One of the things I’ve learnt since becoming a mother is that leaving the house with a baby is a muscle that must be built and exercised. The first time we took the bubs somewhere other than the doctor was to church, which should have been fairly straightforward. Aircon-ed car to aircon-ed hall to aircon-ed car and back, nothing too demanding – or so you would think. I spent the night before running through the schedule in my head – what time’s the feed? When to pump? Working backwards, when to feed? Do we need a swaddle? Socks? Pram? Carrier? Maybe we should just feed formula. Okay so we need the formula. And bottle(s). And warm water in a flask. Sanitizer? Wipes? Diapers? Changing pad? Change of clothes? On Sunday morning itself I spent a good hour and a half packing and preparing, until I was sweaty and exhausted. Needless to say I wasn’t the most absorbent of minds during the service itself, a problem that was only exacerbated by the baby rebelling against the pram and persistently threatening to fuss.
2.5 months on, I’ve definitely gotten better. My going-out muscle (maybe hers, too?) has had training enough for me to feel comfortable taking her out for an hour or two with minimum headache or fuss (of course, this ties in with the establishment of a more predictable schedule for feeds).
And so it is that for the past few mornings, around 10 I strap her into the carrier and trot off for breakfast and a bit of a stroll. Singapore has horrible weather and my baby has horrible skin (the ubiquitous monster that is eczema), so as far as possible I try to float from one aircon-ed space to the next. It’s a nice timing because she gets a cuddly carrier nap, and I get to have breakfast and be reminded that there is a society beyond the four walls of my apartment.
As I gradually shook off the anxieties of going out with a baby in tow, I’ve been able to experience some of its joys. Having her in the carrier is very nice and makes me feel like a koala or kangaroo, although my slightly harried pelvis does protest a bit (see previous post). With the carrier on, I’m also obliged to move at a glacial pace that is surely foreign to most able-bodied adults living in cosmopolitan cities. I go the ‘long way around’ to get to lifts, or to stay in the shade and shelter. Moving this way through brisk crowds, I feel like a boulder in a stream disrupting the flow, or a creaky old spaceship caught in a meteor shower. ‘Ambling,’ my husband called it, then quickly corrected himself, ‘more like wading, actually.’ A slightly laboured trek through imaginary thigh-high waters.
It’s not an unpleasant experience. Slowing down means I pay more attention to the world around me, instead of experiencing it in fast-forward mode like I usually do. People staring vacantly into space, or, more commonly, vacantly at their phones. Yves Saint Laurent espadrilles on the young office lady standing in front of me on the MRT. Colours and designs on manicured nails. Older couples sipping coffees across the table from each other, immersed in a comfortable silence (or boredom). Young couples, brimming with passion and excitement, hands all over each other. The skinny branches of a tree, brilliantly green, sparkling in the sun and rustled by a sudden breeze.
It’s been 32 years of milling about this tiny city, and yet there still are fresh things to see and discover. It just takes a slower pace, with or without a baby strapped to the chest.
Medium Delirium 