have known me through the changes and do not see them as problematic. I can also see changes in these friends from when I used to know them in school or college and while the changes register, I accept them for who they (now) are. We do not keep reminding each other who we used to be except in the occasional joking reference.

I also have friends who have made conscious lifestyle changes that have changed drastically but who expect me to remain the same. Instead of being accused of “having changed” I find myself in the uncomfortable opposite position – of being presumed to have not changed at all.

On Positivity4

[I swear I’m going to stop… at some point]

“When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

A line, and an idea, that took the world by storm from Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist (a book I’ll admit never quite took to).

How wonderful it would be to believe this. All one has to do is want enough.

I think it’s a little more complicated. I believe this statement is true with some caveats:

a. The want has to be important and life-changing. It can’t be for something trivial like getting a window seat in the bus… unless said window seat is going to change your life. I think it might not even work for getting a certain job, unless that job is going to change your life (which jobs, admittedly, often do).

b. You have to believe with all your heart, without a shadow of a doubt, that you’re going to get it. [This is my own personal take]

c. Even if the above conditions are fulfilled, if it’s not the right thing for you, it’s not going to happen.

That’s how prayer works for me. For the big things, I believe with absolute faith that God will give them to me once I’ve asked. I can count only one occasion when it did not work – when I prayed while speeding to a hospital having been informed that a friend was in an accident that she was not dead. I now firmly believe that a person’s death is predetermined, or at least something that cannot be changed by even the most powerful prayers. But that’s another post.

So in some strange way, I guess prayer is my way of unleashing my inner optimist.

In general, though, I prefer to take the pessimistic view. I expect little of life. So I’m not often disappointed and now and then pleasantly surprised.

But back to Paulo Coelho.

A friend, to my horror, used that line to comfort a boyfriend I had just broken up with. He clung to it with desperation – the idea that if he wanted me enough, I would go back. But, the thing is, I knew quite firmly and irrevocably that I would not. In fact, I petitioned the Universe (who I call God) in the opposite direction. So then who wins?

I think all this positivity has to be a bit nuanced:

1. One is often counseled to have a positive outlook on things. That is, no matter what happens, look on the bright side. This I vehemently disagree with. I think all sides should be looked at. And that it is possible that there is no bright side. What, for example, is the bright side of genocide?

2. In everyday life, one can constantly believe that good things will happen. This, again, I believe is setting yourself up for a fall. Good things do not always keep happening. Or rather, they don’t happen just because you believe they will. They just do. Thus, a person like me who mostly believes good things are probably not going to happen still has good things happen despite her negative belief. On the other hand, plenty of people who fervently believe that good things will happen discover that they don’t. I think these are just coping strategies and are not going to change the way the world turns. I always find people who are optimistic scary, because I’m so afraid they’ll be disappointed. But many of these people manage to pick themselves up and dust themselves off despite the disappointment in a way I would never be able to. Thus, I use pessimism as a defense mechanism, and they use optimism. I have learnt to bite my tongue when they are anticipating some good fortune and to not say “I told you so” when it doesn’t happen.

3. For life changing events, positive vibes/prayers could work. Though I think you really need to be able to focus that energy. It works for me, and I’ve led a semi-charmed life. However, I’ve seen tons of people with a very positive outlook for whom it doesn’t work for. So maybe I’m just blessed.

On Positivity3

I have always thought everyone knows that I have always loved Hong Kong.

Apparently not.

It seems a number of people, including my husband (though he cannot be counted on because he suffers from amnesia of the convenient kind), were under the impression that I didn’t immediately like Hong Kong and had problems adjusting in the beginning.

Huh.

So, I went back to the source of all information about myself – my blog – and tried to dig up posts from this period. (This resulted in quite an interesting quest for said posts on old blog, which was on the verge of being shut down by MSN, and a scramble to save content of old posts.)

It turns out I never actually said I had problems adjusting. Or disliked Hong Kong. However, I never explicitly said I loved it either.

Instead, the posts from the initial period of my time in HK can be divided into two categories:

a) Posts about my very first job in a finance magazine

b) Posts about my excursions to places in and around HK

The latter tend to be my amused observations on life in HK. They do not gush with praise and they might have a slightly satirical tone, but they weren’t intended to be negative.

The posts about my job were definitely in the satirical mode, and as time went by, it was quite clear that my job was a source of stress. In fact, these posts dominated the blog and were what most people enjoyed reading also because they were very Devil Wears Prada meets Confessions of a Shopaholic (if I might say so myself). Enjoyable as they were, I guess these posts gave the impression that I wasn’t coping well with life in a new city.

The fact is that even though working in a finance magazine was never the ideal fit and the stress of being in charge of an entire magazine took its toll, I wouldn’t exchange that early experience. I saw a very glamorous side of Hong Kong, because the job involved cocktails with senior bankers in the best hotels on a regular basis. I also made a number of very good friends in that magazine, and had many crazy nights out during that period.

It was only after my first trip back home eight months later that homesickness gripped me. And then began the constant comparisons to Bombay that have become an intermittent staple of this blog.

I guess while I never explicitly said I disliked HK, I never said I loved it either. I think I assumed it was obvious.

After my very first trip to HK, I drew shock and ire from a cousin and friend in New York, which I visited right after, when I proclaimed that I liked HK better than NY. For them, it was nothing short of sacrilege. In retrospect, very objectively, I guess NY sweeps the city stakes but, for me, HK still remains numero uno.

I guess having made that startling declaration to a few people and written a few enthusiastic emails about HK to a few more people, I assumed my love for HK was clear and enough had been said. Moreover, I guess I thought the awesome of HK was obvious, did it really have to be pointed out? Was it possible for a city-lover to actually dislike HK?

But clearly people did misunderstand. And so I’m considering another possibility – that I do not state the positive, or do not stress it, because I assume it’s obvious.

Maybe, in future, I should preface all my comments with some positive remarks and reiterate them at regular intervals.

Also, I tend to have a critical eye, pointing out things that I find amusing or strange, and this is not necessarily a value-judgement. (For example, when I say people in HK are consumerist, I don’t mean this as a negative. It’s just a statement of fact.). I wonder if the positive things I do say get swallowed up in the critical comments giving the whole thing a negative tenor?

So now I am going to make a conscious effort to say two positive things before every comment. Kind of like the lay man’s versions of “that’s a very good question” or “that’s a very interesting suggestion”. Does that count as choosing one’s thoughts?

It is also possible though that instead of me being the “negative” one, I do make positive statements but people choose to focus on the negative ones because they are more entertataining. Hmph.

On Positivity2

The other day, a friend said to me: “You can choose your thoughts.”

Now this is a very profound and wise-sounding statement. I’ve heard it more than once also. It seems quite popular in the contemporary wisdom circles.

But then I began thinking about it. It seemed to me like just another rehash of “think positive”.

And “think positive” is something I don’t believe in. It doesn’t work for me. It probably works for some people. But I dislike it being bandied about as the panacea for all people.

First, I don’t think it’s possible to stop thoughts coming into your head. Sometimes they are suppressed at the subconscious level. At the conscious level, one can suppress them after they emerge. Like you start to think something and then go “no no no” and think something else. It’s more like changing the direction of your thoughts than choosing them.

And this process involves pushing away, often down where they came from, the thoughts that you didn’t allow yourself to think through.

To me this is called being dishonest about your own feelings. The banished thoughts will be there inside you wriggling around and occasionally popping up, or manifesting themselves in ways you least expect such as irrational reactions to something else.

I think it’s better to acknowledge your thoughts, however negative they are. Then deal with them, however long it takes. In my case, this may involve venting excessively and continuously for over and hour. And then one can move on.

I don’t believe it’s possible to move on without going through the process.

In my case, that might involve what might seem to some like excessive and futile analyzing from every possible angle with a lot of “but what if” “but then again”. Most of this goes on inside my head. I have a couple of online angels who are the recipients when I decide to externalize my inner monologue. And sometimes, if I can’t resist, V gets to hear me out…which almost never ends well because he doesn’t have the patience. He either assumes a this-is-never-going-to-end expression or says so out loud, provoking more ranting.

But if I’m allowed to go through the process it goes end. In the meantime, it might seem to the casual observer like a lot of moaning and “negative energy”.

The outcome, though, is more honest than just shoving a thought back in a hole and going all “inner poise!”. And frankly, I think the process makes for more interesting discussions too.

One might argue that one can train oneself to only thing positive thoughts. I don’t believe it’s entirely possible. I think somewhere deep down the negative thoughts are there, swimming around. I think I can count the number of people I’ve met who I think genuinely think only or mainly positive thoughts naturally, without any process or training. The rest of the world, it seems to me, who are trying to think positive are only suppressing stuff they don’t think they should be thinking about.

(this post has a sequel).

Milestones

In one of the episodes of Sex and the City, Carrie grumbles to Samantha about how, while there are big celebrations marking milestones in the married person’s life (starting with engagement, marriage, birth of children, big anniversaries etc.) there is nothing to commemorate the milestones in the life of a single person. Thus, while she found herself buying endless gifts for her married friends down the years, she herself was never the recipient of any largesse.

It got me thinking. In the past, society was geared towards coupledom and the married-and-kids way was the only way. So, landmarks evolved into events that were celebrated, often with gifts. And normally, it was a what-goes-around-comes-around deal because you gifted some, you got some.

Actually, the gifting is beside the point. Why are only landmarks in a couple’s life celebrated? Are there milestones in the singleton’s life that should be noted and feted?

* * *

And on the subject of gifting, Chinese culture at least has a tradition where singletons are at the receiving end (in a good, if somewhat patronizing, way). At Chinese New Year, the tradition is to hand out lai see, or red packets containing money. The etiquette of who to give lai see to is mindboggling, but the blanket rule is that married people give single people lai see. Even if they’re older than you. Even if they’re your boss. I’m still walking the lai see minefield but I draw the line at giving lai see to people old enough to be my mother or bosses who are much older. Though my boss might be an exception, because she has declared she is very happy to receive lai see.

Yeah, right.

I went into this journey convinced I would be the best mother. I would be nurturing and caring to my child but not obsessive. I would calmly take the bumps in his road in my stride while being there for him. I would work but I would breastfeed. I would lull him to sleep reading Shakespeare. I, who have never been a baby person, would excel at babystuff. I would prove in one masterstroke that one doesn’t need to be a goochey-moochey woman to be a great mom.

My son would love me because who, after all, wouldn’t love all of the above.

Now, two months on.

The first to go was the composure. My son wailed, he threw up, he screamed and strained. I got increasingly desperate. I went to four different doctors. My husband patronized me but did not support me. I still cannot be sure I made the right choices.

Next breastfeeding. It was not the blissful experience it is made out to be. Well, it’s blissful if the baby cooperates. If not, it’s a psychological nightmare (and often a physical one). Where once formula was the Holy Grail, now it’s breastfeeding. I have come so close to giving up on breastfeeding so often, but the cacophony of voices that say breastfeeding is the best thing for your child (thereby suggesting that if you don’t breastfeed, you’re somehow a little less than a good mother if not outright bad) kept rising in protest. I still believe that breastfeeding is the best choice… in most cases. But there are cases where a mother cannot produce enough milk, where a baby may be allergic to something in mom’s milk and it can be impossible to figure out what because doctor’s aren’t even clear on whether they believe this is possible or not, where a mother might come down with sore nipples and infection. None of the breastfeeding experts ever bring up these cases. And their voices have silenced the other voices so that now even doctors shy away from suggesting alternatives for fear of sounding anti-breast.

Then sleep. I have come to the conclusion that some people need more sleep than others. My husband can sleep six hour or less. He can wake up at four in the morning and be fine. I need nine hours of ideally continuous sleep. This is not possible with a baby, especially with a baby with a restless tummy. So I sleep less, and it shows. The alternative is to pass him on to someone else who claims they don’t need as much sleep. This is what I am currently doing. Of course, my dreams are laced with guilt.

Finally patience and composure. I don’t know whether as a mother the sight of your child screaming at your breast is particularly emotionally distressing or whether I just have a short fuse. But I have snapped so many times. Sometimes my husband eyes me like he thinks I am going to hurt the baby.

I have finally concluded that my husband is the better mother than I am. He is patient and nurturing. He can stay up with the baby because lack of sleep doesn’t faze him. He can take him from me when I, the mother, look particularly crazy. I can only watch and worry and panic. I can cling to the moments when my son is peaceful and think that maybe I’m ok at it, this motherhood. Most of the time I feel edged out, a fraud.

Nomenclature

When we were little, my mother forbade our relatives from using petnames for us. “I took the trouble to give you’ll beautiful names and I don’t want some stupid nickname to stick,” she said.

I have no such qualms. So far, I have been calling my son:
Benji, the Benj, Benjification
Natwar, Nattu
Umvi, the Um
Noomi, Noomella, Noomer
Schmooney, Schmoonella, Schmoonmeister
Mookey

Basically, everything except the name I so carefully picked out for him.

My mother has been calling him Chottu. She has been calling my sister’s new baby Putchki.

Go figure.

Back to the grind

Most new mums dread the return to work. With not a little guilt, I must admit I was quite looking forward to it.

It helps that I have a job that is pretty much stress-free. That I can leave office on time. That I have a helper who is great with the baby. That V was going to be home for almost two weeks after I returned to work.

Still, I am surprised at how much I’m liking being back at work. 24/7 with a baby is clearly not for me. This realization makes me feel like a bad person and a bad mother – but I am kind of used to feeling like a bad mother now – but it’s something my own mother realised about me from the start.

When I got pregnant and told my mum that I was considering giving up work, she said: “You’re not the type to stay at home and look after a baby. You better go back to work.” This from a woman who stayed home with her kids all her life. Maybe that’s why. My mum now feels it’s better for women to have careers and their independence despite the many benefits of being there when you’re kids come home from school, the benefits of having your own money are greater. Weirdly, this is something I used to argue for as a kid and which I’m now rethinking. So my mum and me seem to have reversed our positions.

In the first month after Benji was born, I was freaking out about returning to work. Somehow I was the only one who could put him to sleep, second only to my mum. V was marginally better and my helper seemed terrible. Together with Benji’s health issues I was panicked and stressed out, especially about when V went back to work. I even considering requesting my mother-in-law to come! Those of you who know me will know how desperate I was from that statement.

Luckily good sense prevails and I held off on the mother-in-law request. By month two, everything was upside down. My helper was excellent with Benji and even V was better than me. Somehow I had lost my baby-sleep mojo. Then I began to get jealous.

By the end of the second month, I had calmed down and my baby-patting skills returned. The helper and I are almost equally good at comforting him though I have to admit she’s a little better. Then again, she’s had three kids and is not a stressed out new mum. I’ve decided to just be grateful that I have someone who can take care of my baby well when I’m not around.

Returning to work has given me fresh respect for women who stay home. Being around a child all the time is tough physically and emotionally. At least in my case, because I was at home, I felt obliged to be around for the Benj all the time. Until I started forcing myself to go for a short walk for an hour or so. But that was still just an hour in 24 hours, with the rest being spent in PJs in front of the TV, with a short nap somewhere in between. My only adult interaction was with V when he came home in the evening. I am lucky to have help but since I was home I felt guilty about passing Benji to her too often.

Coming to work, putting my mind to something else other than trying to figure out why Benji has so much gas or is cranky, interacting with other adults has been a refreshing change.

With Benji restless after his 3 am feed, my biggest worry was that I’d be tired. But since V was on leave, I planned to pass the baby to him at night.

I do feel knackered by the time I come home and the first day, I just about fed the Benj before crashing out myself. Although he is too small to miss me, I wish I could have worked part-time so that I could spend more time with him. The little time before and after work and weekends is not enough.

But I also feel (and this may change) that I made the right choice. There are women who can stay home with a baby all day and manage to find the right balance in their lives. And there are women who can’t. I’m the latter.