It's 7:35am on a Saturday morning and I am driving to my local Wal-Mart store.

To make you appreciate why this is such a big deal you need to know something about me: I love my sleep. Weekends, in particular, are sacred. Walking into my room on a Saturday morning with the intent of waking me up is like walking into a hazard zone. There are a few alarm clocks -- remains of alarm clocks, if one is to put it more accurately -- to corroborate that fact.

Yet, on this Saturday morning, I am stirred to life by my sister-in-law's younger sister with the news that "we've run out of sheets". It takes a few seconds before her words register. Four minutes later, we are on Route 20 driving to get, well, new sheets. We rush to the newborn aisle and buy enough sheets to cover Interstate 90 five times over.

This might be a good time to break the news to you: I recently earned the title of 'Chacha' (uncle) and, soon after, the newest member of the family came home. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the newest kid on the family block -- Mr Diggy.

A few weeks before Diggy found his way into this world, friends and family warned me my life would change forever once he arrived. "A newborn will cause seismic movement in your life, shake the tectonic plates of your existence," declared a wise uncle. My response to him was a smug smile and this riposte, "Look, as thrilled as I will be when he arrives, I don't see how I will be impacted. He needs his mommy and his papa and I plan to let it stay that way. Besides, what can someone wrapped in sheets 24 hours a day do to disturb my peaceful existence?"

As it turned out, the operative word in my response was -- sheets.

So here I am, standing in the checkout line at 7.56am, sensing a rather uncertain future.

As the days and weeks passed, a few things became clear to me.

Everything belongs to the baby. I am not talking just tangibles, things you can touch and feel; I mean everything. Your mood belongs to the baby, your time belongs to the baby, your body clock is controlled by the baby. When the baby cries, you have no option but to be depressed. When he is awake, how can you be sleeping? Of course, a few minutes later, the baby might decide that it's not such a good idea to stay awake. Then the lights have to be dimmed and you wonder why you got out of bed in the first place.

Television -- that last resort for breaking the monotony and boredom -- also falls within the baby's force field. Here's a theory for you to test: How can you tell whether the people you are visiting have a baby in the house? Locate the television remote and look at the 'mute' button. If the text next to the button is faded or non-existent, it's safe to assume a baby lurks in that household.

As time passed, Diggy became more of a joy and less of a bundle. He started reaching his personal landmarks. His first smile (that's the kindest description of his facial expression), his first squeal, the first time he turned over. My brother (Diggy's dad) showed exceptional foresight by investing in a digital camera. Parents have this inexplicable desire to click pictures of the baby even if you cannot tell one picture from the other. At that moment, the ordeal of using a conventional film camera and waiting for the prints to be developed just doesn't cut it. Instant gratification is the name of the game. Also, you might want to think about getting a video camera, especially when the baby begins to move around and starts adding sound bytes into his milieu.

Soon, it was time to earmark an area in the house as Diggy's official play area. Of course, if you visited the house at the time, you could have easily mistaken the entire house for Diggy's play area. I remember making the observation that a baby in the house precludes the expense of a home security system. In the event that the house is broken into, the burglar would not be able to go far without stepping on one of Diggy's toys. And, given that all kiddy toys make the weirdest sounds, the burglar would be easily detected.

My relationship with Diggy is special. As Chacha, I get the best of Diggy. When he is in a bad mood, he needs his mommy. When he needs to be walked around in the middle of the night, daddy's the chosen one. It's only when it's time to act goofy that I come in.

In trying to keep him entertained, I have tried to apply all the adult behavioral templates. I try to find a pattern that is reliable and repeatable. But nothing seems to fit. One day he finds a particular sound or gesture extremely funny; the next day the same sound or gesture goes completely unnoticed. And never make the mistake of showing off the child's newly acquired skills to guests or friends. Kids are like software; they never work in demo mode!

Another thing to remember: kids are interested in everything. Put another way, it means he makes everything dangerous. Paper, leftover food, strings, rubber bands; you name it, Diggy finds a way to 'weaponise' it.

Diggy is all of 14 months old now. He is at a stage where he dishes out some pretty interesting opinions. They are loud, repetitive and make absolutely no sense to the adult ear. We call him a walkie-talkie devil.

I often wonder what Diggy thinks of me. Do I make a good Chacha? I guess I'll find out soon. For now, his pristine, unadulterated smile showing all his six white teeth, his hand waving, his almost straight line walk when I come home after a long day at work, tells me he thinks I am pretty cool to hang out with.

Harpreet Khurana is fast losing hope of leading a 'normal' life ever again.

Illustration: Uttam Ghosh

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