The silly things that make a mom...

Only a mom can know the true beauty of doing mom-like things and saying mom-like sentences.

Some things, only mom are capable of doing, and these things perfectly describe motherhood and its experiences in few short words.

As a new mom, I find myself doing and saying lots of crazy things, which were "below" my creative level earlier. But, having said that, I find myself a lot happier when I do stupid things with little P now, than having done award-winning creative stuff earlier, which never made me content.

Like, drinking milk from a glass and "making" a white moustache for yourself, just so you can entice your toddler enough to drain his glass of milk.

Or pretending to feed the truck in his toy bag, just so that he follows suit and ends up feeding himself in the process.

These silly tasks are so fulfilling, yet so silly, that you wonder what made you "look down" upon them earlier. Because, nothing beats the smile on that face once you have created a perfect moustache on yourself.

As a self-confessed cheese addict, I am finding it hard now to not have any because of the weight-loss "program" I am on. I have to buy it, because I give it to little P as an additional source of calcium and fat. And, so, it gives me the jeepers creepers to see it lying in my fridge, but not having nay of it!

You know you are a mom when the cheese addict in you sees a packet full of cheese slices and pretend not to have seen it, because you bought it only for your toddler, and there's no way you are claiming it to be yours.

The weight loss program also means, I have to go easy on a lot of foods I was earlier allowing myself to eat. This includes leftovers of little P's breakfast, lunch and dinner, which, thankfully, weren't too much!

You know you are a mom when your toddler spits out a morsel and you quickly put it in your mouth, because you don't want him to eat food off the floor. But then, dammit! you are reminded of the diet, and baam! it's too late for you to spit out that absolutely mouth watering stuffed bread you made with lots of ghee! SIGH!

You know you are a mom when you open your bag at the grocery store to look for money, and lay down the following things on the counter: A PLASTIC COW, RATTLE, A HALF-BROKEN RUBIC'S CUBE, A DIAPER, A PRETEND PHONE.

And then, EUREKA!!!

NO, NO, NO, not the money. But the ABC board book that has  been missing from so long, you were convinced your toddler ate it!

Sleeping at night, I often wake up because I find myself being poked in the bottom by the horns of a STUPID PLASTIC STAG, that my little P held onto while he fell asleep. GAAH! HORNS IN THE BUM AT 2AM!!!

After having had little P, we have the chance to finally go meet family back in the husband's hometown. Here's the catch: I wasn't so excited about meeting the family after 4 years, than I was about little P being able to see FARM ANIMALS IN THE LIVE!

And, for me to show off my animal sounds skill that I have to little P! WOOHOO! He will finally know that how mommy moos like a cow and brays like a  donkey is actually how a cow and a donkey sound!

You know you are a mom when, on your anniversary, instead of buying sexy, hot lingerie online, you find yourself buying ugly granny pants because your toddler found the hole in your old ones and poked enough for it to become like a crater on bloody Mars!

As a mom, it's also okay to walk around the house, pretending that you are learning how to strut it like a super model, when you have a green-coloured plastic bowl atop your head and you are shaking your booty at the same time! I AM SEXY AND I KNOW IT!!!

I am also a typical mom, when I snooze for 5 minutes in the afternoon, holding TIGHTLY ONTO MY TODDLER, because he refuses to sleep and insists on playing. And, so, I pray like crazy that he doesn't get up and feel very guilty if I do manage to get 5 minutes of rest.

And, don't even get me started on kind of words and sentences I find myself saying these days. It's a good thing, because, one, I am so strict about any cuss words and slang language.

The bad, or rather, funny part, is that I find myself saying things I never thought anyone did. For example, it's perfectly normal now for me to say, " DON'T LICK THAT POWDER OFF YOUR FOOT!"

or

"Don't you put your finger in my belly button, or dad's!"

"DO NOT GO AND POM POM GRAMPA'S BOTTOM EVERY TIME HE BENDS DOWN!"

The last one has me dying LOL, but I have to set limits, and so, I find myself occasionally screaming those words out!

I also know I am just a normal mom, when I try and recall the lyrics to "wheels on the bus" at 2 am when I go to the loo!

Or when, I come across some suspicious-looking brown stuff on the floor, and touch it to figure out if it's a piece of fruit, OR POOP!!!

I know for a fact, that when I walk into the doctor's with kajal/kohl in just one eye, she's not judging me. Or laughing at me.

Or if she points to the rice in my hair. That's okay too. I am just being a mom.

Why are women their own worst enemies?

Seriously, why are we our own worst enemies?

What is it with women not being able to stand another's happiness and gloating in the latter's tragedy?

Your "best friend" put on some weight? Aaha, time to celebrate with some wine, eh? After all, wine isn't one known to add to the pounds!

I have always had a battle with the bulge. Partly, it is the genes, partly, it is me. Okay, fine, a large part is me!

Even as a child, I was known to be the fattest one amongst all the cousins, and the Bengali ones smugly blamed the Sindhi side of me. Whatever made them happy!

Ditto, as a teenager, and then a working professional in my early twenties. It wasn't until I got married and moved cities, and actually, finally started eating right, that the weight began to drop. but then I got pregnant! HA!

Any how...

Why do we women make such derogatory, frivolous comments about our friends and acquaintances when they pile on the pounds?

This habit takes on epic proportions once we give birth. Giving birth is a blessing, and only we women can enjoy this, and I don't mean this in a sexist way.

It's just how nature meant it to be, and there's nothing we can do about it. Our bodies carry another person for 3 months short of a year, so is it not acceptable that there will be extra kilos, even after the exit of this little person?

Post partum fat isn't easy to get rid of. Some have it very lucky, Others, like yours truly, continue with the battle.

For some, breast feeding helps knock off the kilos, for others, it doesn't. A lot of women, in fact, tend to add on whilst breast feeding.

Does my weight bother you? I wouldn't think so!

Does it bother you that I eat like a pig? Or that I look like one?

If it does, then I have a simple solution for you: DON'T BOTHER BEING FRIENDS WITH ME! IT'S THAT SIMPLE!

Nobody needs judgemental people in their lives, least of all a new mom, who has her own emotional baggage to deal with. Her post partum weight gain is nobody's concern, except maybe her doctor.

Here, I recall such some very beautiful comments I have received ever since I gave birth to little P.

For the sake of not wanting to hurt anybody, I will try and refrain from being too specific, even though, I was horribly hurt when these comments were thrown at me.

Acquaintance 1: It doesn't look like you've lost weight! I wouldn't know, if you hadn't told me!

Then, touching my breasts... YES, she actually did that... it's these boobs, I tell you. They are
too big!

Err, okay, thank you, "FRIEND", for touching me inappropriately and then calling me fat in a nice way.

Acquaintance 2 (In a text message): Hey, fatso! what's up? How's are fat mommsy and baby doing?

Umm, not much. Just thinking of how to appropriately get back at you without being a complete B**CH and ruining our "friendship".

Somebody from the In-laws: Oh wow! She's become SO FAT! WOW, I MEAN SO FAT!

Hey, thanks, you really really mean and nasty person with no feelings whatsoever! May you drown and die in coconut chutney!!!

Somebody from MY SIDE!: How come you've put on so much weight?! Is something wrong?!

Yes, something is indeed "wrong"! I just gave birth! To a baby. not a bag of chips, you moron!

Somebody from the extended family: Why did you allow yourself to be SO FAT?! Oh, c'mon! Don't blame the breastfeeding and cesarean!

Hey, aunty! Isn't your own daughter like really really fat?! I mean sooper, dooper, really really sooper dooper fat?! For, like a century, even though she didn't breastfeed?

Fat aunty in the neighborhood: OH MY GOD! In real aunty-who-watches-too-many-TV serials-style: you've become so fat!!!

Yes, aunty! It's a shame that even though you've been walking in this very park for a zillion years, you seemed to have not shed a single gram. DITTO, YOUR VERY OWN DAUGHTER!

Friend: Oh, don't worry. I was also fat after the baby. I mean, I wasn't THIS FAT! NONO! I was 60 kgs, you know! OMG!

Me: Do I know you, you nasty woman with great genes?!

Look, mommy! Instead of milk, there's blood coming out!

The last time I checked, it had been 3 HOURS since little P had started feeding. Oh yeah, those cluster feeds, when your little monster can literally feed for hours on end, can break the hardest of human beings.

I know a fellow-mom whose little one once fed for some 14 hours non stop!!!

Me, I was so ecstatic that little P was feeding from me, that 3 hours seemed nothing. My doctor had advised me to lock ourselves in a room, no disturbance, put on some music to ease my anxiety over feeding and just feed feed feed.

So, in true nerd style, the ipod was always at the bedside, the room was always comfortable, there was a water bottle and a straw, LOADS AND LOADS of pillows to support me and little P, and just us.

More importantly, I had three soldiers literally standing on one foot, ready to take orders from a screaming me, every time I wanted something. Mom, MIL and the husband were equally happy that things were finally working for us, and ready to provide me with a helping hand and leg!

There was a flip side to this, though. Our little P, it turned out, was quite a biter!

Only a nursing mother knows how painful it is to be bitten by a baby whilst feeding!

Man! Do no underestimate the power of those gums. Teeth are overrated! A little nip is all it takes for the blood to start oozing out instead of milk!

I sometimes think, maybe it's a good thing that nature provided women with two breasts! I would be retired hurt from one side for days on end. As soon as it would repair, bam! The other side would get seriously nipped, and I would have to suspend feeding from that side for at least 3 days for it to heal completely.

Here's another beautiful thing about breastfeeding. If you rest a injured side for too long, you end up getting either engorged, or with block milk ducts.

And when I say that getting spanked on your bottom is probably a lesser pain any either of these two bit***s, I am right!

Mother of god! The pain, and the shivering and the fever that follow these two beauties, oh wow!!!

This one time, I was feeding from the nipped side, I looked down, and he looked like a little vampire! His mouth was covered in MY BLOOD!

I hadn't realised, but I had seriously "broken a boob", as they say. There was blood gushing out like a waterfall, little P had no idea had he was guzzling on my blood, and his torso was also covered in blood!

The emotional trauma of getting bit was too much for me to handle. This was a recurring thing for me. Every few days, I was heard screaming my lungs out, crying hysterically, rushing to the washroom to see the damage and eventually roam around the house with a smelly Tee-shirt that would reek of milk, because I would leak to the moon and back, during those rest days.

Apart from the biting, things were going okay, I suppose. But, there was a weird part: Little P was refusing to sleep. This was one non-sleeper. He just wouldn't sleep. He would feed for 3 hours, but sleep for 10 minutes, and wake up for another feed.

So, we continued giving him his top-ups here and there, but he kept dropping weight, until one day, we got him weighed, and he had dropped roughly 1.5 kgs. Which is like some 20 kgs in adult weight.

My ego was satisfied that breastfeeding was working, but this wasn't how I wanted it to work. The doubts and the questions were back.

Is garlic better than guilt?

The thing with guilt is: IT'S A BLOODY BITCH!!!

As I see it, guilt is like a giant, enormous and invisible spider on your back. It's huge, but because it is invisible, only you can feel the burden of its weight and everybody else around you wonders why it's bothering you!

For sure as hell, they can't see it, so they don't know what it's like to feel guilty about something.

Today is an apt day to write about guilt, because today, I feel guilty.

Yes, I indeed chomped away on a pizza, but that's not what's killing me on the inside.

I did something awful, but I shall munch on that guilt myself.

Going back to the past...

This guilt was at work then as well. Breastfeeding was turning out to be a nightmare. Nobody at my place understood what I was going through. They probably thought I was selfish for trying again and again to get little P to feed from me, get him all worked up, and then give up and feed him formula!

Might as well have given it to him in the first place, dumbass!!!

And then...

The doorbell rang...

My saviour had arrived!!! And no, no pizza this time!

It was the breast pump I had ordered! Woohoo! Hello, watermelons, whatcha gonna do now, eh?!

So, off I went, on a date with the pump. Now, this breast pump is the UNSEXIEST THING ever invented for those ladies.

Not even the largest, ugliest maternity bra comes close to this ugly monster which goes grrr grrr when you put it on to you! It's a horror show, alright!

Any hoo... This wasn't a workable solution. Firstly, my milk was quickly drying up because nothing can possibly suckle and remove milk from a breast the way a baby can. Do not underestimate the power of a baby's suckle!

Moreover, it would take me ages to get tiny amounts of milk and the whole process was so damn frustrating.

I was losing trust in my own body and its ability to take care of something that it had created. I mean, what good a mother was I, who couldn't feed her own baby.

The pediatrician's words had killed me. I was ready to die. I was ready to do anything.

At times like these, the mother-in-law sure has some ideas up her sleeve.

When I said anything, I meant anything except garlic. I seriously hate those bastards! And guess who knew that...?! ;)

Sure enough, a lovely concoction was prepared. This was no concoction, it was the juice of a million garlic pods crushed to death and fed to me, so I could die. The husband pinched my nose and almost sat on top of me, lest I kick him you-know-where. And the MIL, ah bless her! She poured a GLASS FULL OF GARLIC JUICE down my throat!!!

Frankly speaking, I don't know what worked. My pigheadedness, the stupid effing garlic "concoction" or just God's will, but one day, I randomly decided to pop little P on, and VOILA!!!

Guess what, he happily guzzled away!

Hooray! Just like that, my worries all faded as he fed...

And fed...

And fed...

And fed...

And then some more...

"And why are we feeding the baby poison?!"

Day 4 was one long day and drained me emotionally!

It's like a switch flipped inside little P's head and something went kaboom!!

He just refused to feed. Nothing I did, worked for him. He kept howling like a banshee. It was like watching Tarzan in a horror show, it was that bad.

He was clearly hungry, but would not bother feeding from the breast.

Looking back in hindsight, I smile as I recollect the things I tried in order to get him to feed.

I handed him to mom, and as she held him i dangled "myself" over him so gravity could works it miracle.

But no! Some more hollering!

I put him down on the bed, and bent over him. NADA!

I had read about the wonders of skin to skin, that is stripping baby and yourself down to nothing and just letting him say on top of you like that. Nothing there!

I was getting restless and the folks were wondering if I was mad.

The thing with breastfeeding is, it's very simple and easy to those who don't face problems; else, it's the hardest thing ever for those who do face problems.

And I, of course, fell in the latter category.

Nothing was working, so we all finally gave in, and gave little P a bit of formula, and off he dozed.

Now, again, how breastfeeding works is very simple, a supply and demand thing. The more you feed, the more milk you make.And that's why newborn babies feed like crazy, because they send out signals to your body to make enough milk for them.

I had no idea what to do. I was crying hysterically. I had envisaged a smooth nursing journey, but this was the beginning of a long, long battle.

So, every day, or rather every few hours, I did the unsexy task of hand pumping my own breasts. And I tell you, this is the weirdest thing one can do with those ladies!

I mean, once you start breastfeeding, the idea of breasts being a sexual commodity sounds so lame and ridiculous, that you wonder what the big deal is about them. After all, they are only a baby's natural source of food!

Things went on like this for about 4 odd days or so. I would be knackered trying to win a lost battle, I would get fed up pumping spoonfuls of milk, which would sometimes take me 45 minutes, and little P was happy and content with his formula, something I was beginning to hate from my core.

In the meantime, I had ordered a manual breast pump for myself, because I was getting fed up of pom poming myself every few hours.

We had our immunisation coming up, and decided to carry little P's formula in a bottle, something we hadn't used until that point.

We entered the pediatrician's cabin, and I was greeted with:

"And why are we feeding the baby poison?!"

I was stunned. The bottle and the formula wasn't a choice, it was a compulsion because things were taking time to work out and the baby needed his nutrition.

I had suddenly, in the matter of a second, been turned into a evil mother who feeds her baby "poison".

The battle between breast and formula had just begun!

World Wrestling Federation, Tamil-Bengali style!

So, after the ridiculously fat me and my even fatter body parts had been stuffed into the horror film lingerie, it was time to say good bye to the hospital and the amazingly helpful nurses and the doctor.

This was an extremely emotional moment, especially for me. Roughly 8.5 months ago, I was laid in the next room, upside down, not knowing whether the baby would survive and come out a happy, healthy and screaming little monster.

And yet, here we were, ready to take him home, all wrapped up, warm and squishy, some what doughnut like!

The car journey was quite uneventful. Just like any new and first time parents, we informed the driver to not go beyond 40kmph, and I think, everytime he managed to get his foot on the pedal, we were quick enough to admonish him!

And everytime the warm January sun hit little P's face, both of us would quickly cover his face, lest he get tanned, or his eyes get damaged, or worst, IF HE WOKE UP!!!

We reached home, and the events that would unfold would lay the foundation for the Civil Unrest that was to follow at our place for the next one month.

War was soon going to be declared between Tamil Nadu and West Bengal, and we had no idea!

All through the pregnancy, the MIL was away, taking care of the other grand kids, and my mother dear took care of me. Now that MIL was here, ehm ehm... those who are married, or better, watch TV soaps, would know what follows when these two women are pitted against each other.

This is basically a gentler version of the World Wrestling Federation, but without the push up bras and oily bodies. Also, it ain't physical, much to voyeurs' dismay! ;)

Any how...

We were first greeted by two bulls, sorry, women, running towards us, a bit like the Spanish San Fermin, or rather the running of the bulls!

A version closer to home is the running of the bulls in Madurai, Tamil Nadu, with matadors in sexy lungis, or veshtis, whichever you prefer. But the men are definitely more handsome!

MIL somehow managed to reach us first (BOOOO! WEST BENGAL!!!) and greeted us Tamil style, of course, turmeric and vermillion and the whole shebang. Very good, we thought!

Runner Up Bengal to follow...

We were greeted, yet again, sans turmeric and vermillion, but edible oil, not ON US, but around the door frame. SAD SHOW, WEST BENGAL! BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME!

The husband and I exchanged some glances. Now, those of who you are married, happily or not, doesn't matter, will know the power of these glances that spouses exchange.

When photographers say, 'A picture speaks a thousand words', they have no idea how many words are silently spoken when a husband and wife share these looks.

The best part is, these glances are open to interpretation! ;)

What we actually "said" was:

Him: Whoop whoop! Amma won!

Solemnly, do you think what I think?

Me: Mom LOST, because I TOLD HER TO BACK OFF, OKAY?! We Bengalis are way smarter and quicker than you Tamilians! Huh! To challenge the descendants of Rabindranath Tagore and Satyajit Ray?!

Solemnly, yes, I too think what you think.

Him: So, basically, for the next one month, till my mom is here, idlis (fermented rice cakes) are going to be  pitted against macch bhaat (fish curry and rice), from morning to midnight?!

Me (to myself): We Bengalis and our maach bhaat ARE SO GOING TO DROWN THOSE SILLY IDLIS! BWAHAHAHAHA!!!

POO POO IN THE POTTY, POO POO IN THE POTTY!!!

I have no recollection of how night 2 passed, but Day 3 arrived, and lo and behold! It was the day that we had to...

...Yes, yes, yes!!! you guessed it!

This was D-Day. It was time for me to pass the stool test and I was pooping in my pants (NOT). I had slowly managed to get off the hospital bed and start walking. It was a bit weird at first, this feeling of suddenly feeling so light without the bump.

Pregnant women across the world will nod in agreement when I say we tend to waddle as soon the bump gets a bit bigger and tends to come in our way from all sides. You see a woman who walks like a duck, but there's no quack quack happening? Yep, pregnant woman on board! Beware of us waddlers!

Our hips don't lie, as well! They tend to balloon thanks to the hormones or the cheese, in my case. So, we have no choice, but to waddle with all that fat ruining our centre of gravity and making us look like fat little ducklings unsure of where our next step is going to land!

Of course, the fact that you can't see your own feet because your bump and those boobs get so darn big doesn't help! Dammit, I can't see my toes!

Any hoo... I waddled around the room, around the floor, me and my big bum going quackity quack. In case you've forgotten, I also had my watermelons to carry around me, adding to all that waddling.

Give way. give way! Here comes the lady from Room 1, her bosom leading the way, and her bum following suit!

This one time, I was standing, whilst talking to a visitor, and before I knew it, a pool of milk had formed around my feet! I kept thinking I was sweating, because honest to God, I do sweat like a pig, and the husband and mother dear will agree, sadly. But, I look down, and this "sweat" was whitish in colour and I looked a bit dumb wondering what happened. Goofy me!

So, yes,,, The BIG P.

I am trying not to go into gory details here, but I was so nervous, I kept having loads and loads of hot water. Don't ask me why. I have no idea. I was as nervous as a teenager before his first kiss!

But, the water did its job, and Voila! So did I!

YES YES YES!!!

POO POO IN THE POTTY, POO POO IN THE POTTY!!!

When the doctor came in, I was so excited, I think I may have peed in my pants. I don't recall her asking me if I had gone, but I do remember telling her "I did potty in the potty!"

Again, I only remember her smiling and saying good! But, I am sure she must have been thinking, "Good job!", like she would to a five-year-old, because obviously, I was acting like one. I was so thrilled!!!

It was now time to go home!

"My nipples, my nipples!!!"

Remember the wedding appointment the husband had with JLO? Aka the passport appointment on the day the baby arrived?

As it so happened, the appointment was at 0930 and the location was pretty close to our hospital. As luck would have it, little P, daddy's little boy that he was to grow up to be, arrived in the nick of time for the appointment!

Yes, daddy got to see and hold his creation, while he also got to get to the passport office just in time for his appointment, and went and told the officer in-charge that he should hurry up, because his hours-old son was waiting for him! All's well that ends well!

Any way, back to me...!

So, before the milk came in, one extremely sweet head nurse reminded me that I had to feed the baby colostrum, the super-rich pre-milk, that's called liquid gold. This is very very thick in nature, and extremely difficult to suckle, and is in very small quantities, just in tune with the tiny little creature's even more tiny stomach.

Whilst all the pom pomming was going on, head nurse realised that the baby needed a bit of help, and came back with, guess what?!

She returned with a syringe! Ummmm, Are you going to prick my boobs with a needle?!

No, smart ass! Wait and watch, she said!

Quickly, she took the needle off the syringe, only to expose the open-mouthed vial and the lever. Okay, what next...?!

As I watched open-mouthed, much like the syringe, she planted it on my breast, and PULLED!!!

If any of you watch FR.I.E.N.D.S, and I assume you have, and hence you will recall Phoebe going, "MY EYES, MY EYES!!!", when she finds out about Monica and Chandler; this was me. Except, that I found myself screaming, "My nipples, my nipples!!!"

Two things happened at the same time. One, the off-white colostrum flowed into the syringe, which was promptly lapped up by little P (he may have even licked and smacked his lips, I don't know!).

Two, my stomach felt an intense and horrible cramp which made me shriek even more. Turns out, this was a sign given to the uterus to contract back to its original shape, slowly and gradually. Err, thank you, uterus? For making me scream like a wimp!

Or the next few hours, till the water melons took over, head nurse would come and do this exercise for me. Which was great, because as much as I wanted to breastfeed, I couldn't get myself to put a syringe onto myself and scream and shout in pain like a banshee!

But wait, this was me, right? The syringe had to bring in some excitement, of course. So, head nurse tells me, you have to keep pulling your nipples out with this syringe every few hours, because yours are flat/inverted.

Okay, cue, me looking down: hey, I didn't know you guys were not the right shape! To think that you folks come in different shapes! Who knew, huh?!

What's those water melons things on my chest?!

The first few hours were a haze, quite literally. The baby was snoozing, thank god, because so was I. The painkillers were damn good, I think in hindsight. I should have taken some for future purposes, when I want to run away from the toddler tantrums and the peepee waving and touching! ;)

We had deliberately chosen a smallish hospital, or rather, nursing home, in medical parlance, because we were a bit uncomfortable with the big corporate "advice and follow up" you get in the name of medicine.

We wanted sweet old Maharashtrian nurses to help us, and not coat-clad snooty ones, we were that finicky. I was hell bent on breastfeeding and knew for sure that those old aunties will know the way to go about it.

Luckily, for us, we didn't have many visitors, which was a blessing. Just like any other new mom, I wasn't too comfortable with loads of people coming in and all that touching and holding the baby, and kissing, OH MY GOD!!!

I would have nightmares thinking, oh dear, all those people are going to kiss the baby now that he's out of my womb and has to defend for myself in this ugly rotten world! sob!

Again, luckily, nobody kissed little P. Maybe because they had seen me give them sneaky little dirty looks, or maybe because people are more aware now, and realise that some serious germs *can* be passed on. Who cares?! the fact that his milky fat chubby cheeks were left untouched, was more than enough for me, protective mamma bear that I had become.

Any way... as some of you know, the milk takes a few days to "come in", as they say. I had read about this, and could feel it myself it wasn't "in" yet.

But, of course, in my life, nothing is as simple, right?! So, every couple of hours, until almost 2.5 days had passed, every nurse on a new shift would come and pom pom me and say," Has it come in yet?"

Errr, no, but thanks for pom pomming my breasts, you strange lady. It was nice knowing you too!

My doctor had given me strict instructions that I had to pass the "stool test" before leaving, which in layman's terms means you have to stand up, go to the toilet and poop by yourself, if you want freedom from the hospital. No bed pans, no nothing. You had to (wo)man up, and do the big job in the big pot. Yep, poo poo in the potty!

For one whole day, I was scared shitless, pun intended, to not eat anything, because the prospect of standing up, and walking to the loo was giving me goosebumps.

It would take the husband forever to help me change sides, because I would scream in anticipation as soon as he would touch me, and more so, because I was still quite numb, waist down. This was an irony, you feel numb, but there's horrible pain.

In the meantime, yet another shift change, and yet another pom pom, "Is it there yet?"

And, this time, after what felt like a zillion pom pomming of the cow-like udder, EUREKA! IT'S THERE!!!

Yes, yes, yes!!! Aah, no wonder, I thought I had suddenly grown water melons on my chest.

Bye bye, 40DD, hello! 42 GG!!

Hello, and welcome to the world of peepees!

I was always pigheaded about the fact that if and when I do have a baby, I would only go for a woman obe-gyn. Not that I have anything against the men, but it was just a preference I had. Luckily, for us, ours was a she. BUT, and there's a but here, the pediatrician at that hospital was a he.

So, I am laid there, everything is out in the open. I am staring at the ceiling, concentrating hard on not screaming, holding onto my big fat thighs for support, because my legs were fixed on the stirrups, pushing with every contraction that wreaked my body. And, in walks HE, coolly looking at me, my stuff like an open wardrobe, and looks at me, nods a hello, and says, "What's up?!"

And, I am like, Not much, Just trying not to let out a poop instead of the baby, because s/he is hell bent on not making an appearance.

At this point, the decision was taken to cut me up and deliver the baby, because I had no strength left in me, given the passage of time, and the strong headed babe I had inside me, who had decided to take permanent residence inside.

The one painful thing about the caeserean operation is the epidural they give in your spinal cord. Man! That's one big syringe! I won't be surprised if it's the same one used to sedate horses, it's that big!

It took forever for me to bend over, and you have to really make a concave out of your back for the needle to go in correctly, because I was so damn huge. After a while, I was numb below the waist, and the painkillers that had been administered before, were still making me quite woozy.

And, the nerd that I am. I kept asking the doctors what they were doing, because, you know, I was a SCIENCE STUDENT once, and came 10,000 in the All India position in some medical entrance test I gave a zillion years ago, before I found my true calling! BAAH!

Little did she know, that all my knowledge came from watching Grey's Anatomy and also because, I read through a million labour stories and watched many more videos before the real thing made me pee in my nightie, pun intended.

I am half asleep, when suddenly, I hear myself discussing episodes from the TV series and the doctors are busy doing their job, but quite taken in by my knowledge. MUST PAT MYSELF AFTERWARDS!

I wake up again, after a bit, and I see what seem like TESTICLES! HUH?! Yes, black, like really black ones, in front of my eyes, against a ball of milky white skin, which the doctor was holding.

At that point, I smile, and, now I am not too sure, but I either said, "BOY!" or "BALLS!" Either way, both go hand in hand ;)

So, there he was, our Sindhi-Tamil-Bengali dude, our little P, all covered in gooey stuff and screaming bloody murder, while the doctor patted his white and pink bottom.

The baby had safely arrived. It was a 'He'. All the stars, the astrological predictions, the pundits whathaveyou, All of you, take a bow, because, Alas! I was indeed mommy to a peepee.

This rent agreement is only for 9 months

All my dreams of having a Hollywood-style pregnancy and labour were crashing. The pregnancy, of course, was now about to get over, with the not-so-cool labour taking over.

Somewhere towards the end of our pregnancy, I somehow managed to get the husband to sit with me and go through hours and hours of YouTube videos of women giving birth.

Yep, we saw it all. The normal ones, the caesarean ones. All the drama, the emotions, the tears, the blood, the screams, the joy, you name it and we saw it. We held hands all through those videos, we were so shit scared!

This was now our moment. No movie-inspired labour for me, thankyouverymuch!

We waited for 3 hours, and then called up the hospital and told them we were coming. It was 0230 hours and we booked a cab and I left home wearing a nightie! Oh yeah, I forgot to change clothes, because the pain was a bit** and I didn't care a tiny rat's ass about how I was dressed!

Soon, our doctor arrived, and before you knew it, I was screaming bloody murder! The pain was now killing me, and I was ready to kill the husband, because, of course, labour pain turns you into murderous evil witch!

All those promises to myself that I will go through this pain and not succumb to getting cut melted away, as the pain rocked my body and mind. This was crazy shit pain. When they say labour feels like you are going to do the biggest poo of your life, IT'S BLOODY TRUE!

Pretty soon, I was all konked out, thanks to the lovely painkillers I was given. I slept off, but woke up every couple of minutes were the pains tore through my body and the husband, poor fellow, rubbed my back like his life was on the line. At the end, I am pretty sure, he wanted a hand transplant and a wife transplant, as well ;)

The clock slowly managed to make its way through the hours, and after five or so hours, the sweet words I so wanted to hear, finally came: you are ready.

We had taken permission for the husband to accompany me to the labour room, but what ensued later would forever go down in history books as a question mark. Apparently, some drama occurred, and the doctor quickly threw both the husband and mother dear out. I shall not elaborate further for the sake of family ties ;)

I was on the labour table, popping in and out of consciousness. I was shaking and shivering like I was a Bollywood actress dressed in a chiffon sari atop the damn Alps lip synching to my heart's content! The shakes were so bad, the darn table went clackety clack!

Next thing you know, I hear myself telling the doctor, I want to pee. So, she says, no problem, go ahead and do it. And before you could say hello, I went! Yep! I peed on the labour table, just like that. No dignity, I told ya!

She told me when to push, and push I did! For 2.5 hours! But nothing came out! This little Sindhi-Bengali-Tamil cheeky monkey was one hell of a stubborn baby!

She tried getting forceps into me, but nope, nothing. Ditto, vacuum cup, a weird little cup that went inside me, did some weird little dance inside me, and came out empty handed. Speaking of hands, she even tried getting her hands inside me to move the baby's head, because it was stuck at a weird angle :o

Ermmm, okay...

I know the womb is a wonderful place to be in, but, hello, baby, are you planning to come out at all?! Our rent agreement lease is only for 9 months, you know!

Marrying Jennifer Lopez the day your wife has your baby

The thing with me was, that for the longest of time, and ever since I can recall, I always wanted to be mommy to a little girl, and not just one! No, I wanted twin girls.

Funny thing is, I say wanted as if twin baby girls are made-to-order and available for cash on delivery from your nearest God who is quite cool, because obviously, he has his own Android app through which you can order your babies with one click!

This is the real world, of course. Irony of all ironies, I had this weird call-it-what-you-will mommy intuition that this baby would be a boy. I would cry out in horror every time my palm lines or astrological stars or my numerological whathaveyou suggested, or rather, predicted, that I would give birth to a boy.

Let me clarify... I am not anti-boys. Boys are great, but it's what they do as little cheeky buggers with their things that I found appalling. Laugh all you want, but surely all that tugging of little peepees makes you cringe, doesn't it?!

So, going back, I was in labour, and I had no idea. I was barely dilated, so the doctor suggested brisk walk and lots of activity. No, not the sexual kind, because I am not Rachel from F.R.I.E.N.D.S and neither is the husband, Ross.

We went back to a friend's place, who had kindly given us shelter, because they were close to the hospital. The husband was a bit freaked out, not because of the impending labour, but because he had a passport appointment the next day, and we all know how hard that one is to come by! Babies can come and go, but an appointment for a passport is like waiting to marry Jennifer Lopez.

A la Cinderella, the clock struck 12 midnight and off we went to bed. It was barely 12:01, when I woke up wanting to pee. This was the beauty of pregnancy, this urge to pee constantly.

I should add, that a few days before this, I was happily attending a religious ceremony right outside our place, and was surrounded by loud drums and even louder chants and music. I did the mistake of venturing a bit too close to the drummer, and WHOOPS!! Got the biggest kick of my pregnant life in my you-know-where and ended up PEEING IN MY PANTS!!! In the midst of a religious function! WHAT BLASPHEMY!

Any way, back to Cinderella... I kept going to the loo every few minutes, slowly the urge to pee turning into a desire to the big job. But the damn thing JUST WOULDN'T COME!

Suddenly, like a Eureka moment, I went, "OMG, I think I maybe in active labour!" All the signs were there, the horrible lower back pain, the constant urge to do a poo, the weird cramps all over my back and other gross bodily signs that I won't mention for your sake ;)

We timed the contractions, and boy, were they close?! Barely three minutes apart! We needed to get to the hospital NOW!!!

All that while, the husband kept asking, "Aaj raat jawan hai?", loosely translated as, "Tonight's the night?" But, what about my wedding with Jennifer Lopez aka passport appointment?!

Should we name the baby Rafael, as in Nadal?

D-Day had finally arrived, much to my glee!

Yes, Yes!!! You guessed it, it was time to EAT EGG AND CHEESE WRAPS again! Make that a double please! I have no shame in admitting I can gobble two at a time ;)

This was our penultimate meeting with the doctor and it was a little difficult to accept that the next time we go there, it would also be the last time I would lay my hands on a egg wrap and not feel guilty about it. sniff sniff!!

Any how, here's another thing about pregnancy. The fastest road to divorce is the one you take in pregnancy when you have to zero down upon a name for the baby, and that's when you know that your spouse LOVES HIS FOLKS more than he loves you.

This moment, when this revelation is out in the open and is there to stay forever, is a time point in a married couple's life.

Of course, like all pregnant women, I had already decided on boy and girl names, probably from the time I got my two positive lines on the peeing stick. And of course, they had to be COOL NAMES, and definitely neither Tamil nor Bengali.

No way Jose! There would be no Muthu or Mishti! Oh nononono! This was my cupcake, I was the oven for NINE FRIGGING months. There's no way I could let the grampas and granmas take away my moment by giving the baby a real tragic name!

The husband, on the other hand, had already decided that he would VETO each cool name I threw across. He knew the real me, he knew I would come up with some Hollywood-inspired or F1 or tennis-inspired name.

Much to my dismay, before I could even suggest those names, he said no to Rafael, Pete, Steffi!!! HUH?! Did he not know who these people were?! Of course he did, but he was having none of them, or rather, their name sakes, in our living room.

This is also the time in your life when marriage politics comes into play. You have to make everyone happy, there's no denying that. And, by everyone, I mean the In-laws. And that's a tough nut to crack, ain't it?!

We have this tradition of naming babies after grandparents, sort of like an Indian version of George I and Louis XV. But my pseudo-intellectual half-Bengali genes were vehemently protesting against being mommy to a Swamy I or a Muthu III.

And neither was I going to be mommy to a Rabindranath junior or a Satyajit junior!

So, in the spirit of secularism, we decided to say byebye to Tamil and Bengali names and just came up with the letter 'P', because, it's mommy-in-law's initial.

But, what about MY MOMMY?!

Husband: And, what about my DADDY?!

Gaaah! Egg wraps, where are you when I need you?!

Mommy and daddy and all kinds of genes be damned, I was in labour already and I had no idea!

The doctor told me, "You are going to deliver in less than 48 hours!"

And indeed, I did!

Of egg wraps and a 100 kgs of adipose tissue

The strange thing about pregnancy is that the status of your mood is forever changing. One minute, you are "feeling excited", the next, you have feelings of murdering someone ;)

My strange relationship with eggs was to come full circle towards the end of the pregnancy, much to my shock. What started out as " Get those damn eggs out of this house!" would soon turn into "if you don't get me an egg frankie RIGHT NOW, I am going to burn this damn house!"

So hot was this sudden love affair with eggs that one night, whilst asleep, I found myself salivating as an army of egg rolls and frankies were swimming in front of my eyes as I lay there dreaming!!! :o

Luckily for me, I had a doctor's appointment the very next day, which was actually, for me and my food cravings, just an excuse to go out and eat and blame it all on the pregnancy. teehee ;)

So, off we went to the doctor, all that while, me, lost in a world of egg and cheese wraps and rolls and what not. I couldn't wait for the doctor to finish her check up and picked up my fat arse and rushed at the speed of a snail to the nearest mall, where dear friend Google had pointed out that there indeed was a egg wrap kiosk! EGGS OF THE WORLD, UNITE! For here comes the woman who shall chompchomp and swallow all you yellow folks!

I ate one, and the husband was quick enough to notice that I was lusting after another one. This was embarrasing. My appetite was now officially bigger than his and he knew it! Shudder!

He kept asking, "do you want one more?"

Ermmm, ummm, no no, are you mad? What am I, a whale? To eat TWO WHOLE egg wraps?! Of course not!

Inside, the bump was kicking the crap out of me, it had gotten so excited by the yummylicious taste of melted cheese and egg. THE BUMP wanted more, NOT ME!

ME: Okay, I *think* I will have another one. But, I AM NOT going there to order myself. What is the server going to think of me, this woman who can gobble two whole wraps by herself?!

So, I pretended to not know the husband, while he stood there ordering another wrap for me. Me, the sly and suave food monster that I had become, stood in one corner texting him to MAKE IT A DOUBLE EGG WITH CHEESE!!!

100 kgs, here I come, with eggs coming out of my arse!

Meanwhile, my pregnancy was coming to an end, with labour barely a week away. Soon, I wouldn't be able to blame my insatiable appetite on the bump! SIGH!

Looking like Nigella Lawson in an X-Men movie

Being pregnant is a bit like being in an X-Men movie. You get weird abnormal powers and they disappear as soon as the pregnancy is over.

Just like any other pregnant woman, I suppose, I had developed this habit of rubbing my bump and talking to it. Every time I saw something new and exciting, I would say, "Oh look! There's blah and blah!"

Same with eating anything mouth-watering. I would explain to the bump what I was eating as if I was taking it on a culinary ride. The only difference was that I didn't exactly look like Nigella Lawson. Okay, not even a bit like her.

Fine, not even REMOTELY! OKAY! I GET IT! I DEFINITELY WILL NOT LOOK LIKE HER IN A MILLION YEARS!

Moving on...!

So this X-Men-like quality took on epic proportions everytime I felt sick or unwell. Considering that the current scenario spelt disaster, I looked a bit possessed rubbing my by-now-fairly-visible belly and talking to it.

I was quickly admitted and we graciously allowed them to do so without any exchange of question and answer.

This wasn't just a normal admission in a hospital room on a normal bed.

This was me, remember?! My penchant for weird luck was back again.

Because of the extremely low-lying placenta, called Placenta Praevia in medical terms, my pregnancy was at a severe risk of terminating itself given the blood loss.

Thus, my quick-thinking doctor decided to LITERALLY keep me almost upside down for two nights and days chained to the hospital bed. The head of the bed was moved lower, or rather, my legs and back were at a 45 degree higher than the rest of my body.

This is exactly how I lay for more than 48 hours.

Here comes the fun part: ALERT!! GRAPHIC TOILET HUMOUR COMING UP!

This is how I pissed as well. YUP. With a bed pan under my gigantic bottom, I did the small job. Of course it wasn't pretty. The whole damn thing would run down my back and in other weird places.

But, I somehow managed to maintain  a bit of my dignity AND REFUSED TO GO FOR THE BIG JOB IN THIS FASHION. OH NONONO! That wasn't happening. Sure, I had oodles of love for the baby, but no way was I doing this.

Luckily, the nurse relented and I was allowed to stand up and look DOWN at my feet for a change. PHEW!

The reports weren't what we were expecting. I hadn't even completed 3 months, or 1 trimester, of pregnancy, and it wasn't looking viable in the given condition.

I spent the next 3-4 months working from home. And this wasn't the usual WFH. This was, literally, back breaking shit loads of work, sometime exceeding 14 hours a day. And weekends too, at times.

The 45 degree nuisance was, of course, there to stay. On the doctor's orders, the husband went and bought SEVEN pillows, which were stacked under my legs, and I would lay this the whole time when I wasn't working. I would even lay back and eat, the orders were that strict!

Of course,  I would wait for the customary ONE BIG BURP to suggest the food had been digested, and go back to my LOVELY SEVEN PILLOWS.

Considering that I wasn't even allowed to stand for more a couple of minutes, I took great advantage and managed to get some otherwise unachievable work done ;)

The husband learnt how to cook, for one! I was the queen of his world, and man! Was I enjoying it?!

The saying "eating like a pig" was written with me in mind, in my pregnant avatar. I remember I once ate upwards of FOUR SAMOSAS!!! I felt a bit of a bully, or maybe I didn't! Who cares?!

At this point, I feel a bit like Lindsay Lohan in that movie where there's always bad luck in store for her.

This time, some really shitty news. The good part? It wasn't about the pregnancy.

They would rather have me sleep with Sherlock Holmes

The way things were progressing, it seemed like a million years had passed us. In fact, it seems longer now, in hindsight.

However, I was STILL in my 2nd month of pregnancy, and as per the doctor's orders, was taking it easy and was off work.

The husband was travelling, and that was a good thing, because by now, my farts were the talk of town! Or at least, they sure felt like it.

My mother, who has been a victim of these bomb attacks ever since I can recall, was at her wits end. On the one hand were her daughter's pregnancy and her emotions; on the other, her nasal hair were seriously taking a beating!

I was off work and thoroughly enjoying the break. Entertainment was limited to watching Carrie and her friends have sex in 'Sex And The City'. Well, at least somebody was getting some, even if it was in reel life.

That's all I did all day. I mean, watch SATC... guffaw!! :D But for some inexplicable reason, that only pregnant women might understand, I had this weird fear that if I watched too much of all this canoodling and banging of bodies, my child would be a sex addict and I would be blamed forever!

And for this, I blame the friendly gyaan aka advice I received from some not-so-young women I knew who 'caught' me reading Sherlock Holmes one day. I don't think they would have been so shocked if I was canoodling the detective himself! But goodness gracious! Reading detective stories whilst pregnant is worse than sleeping with the protagonist, because horror of all horrors, your child will be born with snooping abilities and will view everyone he meets in life with a magnifying glass! :o

Any hoo, remember the superstitious me?! I thought, why take such a risk? So SATC was conveniently replaced with 'Grey's Anatomy'! If indeed the baby had to really get inspired, might as well become a doctor and then have sex, right?!

The baby, yes! S/he seemed to be growing fine. My system had somewhat settled, and there weren't any fainting spells a la filmy style. The ONLY thing(s) that bothered me were smells of egg and onion. AND PEOPLE. No, not their smells, although that is a non-pregnancy pet peeve, but people bothered me.

I would cry and bawl at the drop of a hat. I would cry if someone was sad, I would cry if the food was too hot. Too cold also left me in tears. Underwear doesn't fit, cue, me crying. Mom didn't make my favourite lunch, again, hysterics. You get the general idea, I suppose!

I had by now taken permission to work from home and had just about spent two odd days doing so, when the scary blood spots were back.

We literally ran out pantless, we were that scared. By the time we had reached the doctor, who was almost an hour away, I was shitting in my pants because I felt something wasn't right.

And sure as hell, was I right?!

As I stood in front of the doctor, she saw me looking down. And there it was, my 'gut feeling'. Blood was literally dripping down my legs and I was shaking as if I was in cold storage.

Goo Goo Dolls give way to Gita, Ganpati and Gyaan

So, there I was, pregnant, albeit along with the damn polyp taking a free ride inside my uterus and possibly squeezing the life out of our rapidly multiplying group of cells, whom we were fondly referring to as "baby".

We had no idea where we were headed. Sure, our strong-headed combination of Tamil (also lovingly referred to as Madrasi by our lovely North Indian citizens of this country) spermatozoa and psuedo-intellectual Bengali ovum had managed to scare the crap out of the darn tiger.  But, the fact remained, that the polyp was weighing heavy on our minds.

The lovely specialised doctors we had earlier met suggested the big A word, but this was our moment, and we weren't ready to let some money-making knife-yielding coat-wearing robot take that away from us.

Phone calls were made to some friends and family alike, and we were nudged in the direction of a doctor who was to become our BFF for the next 9 months.

This new doctor was the miracle we were looking for and her words were the answers to our stream of questions and worried looks. To say that she was God-send remains an understatement.

Any how, mush and sob stories aside! Pregnancy completely changed me, or rather my personality. At this point in time, only our parents knew and 1 colleague and my boss knew.

Gone was the cool, suave girl/woman that I knew myself to be. I took to superstition like a moth to a flame. I started believing in jinxes, started covering up my stomach because I was scared evil looks would harm me and our baby.

Shocker of all shockers, gone was my itunes play list too!! bye bye Hoobastank and Goo Goo Dolls. Hello, devotional songs and audio podcasts of religious texts!

What was happening to me?! This was me, guzzler of tequila shots combined with pints and pints of beer! Driver of a super cool, green-coloured Chevrolet Spark, who only knew the 5th gear!

Coolness quotient be damned! I wasn't barren, I was pregnant, my husband would be mine till the divorce papers are not signed! Who cares about my  newly improved playlist. This was me, Version 2.0!

I should smugly add here that right before this point in time, I had managed to LOSE WEIGHT! Yes, me, whale of all whales, thanks to my adipose tissue-loving half-Sindhi genes, had lost 15 (IN WORDS, LEST THE IMPORTANCE BE LOST, FIFTEEN) kilos! chumbawumba! I was thin, you could finally see that I too had a waist and size 28 jeans could finally be bought!!! MOTHER OF GOD, I AM GETTING GOOSEBUMPS WRITING THIS!

Of course, good things and weight loss don't last forever. The Sindhi genomes were back with a vengeance and my bottom ( I won't say a**, since I am all chic and refined now :p) and other unmentionable body parts were growing at breakneck speed.

Gone were my days of eating frugally. My dear mother had moved base to our city then, and of course, in true Bollywood style, came to the rescue of her pregnant daughter's health. Rates of eggs and carrots were rapidly climbing in our neighborhood, thanks to the speed at which mother dear was buying them.

The baby seemed to be growing fine. Nothing untoward happened. How could it? Considering that I was walking at snail's pace and covering myself up like I was living in a bloody igloo, even though it was sweating hot here.

But knowing my passion for weird luck, there was some pretty scary news in store for us...

My name is mommy and I AM FAT!

My name is mommy and I AM FAT!

There it is, an admission in writing of my fat-ness, set in writing for posterity sake and for all to see and read and LOL over.

I am a new mom...well, not SO new now, considering that  I gave birth more than a year ago. And just like ALL, okay, not ALL, but some, new moms, I have a lot of issues to deal with. I am putting this in writing because I feel judged for airing the honest fact that mommyhood is tough and I feel that somewhere out there is another new mom who is struggling with post partum emotions just like yours truly here and would feel great to know that is is common and it is OKAY to feel this way.

In the current scheme of things, it's been a tough couple of days and nights. I am a nursing aka breastfeeding mommy, which means I am the primary source of food and comfort for my bub, especially in the middle of the night, when only the owls and I are awake.

It's tough surviving on broken sleep for a few days. Now change that into a year of broken sleeps and voila! there I am! I love being a mom, I love my boy to the moon and back, I love being a child when I am with him. In fact, I can't even recall what life was before he came in, all pink and gooey and screaming his lungs off.

The sleeplessness and the deposits of fat certainly DO NOT take away from this burst of emotions that I feel for bub. But, I feel sad looking at myself in the mirror. Worse, I feel guilty for feeling this way because it implies that I am not enjoying motherhood. Or does it?