Disgusting no more

Not that I've been a parent long (8 days to be exact), but already I'm noticing the increased tolerance for all things decidedly unpleasant. Babies, as the parents amongst us will attest, are poop-generating mega machines. Laws of physics do not apply to them - they crap out more waste product than the amount of fuel they are provided.

Proof that my gross-out tolerance is inching higher came a few days ago while I was in a doctor's office, making my last sales call for the day. The call was typical - I walked in, reminded the receptionist who I was and what I was doing there (I've been in this office twice a month for the past 11 months, and she still doesn't remember me), and asked her if the doctors were ok on their samples. While she checked, one of the doctors came running out of the patient room and spotted me. "You!" she ordered. "You, come up help me!"

I had never met this doctor (there are several in the practice) so to make sure, I looked around and realized that the physician was definitely referring to me. After a split-second of thought to determine if I would be violating any rules, I decided I was ok, and I followed her into the back of the office. I was led into one of the patient rooms, where I was greeted by a nice, eighty-year old lady sitting on the examining table.

"Ok, I want you to hold her right ear open. Grip it tight and pull out on it," ordered the doctor.

I started to worry that I was going to hurt the elderly patient, but it was obvious from the doctor's tone of voice that she wanted me to do exactly as she said. So I grabbed hold of the patient's left ear, and yanked out on it. Surprisingly, the poor old lady didn't object, so I relaxed a little.

The doctor then positioned herself near the lady's left shoulder, and stuck some instruments into the patient's ear cavity while using a pen light.

"Hm," I think. "Just a normal ear exam." The doc just needed my help keeping the ear open.

Which is when the doctor started extracting golf-ball sized dollops of ear wax from within this lady's ear. I'm not joking about the size of these monstrosities. They were huge. And glistening. And colored an ungodly shade of orange.

My normal reaction would have been to instantly hurl out the contents of my stomach, which that day would have consisted of Panera Bread's excellent Sierra Turkey sandwich with chipotle mayo. That would have been a fun sight - me holding on to an old lady's left ear lobe while projecting vomit onto her and her doctor.

But that didn't happen. You see, in the eight days that I've had my baby, I've already been pooped and urinated on multiple times. I'm not counting the times that I've had half-digested milk regurgitated onto my clothes, nor the number of times that spittle has just been discharged onto my face. And the diaper changes - oh, the diaper changes! Baby crap starts out this tarry black color, then gradually makes its way across the color spectrum, making pit stops at dark green and mustard yellow. Baby books euphemistically describe the consistency of these discharges as "small, round, curd-like, about the shape and size of cottage cheese."

Needless to say, I've completely sworn off cottage cheese for the rest of my life. But at least my gross-out tolerance is way up.

When copyright infringement goes too far

I'm starting to regain my senses somewhat, but I'm still amazed at the amount of sleep deprivation that occurs right after you bring your child home. Yesterday was the first time I found a few minutes to myself and turn on the TV to watch a little of the NBA finals. As I was watching the game the telecast cut away for a little bit to the "NBA copyright message." You know, the one where an announcer tells you that the following is a service of the National Basketball Association, and may not be rebroadcast without authorized permission, or else someone will come to your home and eviscerate you.

That made me think of one of the videos Saeeda and I had watched while we were in the hospital. Northwestern Memorial Hospital is one of the finest in the country, and its Women's wing caters to a discerning clientele. Each room has wonderful views of the city, a free wifi connection, and a huge flat screen TV. One of the channels on this TV is constantly tuned to educational programs for new moms - child safety at home, breastfeeding, bathing, etc. Each of these programs, however, is preceded with a stern copyright message that warns incarceration for unauthorized rebroadcast.

Incarceration? Really? Do they honestly think that someone is surreptitiously copying a breastfeeding video, smuggling it out of the country, and distributing it in the shady alleyways of Shenzhen, China? I can just picture it now: a highly organized ring of smugglers gets one of their female members pregnant, just so they get access to Northwestern's post-partum rooms, where a pretend "father" whips out a videocamera the moment the nurses leave, and quickly starts taping the images on the TV.

I'd feel bad for whoever buys the end product. Not only would they be getting an obsolete movie (is there really anyone in the world who thinks breastfeeding is a bad idea?), but they'd be getting a bad 90's version. The episode we watched sounded like it had been recorded down a toilet, with a horrible soundtrack and voiceover. All the women in the episode were wearing silly dresses with stuffed shoulder pads, and sported huge hairdos that I was convinced contained a spare change of diapers and a baby bottle or two.

Anyone watching on the other side of the world would be too distracted by the makeup on these women to focus on the breastfeeding and learn anything useful. But perhaps its because of this that Northwestern puts that warning in the beginning of its programs. You see, they've probably realized what a crappy video they've created, and would rather that their mistakes not be broadcast throughout the world.

It's a girl!

Dear world,

By the grace of God, Saeeda and I were blessed with a baby daughter on Friday, the 13th of June at 7:29pm. Although initially reluctant to leave the comforts of her mother's womb, Nuha Maryam Khan arrived in one sudden push, weighing in at 6 lbs 15 oz. and stretched 20.5 inches long. One moment Saeeda and I were a happy-go-lucky couple with few cares in the world, and in an another instant we were parents, responsible for another life.

I had done my research beforehand, reading all the requisite guidebooks before the delivery. Among these were "What to Expect When You're Expecting" (overrated), "The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy" (great), and to balance things out "Mack Daddy: Mastering Fatherhood without Losing Your Style" (funny). But something strange happens to you at delivery. In the blink of an eye, you forget everything. Every last word you have read. Every last piece of advice you have heard. And in my opinion that is proof that the brain's capacity is not infinite. The moment that your child is born, your neurons overload so quickly and completely that they have no capacity to hold a single thought or memory. The result is that you transform into a quivering slob of choked up emotion, much to the benign amusement of the gathered nurses.

I think Nuha is going to be an introspective child. Upon arriving into this world, she took a good long look at her mother. Then she looked at her father, and finally, the doctor who had delivered her. I fully expected her to begin crying, but instead she continued observing the world around her. It's been almost 24 hours now, and the only sound we've heard from her is a brief "I'm hungry!" wail this morning.

But although Nuha is going to have her own traits and characteristics, I wonder how I'll guide her development. I spent last night's fitful sleep thinking about that. I know, for example, that I want her to break barriers. Whereas her mother prefers that this be in the form of a medical researcher discovering new cures for cancer (commendable, but so typically desi), I'd prefer that this be by way of being the first Muslim team captain to win the NCAA women's basketball championship. You know, something a little more ... hip.

I also know that I'm going to spend time embarrassing her. I know that I'll be that silly dad that cheers too loudly for their child at performances, or that father who insists on kissing his child goodbye in front of all her high school friends.

I'll also probably be that father who is completely wrapped around his little girl's finger, and serves as solace when her mother has categorically refused to give into her petulant child's immature demands. I'm going to be the ATM machine she uses for shopping sprees. I'll be the sucker that does all this in return for a bear hug.

I will definitely be the father that stands ready to kick the ass of any guy who dares to mess with her heart. I'd be happy if Nuha decides to remain single until she magically finds a perfect mate without ever having spent time "dating" (the supervised Islamic version or otherwise). But if not, I'm going to be the psycho father who silently stalks my daughter's love interest, and when he makes contact, just silently mouths "I'm watching you."

But for now, I'm going to be the father that changes some really poopy diapers, or that laughs hysterically every time his little girl burps after a feeding. I'm going to be the dad that gets excited when funny cartoon movies come out because he'll finally have someone to watch them with. I'm going to be the dad who takes enough pictures of his child that he fills up his laptop's ample hard drive.

Basically, I'm going to take advantage of all the advice, well-wishes, and prayers that each of you have sent our way. Hopefully, I'll have the ability to absorb all this information to become the best dad that I can be.

We're off to the hospital!

Still waiting...

No news yet. This baby continues to cling to its mother. Saeeda isn't that far removed from when she was originally supposed to have delivered (Monday), and it's quite normal for mothers to be off by several days from that calculated date. But her contractions have started, so it's only a matter of time.

So today I took the day off from work to stay home, and we tried to enjoy our few remaining, worry-free moments together. We took a leisurely bus-ride down to the neighborhood cafe for lunch, then a nice walk to the Borders store to browse through some magazines, then an expensive cab ride back home (anyone else notice how much more expensive cab rides are since they started tacking on the mandatory $2.00 fuel charges in Chicago?).

I got plenty of "me" time in, checking email, reading, and going to the gym. I've heard enough friends tell me to enjoy this time that I am trying my best to do so. What freaks me out a little is the expression that always comes across the faces of my friends who give me this advice - always a little wistful, always a little haggard, always a little sad. That worries me.

What is the name of the President of the United States?

Ok, so I'll come right out and say it. I passed the citizenship test. Woohoo! Now I need to wait for the results to make it to the desks of the powers that be, and for them to in turn assign the date for my oath ceremony. Then, once I'm finally a citizen, the first thing I will do will be to figure out what country I can vacation in next WITHOUT having to mortgage my soul to get a visa. Oh, sweetness. I can almost taste it. So close!

The day of my interview started well, since Saeeda thankfully decided not to go into labor. Confident that I would not be missing the birth of my first child, and would therefore not be in the proverbial doghouse for the rest of my existence, I took the second half of the day off from work to show up at Chicago's USCIS offices. Here, I was directed to a large hall on the 3rd floor of a massively ugly building, where there were at least a hundred other individuals waiting for the same thing that I was - the test itself.

Officers would magically appear from some hidden door, call out names, and gather the applicants to take them back through their magical door. My name was called 20 min. after I got seated, and I was led back into a nondescript office. My officer asked me to take an oath that I'd be telling the truth, asked me to take a seat, and then got started on the quiz.

Keep in mind that I had studied all week long from the USCIS study guide, and was ready for anything. Anything. I was not prepared, however, for the mind-boggling simplicity of the questions.

"What is the name of the place where the President lives?"
"What was the name of the boat that the Pilgrims came over in?"
"What is the capital of your state?"
"What is the constitution?"
"What is the name of the President of the United States?"

And so it went. At one point I started wondering who had thought up this process. You make an immigration applicant spend years in the system (ten years in my case), only to cap the journey with this? That's what it took to become a citizen? Ten years of excruciating, snail-paced, mind-numbingly complex form-filling (you think tax returns are bad? hah!), all to get to a 5 minute questionnaire that was ridiculously straightforward?

But all of that didn't matter, not to me, and not to the hopeful individuals waiting back in the hall outside. Individuals who in some cases had probably sweat blood and tears to get here. Individuals for whom English was a challenge, for whom memorizing Constitutional amendments was akin to learning Martian, for whom it was not important what the capital of their state was or what the names of the 13 original colonies were. For them, all that mattered was being allowed to become a recognized part of their adopted country, to enjoy the rights that many ignored willfully, and to be able to defiantly look the next xenophobe squarely in the eye and with nothing to fear.

To us, all it mattered was that we be allowed to become citizens.

Priorities

Those of you that know my immigration history, know that I've been in this country since 1994. In those 14 years, I have largely self-navigated the morass of US Immigration rules and regulations, applying for all the right statuses, making sure all my paperwork was always in order, and always grinning and bearing the less-than-civil treatment I've received at the hands of every immigration officer at a US port of entry. But always, I've know that if I did everything properly; that if I forgave bored, racist officers their manners; that if I put up with all the "random" screenings and profiling; that if I set a good example and in doing so made a favorable impression on the behalf of other South Asian immigrants; if I did ALL that, I've known that one day I'd be rewarded with the opportunity to become a US citizen, and to become a full participant in the development of my adopted homeland.

That opportunity arrives tomorrow, Monday the 9th of June at 1:20pm, which is when the US Citizenship and Immigration Service has asked me to appear for my citizenship interview in Chicago. But by the type of great cosmic coincidence that make you admire God's sense of humor, Saeeda is due to give birth on Monday, the 9th of June.

Right. The birth of my first baby or US citizenship, which do I think is more important?

While I've made it clear to my wife that the only reason I married her was for the quicker path to citizenship, and that the kid is not going to remember if I was in the delivery room or not (honey, that's what Photoshop is for), I'm honestly walking around on eggshells at home, trying to make sure my wife doesn't laugh to hard in case she goes into labor. All garlic and ginger has been put out of reach (a coworker told me that these induce labor). All physical contact between us is strictly prohibited (hey, even though an internet board says that it is sexual contact that is supposed to induce labor, I'm not taking any chances - this morning I nodded hello to her and then flew out of bed before I could receive a good morning hug).

So the plan is to keep the USCIS appointment, and to hope and pray that Saeeda goes late. In the meantime, I'm busying myself with learning who my state senators are (Obama is one - that was easy), the term length for representatives (two years - a little harder), and that the amendments guaranteeing voting rights are the 15th, 19th, 24th, and 26th (wow, I had NO clue about that one). I can only hope that the interviewer, who will ask me ten verbal questions amongst other things, will ask me who the president and vice president are. Or what my state capital is. That I can handle.

Crap, I think I see Saeeda headed towards me. Gotta jet.

The most over-engineered products

I went to college. No, change that. I went to a good college. One of the best in the country, where I earned a degree in systems engineering with a minor in economic systems. I learned how to resolve complex thermodynamic problems, how to create virtual desktop environments using C++, and how to crunch differential equations for breakfast. In doing so, I sank four years of my life and thousands of dollars of my parents' hard earned money into getting a degree that I hoped was going to serve me well for the rest of my life.

Yeah, right.

Last weekend I tried to optimistically tackle the assembly of our baby's crib, it's swing, and the stroller. Not only were the instructions arcane ("Insert an M5 x 30 mm bolt through the opening in the opposite side of the upper seat tube, and tighten three quarters of a turn anti-clockwise using an Allen wrench"), but they were peppered with bold red warning symbols alongside statements such as "WARNING! Make sure that components click into place. Not doing so poses a serious hazard to your child's safety, and could result in permanent injury."

Exactly how was I supposed to keep a cool-head in situations like these? All I could do was obsessively ask myself, "Did I hear a click? Was that the right click? Did it click loud enough? What if it didn't? Will this kill my child?" Inevitably, I would disassemble and reassemble everything until I heard a loud enough click.

And then there was the stroller. This amazingly over-engineered product with levers and release buttons situated all over its body puts any Transformer character to shame. Touch one button with the right amount of pressure, and the device magically collapses into itself, in the process defying the laws of physics and taking up less room than should be possible. Flip another lever while stepping on another part of the stroller, and it instantly transforms into a sturdy device for transporting your child. The only problem is that the force, and the direction in which it has to be applied, is so precise that it takes you hours to master the proper techniques for opening and closing the contraption. My wife gave up after 30 minutes, which now means that I'm going to be the poor slob who will have to struggle with the stroller for the entire duration of my child's toddler years.

By the end of the day I was a sweaty mess, dehydrated and exhausted. This child better appreciate all that I'm doing for it.