CHAPTER 75
I couldn’t remember ever being as tired as I was those first few months, but it was Maz who bore the heavier load at first, as she was the food source. Both of us felt rather stupid when the health visitor talked us through the secret of rewarmed previously expressed milk, and I am sure Maz felt relieved rather than embarrassed. Kul asked us if we hadn’t actually sprogged in England, leaving the kid with persistent jet lag, as his circadian rhythm seemed utterly disconnected from Western Australia. Dal picked up on that, naturally, and suggested that Ish was an alien changeling from another planet.

Friends…

Ish was a needy little boy, with a healthy appetite. Unfortunately, that appetite, once processed, ended up in a shockingly pungent waste product that didn’t take a long time to get used to because it was impossible to do so, it was that ripe. Geeta made jokes about curries. I just wanted to sleep.

Our first proper day out with our child came once we were happy he was safe to meet his public, and it was a day, or rather morning, at the beach. Long sleeves, floppy hat, sunshade over his pushchair, two (count them) parasols, and a slather of infant-grade sunblock. Neighbours and passing strangers were enchanted by him, but I reminded myself that they had not been assaulted by the smell of his nappies. In public, he was a happy, burbling baby, with a toothless dribbling grin and little hands that clung to any finger presented to him, which he would promptly try and tow towards said mouth.

I kept a pack of tissues in my pocket for his slobber-covered victims.

I was alive, I was married, I was a father, my family were better than my dreams had ever aspired to, I lived in a wonderful place with good friends, and still that other shoe was absent.

So many firsts, as he grew in a multitude of ways, from teething through crawling, and then his potty. I found that one hard.

We had been using disposable nappies, despite the environmental impact, which meant that whatever Ish produced could be bagged and binned with minimal interaction with either Maz or myself, but a pottyload was there in three physical dimensions, plus the sensory aspects. I will say no more.

Everything was happening so fast, and he grew at a rate that made we wonder if there was money to be made in a hire scheme for baby clothes. No sooner bought than outgrown.

On a more serious note, he was an alert child. Once he was able to hold his head up and focus properly, everything was to be explored. His play pen was an essential when his crawling began, because even from hands and knees he had a surprising reach. It was like having a cat, in a way: felines knock stuff down, whereas he reached up to pull it, but the results could be much the same.

I agreed to go back to work before Maz, of course, but at least I had witnessed his first words, predictably enough “Mamama”. A fortnight later, my heart broke as we got “Dadada”.

My voices came back for another go at that point, but I don’t think their putative hearts were really in it. My boy giggled, called for me, and I was lost.

Maz and I did get out, for with our friends, we were hardly going to be short of babysitters, and our flat pack furniture gradually extended in range, from high chair to a child’s patio set of four tiny chairs and a low table to match. The first time we took him down to the climbing wall, we were politely mobbed by both regulars and newbies. Everyone wanted to say hello.

So many things to do, from vaccinations to health checks, including size and weight charts. Ish was at the upper edge of the envelope, unsurprisingly, and one nurse made comments about him playing for the Dockers, but I was already dreaming of higher things.

Maz brought me down to solid ground, though, by making a very obvious point.

“Mike, love, we need to think about letting my family know, and before you say ‘this is your family’, you know what I mean”

“I know exactly what you mean. How do you think they’ll take the news?”

She shrugged one-armed, as Ish was on her lap at the time.

“Well, one positive: he’s a boy, and that’s a sort of higher value in the old country. Girls not so much”

I started to say something snarky, and she held a finger to my lips.

“Shush, love. She’s still a blood relation, like the rest of them. She deserves to be told. It doesn’t mean I’m trotting straight up there with him, though that’s what she’ll probably demand. I think I need to send a letter, some pictures. Give the family a chance to pick a side”

I shook my head, and she frowned slightly, so I did my own shushing gesture.

“No, love: WE need to send a letter. Pity Neil’s shop is in England. I wonder if Dal can do us some prints, or maybe a CD?”

“You’re happy to do that?”

“I don’t know, Maz, given her prior behaviour, but I do think you’re right. Hold out an olive branch, let her take it or leave it”

Neither of us could argue against that line, so we spent a few days sorting out a bundle of paper prints as Ish learned new words, seemingly consisting mostly of ‘No!’ and ‘Mine!’.

We had included the obvious wedding shots from King’s Park, plus a range of Ish at his occasionally adorable best, along with pictures of the house, beach and so on. We each typed out a section of the letter, mine mostly a slightly prolonged ‘Hi! I’m Mike’, and after a few last minute revisions, and the addition of a shot of Ish asleep in his new ‘big baby bed’, we dropped it in at the Post Office for stamping and sending. Ball in their court.

A fortnight later, we had a reply. Maz showed me the letter with a grimace: it was entirely in Malay. The message couldn’t have been more obvious.

“They don’t mention you at all, love, just me and our boy. Mum wants to know when we are coming home”

“Sorry?”

“That’s how she put it. Not ‘coming for a visit’, not ‘could we come and visit you?’, but when are me and Ish going to K.L., and the way she’s written it means going back home to stay2

“She doesn’t get it, then?”

“No, Mike, she isn’t failing to understand, she is refusing to. I need to find a way to say ‘no’ that isn’t too nasty”

I thought it through, and the answer was obvious, although I wasn’t that happy at the prospect.

“Love, we are working, we aren’t that affluent, that’s what you say. We won’t risk a baby on a flight. She’s retired, you say: she’s got the time, and from what you say the money---no. Second thought on that one. There’s a traditional way”

“Go on”

“New Ish mother…”

Maz groaned.

“You talk to Mr Butt too often love. Stop it”

“Sorry. Anyway, the pub is correct. Traditional Asian thing I’ve seen a lot of, where granny flies over to look after new grandchild, stays with family. Would she go for that, if we stand her the price of the flights?”

“I don’t know if she would, but you are absolutely right. I’m pretty sure we can afford the flights, and they come directly to Perth from K.L. Shall I ask her?”

She huffed immediately after my nod.

“Well, I will write it in English, and I will tell her that it was my husband’s idea, that man she has pictures of, and that he has made the offer. She can put that in her pipe and smoke it”

That brought a burst of laughter from her, and she flung her free arm around my neck.

“Oh, I am becoming my mother’s daughter indeed! Let’s see… lunch in Soapy Joe’s on some of his sausages, then dinner at that seafood place, followed by a night at the pub with a folk act. What could go wrong?”

I joined in her laughter, making it ours, before pondering on the possible reaction of Nanny Rahman to our lifestyle. One thing, though, was a certainty. I indicated our happy little boy, busy exploring a cloth baby book.

“Maz, love: look at him. How could anyone see him and not smile?”

We wrote exactly the sort of letter Maz had proposed, and once again sent it on its way.

Over to you, Mrs Rahman.