Old McDonald had a farm! And on his farm, he had a COW!!!

I am sitting here trying to recall the initial days, but all that comes to mind is the feeding, or sometimes, the lack of it, in my case.

The only other thing(s) that come to mind are the constant peeing, little P's, NOT MINE! The poos, again, HIS.

I also recall being peed IN THE FACE, INTO THE MOUTH!

NOTE TO SELF: KEEP TRAP SHUT WHEN CHANGING THE DUDE'S NAPPY!

And. the sleeplessness. Oh man! I think I had gone into zombie territory!

Those who know me well would know that I am an emotional person when it comes to sleep. Lack of decent sleep makes me go bonkers. I could literally pull my own hair off and cry, I get that cranky, even at this age.

And the breastfeeding was taking its toll on my emotions. The biting was just getting too much. At one point, half my nipple came off, just like that. It was as if it decided, hey, let me see what happens when I hang off this cliff!!!

I was constantly doing a yo-yo between "I am stopping right this moment!", and "Let me feed him ONE LAST TIME!"

Come to think of it, I was sleepless because little P would just not sleep. The combination of lack of sleep and the feeding issues were taking a toll on him.

We were clueless. Breastfed babies typically thrive on mother's milk, but ours was like a one-in-a-million exception.

We had to radically up the formula, yet again, and this time, we started using bottles, because spoon feeding a screaming baby is an art that no one can master. More than 70 per cent of the milk goes waste!

This was a catch 22 situation, yet again. In less than 3 days' time, little P had developed what is known as nipple confusion. In simple terms, he had started preferring the fast pace at which milk was flowing from the bottle nipples, compared to breastfeeding, which required him to put in a lot of hard work!

Oh yeah! Babies are smart! They will, any given day, prefer something that requires them to do less hard work.

I was stumped. I just didn't know what to do. He simply refused to feed, all over again. I finally managed to spend some good monies this time, and bought an electric pump, which is typically far far better than a manual one.

I went online and found out some women who do what is known as "exclusively pumping". That is, they pump breast milk on a schedule that more or less resembles their baby's feeding pattern, and the baby is only fed expressed breast milk. 

This is the hardest thing to do. Imagine the horrors of cleaning and sterilising bottles, add to that the cleaning and sterilising the breast pump. Now, instead of directly feeding the baby, which gets easier as the baby grows, you put a pump to those breasts and sit for a scheduled time.

Here's the beauty: In the initial days, you HAVE TO DO THIS AS OFTEN AS YOUR BABY WOULD FEED! YES, that's right. One has to do this at least 8-10 times a day! And you have to pump once between 1-5am, because that's when you produce the most milk, based on your hormones.

Without going into further details... I did this for ONE WHOLE MONTH. Every day, without a fail, I would start at 7 am, and pump on a 2 hour schedule till 11 in the night. The pumping itself would take 40 minutes, so by the time I would be done, it would be time for the next session!

I would even put an alarm for 3.30 am every night, and when the whole world and my own baby would be fast asleep, I would be up and out on a date with the damn pump going grrr grrr grrr whee whee whee on me!

The funny part was, keeping that expressed milk in the refrigerator was a constant worry! I had to always tell FIL, hey, you better not use that to make your morning cuppa!!!

My pumping had become a joke, and so had I, but not in a bad way. Every one was glad things were going okay. Little P was finally thriving. The formula was slowly being cut out and he was becoming more and more "dependent" on me.

Because I was constantly pumping, most times, I felt like a farm cow who was being milked at all odd hours of the day, and the reason I was being taken care of, was because of the milk I was providing.

My mother dear's sense of humour suddenly knew no bounds. As soon as little P would start crying, she would say, "Hold on! The cow is being milked just for you!"

Some times, she would feed the expressed milk to him, and say, "Here you go! Fresh from the farm, just for you!" I could kiss her RIGHT NOW, I TELLYA!

At times, when I was in the mood myself, I would MOO MOO!! whilst pumping!

Oh yeah! Whoever said bringing up a baby isn't fun, should try his (her??!) hands at pumping!  

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!!!

Honey, I shrunk your underwear!

The moment arrived, the big one we had all been waiting for!

Little P was fast asleep and big P was waiting for me to get dressed, while a cab and FIL waited for all of us to pick up our bums and move.

I was quite smug about the fact that now that I had finally given birth, the weight was just going to drop off like the price of mangoes in monsoon, and whoom and boom! I would magically fit into my old clothes now that there would be no bump.

I picked up the lingerie and IT WOULDN'T FIT!!!

It was as if it was 3 sizes too small! WHAT THE FISH?! Not the absolutely unsexy bra, nor the horrendous granny pants! $%^*())&^#@@

The cabbie was honking, the FIL was muttering something in Tamil and the husband was being patient, maybe because he didn't want to mess with the fresh dose of post partum hormones I had warned him about!

I had no idea what to do. I was angry, I was close to tears. I had ordered a maternity/feeding bra somewhere in my last trimester and I was, honestly speaking, very embarrassed when I was placing the order online.

The whole online world and everybody at the lingerie e-store would know my Pamela Anderson bra size! But, I had no choice. I was in desperate need of new (read bigger) ones!

How was I to know that even the biggest size of my life would now suddenly be 3 sizes too small?!

And the sooper dooper big granny pants, the stuff that sexual nightmares are made of, those had shrunk too!

They HAD SHRUNK! Because, I possibly couldn't have become bigger now that the baby was on the outside!

As the honks and muttering grew, I had no option, but to stuff "myself" into the top. At one point, I thought I would suffocate to death, I was that tight!

The underwear?! Gaaah! That's another story!

When you live in a joint family, the older and elder members of the family know a thing or two about what in India is known as "jugaad". That is, an ad-hoc and impromptu solution, that borders on the ridiculous at times!

So, to cut a long story short, I basically just ripped the elastic off the granny chuds as much as I could, and, VOILA!!! There it was, a bigger version of the stupidly disappointing granny pants!

Aaah, those thunder thighs had some new friends, a la old-wine-in-new-bottle kind of friends!

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!