Familiar

Familiar

By Vara Hariharan

It felt familiar. Placing my left hand between the cloth napkin and the soft belly of my baby, holding steady despite the tiny legs kicking furiously, feeling for the tip of the nappy pin through the folds of cloth and placing my finger there so that when the pin pierces through, it would not prick my baby. It felt familiar. Knowing how to cradle the neck of my baby and not let her head loll. How to hold the tiny body on my shoulder and pat her back until the soft burp came.

It was my first baby, but I did not feel like a first-time mum. Inside me there was a 10-year-old who had done all these for a nephew, then a niece, then another niece, then another. For five years, I had helped my mother look after the steady stream of grandchildren that my sisters had brought to my mother to raise, so when I had my own children 20 years later, the only experiences that were new were childbirth and breastfeeding.

But now, 30 years after my first baby, I feel unsure. No bath for the baby. Treasure the ‘vernix caseosa’. No need for nappy pins. A disposable diaper mushrooms around her tiny body. No need for socks and mittens. The onesie has fold-down cuffs for her tiny hands and feet. No talc. Johnson & Johnson has fallen out of favour. Only organic, fragrance-free, colour-free, dermatologically-tested lotion. The swoosh of a sound machine to mimic the sounds of the womb to lull her to sleep.

Another age. Another culture.

But when I hold my granddaughter, cradle her neck, careful not to let her head loll; when I pat her tiny back till the soft burp comes; when I hold her in the crook of my arm and shush her; it feels familiar, again.