The Catch-All Post

OK, a quick review of what's happened in the past month:

1. Obama's leading in all the battleground states, which tells me that he's going to be declared US president fairly early tomorrow evening. Here's keeping all my fingers and toes crossed for him.

2. My parents came. My parents left. Barring a few issues, a good time was had by all.

3. Rohan turned 1. Yes!!!! My little boy is officially one whole year old! And for all those folks who're going to say, oh time's just flown, let me tell you, that has not happened for me. It's been a heckuva long year. I enjoyed his babyhood as much as I could, but I'm glad to see it go. I know, weird me. I'll probably look back on these days with nostalgia, starting when he's a teenager and demanding more money, more clothes and the nice car to take out for a drive. (And the answer to all that is "NO!" Gotta start rehearsing now.)

Not that Rohan's not giving me many opportunities to say "NO!" to him already. He's into everything that he shouldn't be. Electric outlets beckon to him. Door stoppers make inviting twanging noises. Electric cords lure him to chew them. Floor fans are just begging to be poked at. I know he's going to start opening all the kitchen drawers next and dumping stuff out.

As a result, all the housework is half-finished, abandoned in yet another race to get to him before he seriously hurts himself. Of course, he gets hurt all the time. He has black and blue bruises on his forehead today from falling once again while attempting to cruise between his activity table and thin air. Dude, you can't walk by yourself yet. But you get points for trying. Again and again.

He still doesn't weigh much. He's in the 5th percentile for weight, in fact. But short of force-feeding him, there isn't much I can do about that. And yep, he's still nursing, so maybe that's not helping the weight gain any. He does drink some whole milk, though, so the weaning process has begun.

Today he began pointing at everything and saying "Da?" He wants to know the names for everything. I love this age when they're just starting to talk. I can't wait to see what his first word will be. Raina's was "light." Not Ma, not Dad. So let's see what her baby brother comes up with. You can be sure I'll blog about it!

In the meantime, here are some pix of Mr. I'm Now One Year Old! Woohoo!

Meet Rohan

Height: 18 inches (but Daddy says he refused to straighten his legs so it may be closer to 20)

Weight: 6 lbs. 11 oz.

It's been crazy as expected, but one of the worst wildfires in SoCal history has added to the belief that we are so lucky...

Nick Knack

Tagged by Choxbox (choxbox.blogspot.com) to mention the nicknames we call the kids. Nope, not talking about the Unborn One yet; he's mostly still The Baby. I am talking about Pikey The Cat and Raina The Pookie. It's no use pointing out to us that Pikey's not our kid -- she may not have been our first experience in childbirth, but she definitely gave us a taste of childrearing.

We got her when she was 3 months old, and she sat on my lap and meowed all the way home. Once there, she quickly settled in which was obvious by the speediness with which she began making demands -- for lap time, scratch time, play time. Each demand would be underlined by a corresponding meow, which we quickly learned to decipher. Short, staccato meows meant "I'm hungry"; long drawn out meows meant "I really really want something, and you better get it quick otherwise I'm going to scratch the sofa." So it's not surprising that she was nicked The Meow Cat. Pikey itself was a nick for the stately Pilcrow (you know, the paragraph mark on your word doc on the computer).

Other nicks that quickly followed: Pikeymon, Pikery, Peekaroo, Pikeysan, Mikey, Mouse (she's scared of everything, including mice), Silly Billy (billy means cat in Hindi). She answers to them all.

OK, Raina's turn. When she was born, P began calling her The Bug or Bugga because of her big lamplike eyes and teeny nose. I'd call her Smilu and Cheeky for her obvious attributes. Innocuous enough, but the nicks have deteriorated since.

I now call her Cheekoo, Cheekoodee, Pookie (further bastardizing the nick Raina Pooh), Pookeymon, Pookers and sometimes, Pooky Friend (from her favorite Halloween tee with a graphic of "Spooky Friends" which she would mispronounce as Pooky Friends).

But I can't top P, who often calls her Altu (as in Altu-Faltu, meaning useless in Hindi), her baby brother's Faltu and the cat Paltu (pet in Hindi). And then sometimes he calls her "Boogers" -- as in yucky dried snot. What can I say? The man's a creative genius.

Baby in the Womb

Went for a 4-D Ultrasound over the weekend, and here are some of the results! Raina kept asking why he was orange.

It was just astonishing to see those chubby cheeks, that tiny nose, those big big eyes, the little fingers and toes squirming around. He had his left foot up to his forehead -- crazy little guy! We saw him open and shut his mouth like a little guppy. One hand was tucked under his plump butt, and when the ultrasound tech tried to zoom in on the family jewels, his other hand promptly covered them up. A shy one -- or maybe just bidding fair to be uncooperative like his Big Sister. (At her 4-D, Raina presented her butt to us viewers. We have a lot of butt pix.)

At one funny point, the tech prodded my belly gently to get him to move his hands, and as she prodded, you could see him grimace and frown, none too happy about the disturbance in his comfy little world. Then he smiled.

We came away stunned and awed. He looks so much like his daddy, it's not fair. At least one kid should look like the mom. But there was relief, as well. He has 10 fingers and 10 toes, and we didn't have to wait for his birth to count them. Is technology amazing or what?

Nine Weeks and Counting...

The thing with cliches is that they make so much sense. Like the one about time going fast when you're having fun. In 9 exact weeks at this particular moment, I should be holding my baby boy. I can't believe how fast this pregnancy's gone. After the first trimester, the days have just been zooming by. On the one hand I can't wait to see the baby, though I'm terrified of the nursing, diaper-changing zombiedom that will follow. There's excitement, yet that sinking feeling in the pit of my belly that overwhelms me occasionally. Worry that I'm not prepared, that I'll never find a decent changing table (!), that I've forgotten something crucial for the baby's survival or my sanity.

And right now, I'm just plain clumsy. A couple of weeks ago, when I was going down the stairs in the pitchdark, I missed the last two steps and landed on my big toe. Used up all the cuss words in my vocab. And why hadn't I turned on the light? Oh yeah, common sense has been a recent casualty too. Was limping around with a sprained toe for a few days. Then last night, as I was putting on jammies, I lost balance and fell like a stone. No, more like a mountain. Lady with big belly should not balance on one jammied leg, while putting her other leg through. Another titbit of common sense learned.

On the whole, I'm doing pretty good and have the pregnancy glow down pat. But now that I'm slowly getting used to this pregnancy thing, it's almost at an end. Yesterday I looked at Raina and suddenly realized that the days when it was just going to be the two of us pottering around at home were ending too. She wasn't going to be my only baby for long. And I wish I could buy her a few more months, just to protect her from the pain of change. Mostly the onus is on us to make sure that she adjusts well and gets enough attention. But I tend to be such a bad-tempered, impatient, MEAN person when I'm sleep-deprived. How do I protect her from myself?

Just another worry to tack on the list.

What's in a Name?

I know -- out of all the Shakespeare quotes that have become cliches, this one is prime. But really, since this post is about a name for my baby boy, I couldn't think of titling it any other way. So sue me.

Am in such a pissy mood these days, this post is one long whine. You've been warned.

Began my final trimester a week or so ago, and my mom's still bombarding me with baby boy names every time we talk. Which is, like, twice a week. Don't know what part of "it needs to be easy for non-desis to understand" that she just doesn't get. Her recent contribution: Moksh. Yeah, try that on any American and watch his eyes glaze. At least it was the first time she'd mentioned that one. She's been trying "Karan" for weeks now. OK, months. And I tell her for the gazillionth time, Karan's going to become "Karen" the first day of school and my 5-year-old boy will come home and murder his mom for naming him so thoughtlessly.

Who knew it was so hard to come up with desi names that's not only easy for non-desis to pronounce, but won't be perverted by the first obnoxious boy my boy meets? My husband's king of coming up with ways names can be perverted. He was the one to warn me about Karan/Karen. When we were thinking names for our daughter, it was he who pointed out how Anusha could be messed around with (Anus-ha, see? Duh Mommy!)

But even he couldn't have predicted how his friends' kid's name could be messed with. Our friends recently had a baby boy who they named Ravi. Simple? Check. Easy to pronounce? Check. So you would think. My daughter still calls him "Robbie." And how could one possibly come up with a way to tease a kid called Ravi? "Ravioli!" announced another friend -- a German-born American. Thanks, dude.

Thinking simplicity, I ran "Aditya" by some friends. They looked at me vacantly. And these are Thai-Americans, mind you, not themselves known for the easiest names. I tried "Varun" by a Filipino-American friend. Similar vacant look. She didn't even try to say it. Varun, for crying out loud. How much easier can one get?

After all this hullabaloo, we've come up with Rohan. Yeah, "row, row, row your boat..." but at least most people can say it OK. And it's got some coolness factor, thanks to The Lord of the Rings. Plus, it's kinda global: When we googled "Rohan," we came up with West Indians, Irish, Sri Lankans... works for us. Of course, my mom hates it. HATES it! So twice a week, she comes up with new ones to change our minds.

Which brings us back to square one. Moksh? God, I need some Nirvana...