Confessions of a New Indian Mother

By Mariam Akabor

I thought I had seen it all, the idiosyncrasies’ of my community, throughout my twenty-something life – until recently when I became a mother for the first time [INSERT loads of congrats, well-wishes and contradicting advice]. This role tops it all, even that of an Indian wife. But first things first, the pregnancy.

Almost everyone I know, with the most sincere of intentions, doles out advice and opinions. Carrying high? Has to be a boy! Or you’re carrying very low? It’s definitely a girl! Or is it the other way around? Find yourself craving supari (betel nut)? Don’t eat too much, else your baby won’t have a fair complexion. I listened with mirth.

Then came the warnings. Don’t let them cut you! Go the natural way. These doctors only care about their holidays (and here I was ready to pop anytime from Christmas Day). Don’t take the epidural, [INSERT mother/sister/auntie/niece/granddaughter or the neighbour’s mother/sister/auntie/niece/granddaughter’s name here] had the epidural and she still suffers with backache today.

And then HE was born. And there was tacit approval from many for I had produced a son, an heir, a surname-carrier. One of my friends told me that family members had thanked her personally for giving birth to a boy. (The gynae gives all expectant mothers a form to fill out where we get to tick a box that asks MALE or FEMALE).

Indian visitors flock to the household that harbours a newborn like moths flock to a bright lamp. Understandably family and friends are excited, terribly excited in fact. The begging question remains in everyone’s minds – who does the baby look like? More importantly, it is the complexion of the baby that really matters [INSERT acknowledgement of shallowness of Indian community].

It is taboo for the Indian woman who has just given birth to do anything but rest in her mother’s house for about forty days. She is treated to a range of “birth masalas” [INSERT the specific names of these in your vernacular if you’re Indian] that are meant to help her regain her strength. In some families, not consuming these is unheard of. I always wonder, what of the millions of women worldwide who aren’t Indian and are giving birth every day? They survive surely? But then who am I to argue with thousands of years of tradition?

And what about him? Unfortunately for hubby and me, our child was branded with the C-word. COLIC. If I had thought studying for an exam in a subject I’d never attended a lecture for was difficult, I was in for a reality shock. And if I had thought I had heard the end of “what you should do”, I was in for a bigger shock.

Suddenly, everyone, including the grocery-packer at Pick ‘n Pay, has some well-meaning advice to impart. Boys are always more difficult than girls. Wait until they start walking, then you had it. Then I had it? What was I having now then?

Respected family and friends offered their help in guiding us newbie parents on how to handle a newborn. Only to utter the words “I’ve never seen a baby like this before!” (And this also from my nonagenarian grandmother, herself a mother of nine children).

Just when I am content with his disposition I begin to hear the whispers, accompanied with the shake of the head in a sombre manner – Wait till he starts teething.