Amid all the pandemonium that descends on your life post new-baby, there are tiny, ever memorable islands of peace.
When I got home from the hospital, my mom-in-law gave me a traditional welcome. She’s sweet and high on the traditional stuff in life, which was a big boon for me during my post-pregnancy days—she knew all about the herbs and traditional dishes that are given to the new mom to help her body get back its strength and shape.
What I remember most are the herbal baths that she prepared for me in the first week post-childbirth… equally exciting and embarrassing at the same time. Exciting, because a concoction of herbs is being poured upon you with much fanfare… so much like the Maharanis of yore…! But embarrassing because you are the new mom who’s not supposed to strain herself in any way whatsoever (caring for the baby is strain enough, thank you!) and so you can’t rub your body or soap your body yourself. Oh Lord, is that embarrassing! Even if it was my own mom who did the soaping… and even if all she washed were the back and the legs… still….
But the feeling of warm herbal waters flowing down your limbs… unforgettable!
Traditions have their flipside too, though. Tradition says the woman has to be confined in the house for 40 days. Am I thankful this part of the tradition wasn’t enforced! Not that I’d have given in, anyway….
A really old and decadent and terrible tradition that was inflicted upon one of my friends was the one where husband and wife are not allowed to sleep in the same room for 40 days. It was, of course, meant to prevent insensitive, psycho husbands of yore from torturing their ‘injured’ wives… if you know what I mean.
I, however, might have murdered someone if they dared try to enforce that.
Just having the love of your life sleeping beside you is such a great comfort and source of peace… even if the only sleep you get is in two hour bursts… sometimes only two hours in one night… but at least you have someone whom you can wake up anytime and in whose arms you can sob unrestrained in the dead of the night …
Here I must say that my mother saved my life. My baby just would not sleep at night. At all. He wanted me to sit there with him in my lap the whole time. If I put him down… that was it. I used to cry and cry out of fatigue and helplessness. That’s when my poor darling mother began to keep him in her lap for three-four hours at a time, after which he would start bawling for milk. And for those three hours, I could—wonder of wonders—sleep. For many, many months after that, my mom was the chief source of all my sleep.
The world is a beautiful place when there are people who love you and make life better for you…
My son was born in 2012, which was the Chinese year of the dragon. My mom was always furious when I referred to the hyperactive baby in my belly as ‘little dragon’. You see, dragons aren’t good things in Indian culture. They’re monsters to be feared. (Though I don’t understand all the fuss… I mean, tigers are ferocious too, and people here love to be called a tiger.) Under Chinese tradition, though, the Dragon is majestic, powerful, successful and fearless—with a noble heart.
It’s true I didn’t fall in love with my boy when I saw him for the first time. But long before he was born, deep in my heart a tiny, almost indiscernible space had been carved out by him as he tumbled around in my womb. A dragon-shaped space with little wings. A home for a fearless little dragon.
Sept 3, 2012
I bring the tiny creature home.
He doesn’t resemble me at all. That’s disappointing. He doesn’t seem to resemble his father either… though everyone else says he does…but he’s a little creature with a face all his own…
He was born with a pretty good weight of 3.5 kgs, but never looked like the chubby little babies you see on TV. Long wiry limbs, with fingers that weren’t clenched shut but spread apart in a perpetual gesture of surprise. Thoughtful, pensive eyes that seemed to contemplate the deepest philosophies of life—like he was deep in thought from the moment he entered this world; solving an existential mystery that had followed him here from the dark home in the womb.
He’d often put one of those tiny outstretched fingers awkwardly on his cheek, the perfect touch to complete his look of contemplating philosopher.
My scatter-brained, always kiddish mother takes to calling him ‘Tidda’— grasshopper—for his long, thin body—much to the chagrin of his doting father. It made me laugh to see how possessive and protective Sajjad felt towards this little one… he was more the mother in that sense than I was!
Sajjad took a week off from work (that’s all he was allowed) and went about changing nappies, taking turns with the baby to let me sleep, and bathing the baby during that first week. And the burping, of course, was his sole domain. I suppose I do understand now why women find baby-loving men attractive!
We would both talk with little Hasan and he would listen with the same intent and thoughtful gaze. He has his father’s eyes, I can see now. The loveliest eyes ever.
I think I do love this little philosopher, the one of the shiny thoughtful eyes. Happy little grasshopper. Little wise, noble dragon.
Day One: Perhaps it was the post-partum depression (does it really kick in so soon?) or perhaps it’s just the blinding pain. But that evening, I looked at my mum sitting beside me, asking, “Why so glum, dear?” and cried. And cried and cried and cried.
“It hurts, mummy. It hurts too much. There’s too much pain…”
It was pain of the kind that steadily chokes, not the waves and spasms that you can drown in screams. Pain that everyone had promised would be long gone.
On hindsight, it wasn’t just the pain. It was the images and the memory of pain, too.
I’d seen in movies where heroines had nightmare and their eyes would open in a horrified flash. Breaking news: it happens in real life too.
Every time I tried to close my eyes and get some rest, the entire labour room complete with doctors’ faces would swim before my eyes, ending in the SNAP! of me being cut open. The intolerable, unbelievable agony of that moment. And my eyes would fly open in horror. This is not a literary description or an exaggeration. Every time I closed my eyes I would see exactly this and my eyes would snap open.
It would be weeks before I could even think—forget talk— about the entire childbirth episode without getting all panicky and horrified.
Oh, and I promised more on toilet-terrors, didn’t I? Well, here’s me keeping my word:
My usual toilet exercise begins with someone rolling up the bed so I’m in a sitting position. Why? Because I have absolutely no strength in my back and hip muscles and I cannot sit up on my own. When I am safely inclined, I slowly drag my legs to a dangling position by the bedside. Then either my mom or my husband—they were both there with me— help me stand on my feet. They then hold my weight and support me all the way to the toilet which is just about ten normal steps from my bed. And then, when I’m in the toilet, someone has to physically bear my entire weight just so I can go from standing to sitting position. Left to my own legs, I might just collapse. Afterwards, of course, I have to be completely lifted up again, to enable me to stand. All of this while I purse my lips till they turn white and threaten to bleed, just so I can contain the real pain…and the crazy, ever present terror of ripping apart at the seams…
It’s when you’re in mortal fear of your own body… ever mindful of taking a step too big and stretching your legs too far apart…
When you touch yourself and feel like bursting into tears…. “Good Lord!! What has happened to my body!! I’m completely deformed! Am I permanently deformed? Will it always be like this?”
When you feel the stitches and get a weird sort of light-headed feeling… giddy and nauseated like a merry-go-round ride gone awry… like you’re terrified of your own body…
And on top of all this, of course, comes that little thing without which you won’t truly know you’re a parent:
It’s been exactly 24 hours since I even stole a wink. And before you start pooh-poohing this, thinking, “So what, I’ve stayed up this long many times,” puh-leez consider the deathly exhausting nature of those 24 hours for any person. And then the hours turn into days… and then months…. And more months…. And there comes a stage where you’d give anything just to get more than three hours of sleep a day….
Day two: Three hours of sleep after 24 hours of torture is pitiful compensation, but beggars can’t be choosers. However, there’s one thing that brightens me up: the food! One of the great blessings of having a normal delivery is that you get to eat real food right away. I remember that vegetable sandwich right in the labour room, my first bite of anything edible post childbirth. And I remember those lip-smacking, mouth-watering breakfasts; the chocolate milk and the poha and the noodles and more sandwiches….ahhh…. Made me wanna spend some more time at the hospital !!
The pain is still there, but it’s got a blunt edge. When I have visitors I forget it. I’m chatting and laughing like my usual self, particularly when Shruti and Ankur, my gang of gals from office, enter with a smile and a hug (they were not allowed to bring the flowers in.) But whenever someone asks me “So, how was the experience?” this is my standard reply: “I DO NOT want to talk about it!”
Day three: If someone were to tell you there’ll be a day in your life when your breasts feel like chunk loads of lead, you probably won’t believe them. Well, start believing now.
I wake up in the morning with a feeling of rocks being loaded onto my chest. Discomfort does not come close to defining it; it’s sheer agony. Turns out the third day is when the “real milk” is produced, as opposed to the yellowy colostrum flowing out earlier. This is a great ‘mother’ thing, but as far the ‘person’ inside the ‘mother’ is concerned….
I am reminded of a Russian fairytale I read in childhood where the heroine is dumped into a river with a load of rocks tied to her chest. Of course, unlike the story, you can’t be rescued. You just get used to being drowned with rocks crushing the breath out of you… I remember crying desperately a few days later, sobbing into my husband’s chest because I couldn’t get any rest…. Everytime I tried to turn on my side the solid lead bore into my flesh, causing searing pain to flash through my body. So much for pain ending with the baby being born.
Anyway, it’s the third day and time to leave the hospital. I get dressed, bidding farewell to the green and white striped nighties I’d been donning for the past three days. Just the act of getting dressed feels like normalcy is being restored. However, walking from the room to the car erases any such ideas …
With shaking baby steps (pun unintended) I get into the car. The ride, as I was well aware, had just begun.
Everybody emphasises over and over the important fact that as soon as the baby is born the terriblest part of the pain is over.
Nobody tells you what comes after that.
So, my baby has been born and I’ve been stitched up and cleaned and covered. I’m still in the labour room; exhausted, shaken and lifeless. Sajjad is holding up a glass of juice and I’m sipping it with a straw. It’s a tad uncomfortable drinking this way and I want to shift up a bit, in more of a sitting position (the bed’s already inclined to support my back). I try to scuttle a little upwards. And then it hits me.
Moving my back—and my hips—even a quarter of an inch creates waves of screaming pain inside me. I cannot move a muscle without grimacing in the most horrible way imaginable. The entire portion is numb, but not numb as in ‘without sensation’. Numb as in ‘heavy as lead, impossible to move without the greatest effort and creating an indescribable, tear-inducing agony’. The mere act of sitting up is so frustrating, so petrifying.
I wish there were more synonyms for pain, more words to describe a sensation that is as much physical as mental. But words can only show you so much and no more.
The events after this are jumbled in my memory. Maybe one came first, the other later? It’s difficult to remember.
My mom’s in the room. So is my mom-in-law. My brother in law has just arrived. I feel happy to see him; that he rushed over from another city at such short notice. But both of them—the in-laws—have started calling up people in a mad frenzy and spreading the good news like I just won an Olympic gold. That doesn’t really make me happy, though. It takes away attention from me when I want it the most. When I’m at my weakest and shittiest. (In case you haven’t noticed I’m a big attention seeker.) And it takes away my man on totally unnecessary phone calls. Grrr….
But I digress. This is the small stuff.
About an hour— or half? — later, after the room’s been cleared of everyone but my mom, they bring my baby back in, to be fed. Now, Lord knows how eager I had been about feeding my baby and no formula-feeds whatsoever. But right now? Do I really have to do it now? I can’t even get up…all I want to do is sleep… (as a matter of fact I kept dozing off in between the 5-minute gaps of labour pain….)
Ok. I have to. Right now. Great, he won’t latch on. I’m not holding him correctly, perhaps. The Lactation Counsellor shows me how.
So, I’m feeding my baby for the first time… this ought to be a wonderful, tender moment… except it isn’t. I’m acutely aware of the pains shooting through my behind. And the sleep clogging my brain.
But then, after he’s finished, he simply nuzzles my skin with his face, almost clutches me with his fists, and goes back to sleep. There’s a tiny, warm feeling, like a little closed fist, that wraps itself on my heart.
However, there’s no time for joy.
Another nurse arrives and asks me to stand up, walk to the toilet and take a leak.
I look at her as if she’s just landed from outer space.
WALK to the toilet?!
Have you freakin’ lost your mind, lady?
Of course my ever-loving mother protests and asks for a bed pan for me; anyone could see I was in no condition to get up. Although I’d been told beforehand in the pre-natal workshops that the sooner I did the getting up and taking a leak thing, the faster I would heal. However. Listening is one thing and doing it is another.
But the nurses haven’t been trained for nothing.
“Oh, ok,” she says, coolly. “Guess we’ll just have to insert a catheter to pass the urine.”
In case you don’t know what a catheter is, it’s a tube that’s inserted right inside you to get the waste liquid out. It’s not a thin tube either. And I’d seen my grand-dad use this thing for years. Yes, years. And you can imagine where they stuck it in his body. Yeah, you got it.
I’d just pushed a 7 and a half pound baby out of my body for good. Nothing, absolutely nothing is gonna be pushed in now.
“NO! Please, no. Just help me up and support my weight, please. Of course I can go to the toilet. That’s gonna aid the healing, isn’t it? Of course I’m gonna go.”
It’s a wonder what a little incentive can do…
Turns out, the getting up and going part isn’t the hardest bit.
Not since potty-training in childhood did I have so much fear of the toilet seat. I shakily murmur ten different prayers and hold my breath the entire while, like a person stepping across a field full of landmines. Only, here, I AM the landmine.
For many days after that, trips to the toilet were like trips to purgatory. Feared. Hated. Terrifying. Tear-inducing. But more on that later.
As I’m being wheeled out of the labour room into my room for the next two days, I have just one thing on my mind. I’ve spoken to a lot of women about their childbirth experience and almost everyone said they had absolutely no physical desire for the first few months. Well. Not me.
Here’s what I’m thinking—
(To be read with a panic stricken tone): “OH GAWD this is all so terrible, I have terrible stitches and injuries….ohhhhh I’ll never ever be able to DO IT again!!! Oh how, how, how am I gonna HAVE IT now?? How???? ” (Mental sob)
Then I remember… people just don’t stop having kids after one. They have more. Many more. Which means, of course….
And then it dawns.
More kids?More? MORE???
Never, ever. Never ever is this process going to be repeated, I swear. Never. EVER.
All through my pregnancy, my mother –as well as many well-meaning relatives—had been counting on the fact that “as soon as the baby is born, you’ll forget all the pain and it’ll be like being in heaven.” Then there was the movie ‘Waitres’,, where the exact same thing happens: baby is born, mother holds her…and the world suddenly becomes different…
I am too exhausted with the effort of giving birth. I can hardly hold up my hand when Sonia tries to congratulate me. And then, this tiny little creature is brought before me, wrapped in a cloth whose colour is blurred in my memory. This, now, is the moment when the world is supposed to change, and pain ceases to exist.
I look at him.
I feel nothing. No urge to take him in my arms. No desire to hold. I hold up a weak, shaky hand and touch his cheek lightly… more for the benefit of everyone else in the room, perhaps, than from any deep motherly feeling.
I watch his face. He’s fair-skinned. Very fair. But… but… he’s nothing like the baby I imagined….
I have to say this with a lot of shame, but here’s the truth: to every mother, her baby is the most beautiful in the world. However, I look at my baby and think: Lord, he’s not good looking at all.
I’ve always known in the back of my mind that care does not equal love. People prove their love by telling you how much they care about your well-being. Yes, you cannot love without care. But you can care without love. Care, my dears, is different from love.
Having a baby filled me with a deep, overwhelming sense of responsibility. I was immediately attuned to every little need of his, I was greatly aware of every little duty I had towards him—I was the one who was going to protect, to nurture and to cherish him.
During those 9 months of carrying him in my belly I followed doctors instructions to the last detail—I did nothing that would ever, ever harm this little one, even if it meant having to give up some of the things I really liked. During the pregnancy workshops that I attended, I had firmly resolved to exclusively breastfeed my baby for the first six months (and I did). I fought with my own mother over what was best for the little one.
But this I can say through personal experience: care does not necessarily mean love.
Love is when you think of that person and it makes you smile. Love is when you see their face and your heart leaps. Love is when you swear not to talk to them again and you never keep that oath. These are all necessary, obligatory conditions for love. Yes, you care about them and their needs. But most importantly, when you look at them you can feel that there’s love.
So here’s the most horrible confession of my life: when my baby was born, I was filled with concern. I was filled with care. I was filled with protectiveness. But love……………………………….?
My one concern as I’m in the process of labour is that I won’t be able to “do it” ultimately and that after all my efforts, they’d just have to perform a Caesarean operation. But that didn’t happen and I will always be truly, deeply thankful that I “did it”.
The baby is born.
“It’s a son,” Sonia announces as I grow aware of the suddenly removed earthquake from my body. I did it. I gave birth to a healthy baby, the natural way.
I drop down, exhausted beyond belief. The other doctor—Manju –is removing the placenta. More pain.
“Please. Pleaaase don’t do this…” I beg her.
“Arrey! You’ve tolerated so much pain, what is this compared to that?”
What is this compared to that? It’s a needle being stuck in and moved round and round in your skin—after you’ve been sawed through.
The placenta is out. The pain subsides. Relief.
I am aware that Sajjad is still holding my hand.
“I love you,” I whisper. He holds up my hand and kisses the back of it.
“I did it…” I tell him. I can’t get over that feeling of extraordinary achievement over this ‘normal’ delivery. “I was thinking I wouldn’t be able to do it… I was thinking they’d just move me to the operation theatre anytime now…. But I’ve done it…” I manage to smile at him.
He’s stroking my hair, I think. Not easy to focus at the moment.
Sonia and Manju are stitching me up, chatting like it’s an everyday chore. Which it is—for them, of course.
“God, how hard is this baby crying!” Sonia exclaims suddenly.
It is then that I grow aware of a bawling baby somewhere in the room. I had not even heard him cry…
Sonia is right. The bawling is strong and insistent, unlike the newborn cries that you sort of expect.
“Don’t all babies cry this way?”
I can’t believe I’m chatting with my doctor even as she’s stitching me up.
“They do, but not so much!” she laughs “This one’s just going on and on!”
“I suppose he takes after his mother,” I say this to Sajjad, not Sonia, (with a smile), “His mother’s such a cry-baby!”
“Not at all!” Manju cuts in unexpectedly, “You are a wonderful patient! You took the pains so well, without a complaint! You should just see the tantrums that we get to witness here… but you were so good. You asked for nothing at all, and no screaming either….a little towards the end, yes, but that’s completely natural,” she beams.
That one’s gonna rank high, high up in my list of most memorable compliments ever!
The baby is still bawling. It is then that I turn my face to the right and see my son–lying in a glass rectangle under a bright white light. I see him wailing for attention, I see his body, I see his face—just the side profile—mouth wide open, eyes shut tight.
“Kya hua, kyun ro rhe ho?” (What’s the matter, why are you crying?) I call out to him.
The crying stops immediately. IMMEDIATELY. The baby opens his eyes. I SEE him opening his eyes.
And I have witnesses to prove that.
There is a strange, soft, cotton-candy kind of pleasure in making a baby’s cries stop with the mere sound of your voice. It’s a pleasure that you never, ever forget.
I HAVE ACTUALLY GIVEN BIRTH TO A BABY. A BABY THAT STOPS CRYING AT THE SOUND OF MY VOICE.
I’m sitting in the waiting lounge of Sitaram Bhartia Institute of Science and Research for my routine check-up. Just like that, out of the blue, there’s something like a pulse inside my tummy. I’m jolted to attention… what’s happening? There—there it is, again! Realisation dawns. I just felt my baby’s very first movements.
And this is not the ecstatic, overjoyed kind of “Wow!” It’s the silent, awed and over-whelmed, eyes-wide-with-astonished-delight kind of WOW… whispered to yourself at the sheer magnificence and un-believability of it all….
Wow. I just felt my baby move.
I can feel myself slowly smiling and wondering.
This is the exact duplication of my reaction when I got the report of my first trimester ultrasound on Feb 18. That’s when I actually saw the shape of a slowly-forming human being… a rounded head, a tiny forehead and—cutest, amazing , most wonderful of all … the NOSE!
The black images show me a teeny, tiny nose; and here’s what the report says:
Nasal bone, measuring 3.1mm.
A 3.1 mm nose. Wow.
It’s the same wow again. The same smile….
I can see you, baby. I can see your nose.
And now, I can feel you move.
So, what was your experience of feeling your baby move for the first time? Feel free to share !
I’m taking a walk outside my house. (Thank goodness I can finally find the strength to go take a walk) It’s spring and there’s a lovely warmth in the air, the sun doesn’t sting yet and there are flowers blooming all around my society. I’ve just finished the light exercises advised by my doctor and I sit there on a raised part of the ground, watching the squirrels scamper on the buildings…. I remember my sister’s amazement at squirrels climbing cement walls… I guess that’s adaptation for you.
Nature makes me happy. Hope my little one turns out to be a nature lover. She probably will, because her father’s a nature-guy, too. I place a hand on my belly, “See that little furry thing scampering about with its tail in the air? That’s a squirrel. Oh, and this is a tree… And see those pink things growing there? Those are flowers…aren’t they pretty? Oh, darling you’re gonna love it here…”
March 5, 2012
I miss my office. I miss going to work everyday. I hate having to sit at home with nothing to do….Don’t wanna watch movies… don’t wanna read books… miss my office friends, miss our conversations…. Hate having to be like a housewife…. The worst part about being a housewife is that if you want a conversation, the only people available around you are those who will just talk about how irregular the maid is or what’s going on in tulsi/parvati/ichcha/tapasya’s disgusting fictional lives, how clean their cupboards are or how much zeera, adrak and lehsun to put in a particular dish………..aaaaaaahhhhh………..!!!! Give me a break!!!
Ladies, I know it’s wonderful to keep cleaning your cupboards every minute and cook the tastiest dish in town but really, do you ever come across a name in history or general knowledge that says “This person had the cleanest house” or “this person cooked the best food”???? No? I thought so.
(No offense to housewives. I’m one myself, now. The above rant is just a presentation of my thoughts at that point of time.)
March 10, 2012
This isn’t going to be so bad…. Children are nice….mine won’t be like that bawling kid across the block… my neighbour’s anniversary celebration was ruined by her tantrum-throwing kid…nope, mine won’t be that way…. My husband’s cousin says the first 2 years are terrible…nope, mine will be an angel….
Kids are nice, kids are nice, kids are nice……………… They are nice, right? Right????? Anybody there????
March 12, 2012
I’m watching a movie called Waitress. I can so empathise with this woman, the heroine. She has an unplanned baby. Of course, the reason she doesn’t want it is that she hates her husband and wants to run away from him…quite the opposite in my case, huh?
“Not everyone wants to be a mother, Dawn,” Jenna tells her friend, “That don’t make you a bad person.”
“I respect this baby’s right to thrive…I do not do anything to put it in danger…” BUT. She doesn’t love her child. She doesn’t want it. “Dear damn baby.” That’s how she addresses it when her husband finds her hidden running away money.
What the hell’s wrong with me??? Why can’t I love my baby? It’s been months! Get over it already, girl!
Jenna gives birth to a baby girl whom she falls in love with the moment she holds her in her arms…the baby gives her courage to set her life right and mum-and-kid live happily ever after.
Will I fall in love with my baby when I hold her/him? Will I? Will I………. ?
March 15, 2012
Sonia Naik is the best gynaecologist I’ve ever met. She’s my savior.
“I’m not able to eat anything, you know,” I complain to her as she carries out her routine checks. “Just tomato soup the whole time, sometimes bread and butter… I haven’t had a single roti in 5 days. Nor rice. No vegetables. Or dal. Maybe a little home-cooked aloo ki tikki sometimes.”
“That’s fine. You’re getting enough nutrition. Don’t have to worry.”
That’s not really what I wanna tell her. I’m on the verge of tears, actually.
“You know all this stuff about great glorified motherhood? I think it’s crap.”
I have her attention now.
“I don’t know…I don’t feel anything for my baby. I just feel angry all the time. You know, like I wanna get a punching bag and keep at it the whole day. I don’t feel happy about anything. WHY WHY WHY don’t I love my baby? What’s wrong with me… I feel like crying all the time…”
“That’s just because you’re not well,” she says gently. You’re having nausea, fatigue and all these problems, they’re making you weak and irritable. Once this passes, you’ll be fine and you’ll love your baby.” She smiles.
“I hope so,” I sigh.
“In the meantime, you can just fight with your husband and make him your punching bag!” she suggests with a twinkle.
I grin. Poor Sajjad!
MORAL OF THE POST: You see these pendulum swings? From showing squirrels to my baby to wanting a punching bag? They’re called hormones. That’s what makes us women change from green to red in the twinkling of an eye. If there’s any man reading this, hope you were paying attention.
(All rights belong to the nursery rhyme creator; my twisting of the second line is in no way intended to be a violation)
All my blogger friends, most of them pregnant women from other countries sharing their experiences, either know the sex of their unborn child, or are excited because they will get to know soon. Well, in India, this is banned—sex determination, I mean. Know why? Because the family of the unborn child will most likely want to finish it off in the womb if it’s a female. Welcome to our great land.
Alright, so not everyone is like that. Educated city people will not kill the baby, mostly. But they will heave a sigh of despair and people will give them consoling wishes instead of congratulations on the birth. Even the ones who consider themselves ‘progressive’ will spout stuff like “Oh, these days girls are as good as boys and they are also earning and supporting their parents…etc…etc…” which does not really sound like a congratulatory statement, does it?
All cultures value the love of parents above everything else. It’s supposed to be unconditional. So then why do I meet so many parents who want a son because he’ll provide for them in old age, or he’ll be a source of security and a daughter will be a liability because you have to start stacking up the dowry for their wedding right from the time they’re born? (I could get started on dowry and how hateful it is and why MEN need to stand up and speak against it, but this post would become a research thesis then and you probably won’t take the time to read it.)
So what I’m saying is, if parental love is indeed unconditional, why would you prefer to have a child who brings you more benefits (supposedly)? That sounds a lot like a transaction to me.
Anyway, to come back to the point, even before I became pregnant, I’ve been getting “blessings” from a whole bunch of elders to bear a son. Really, now. What about your own self, madam? Do you feel sad that your parents gave birth to you and not to a boy? I’m sure you spend your days filled with self-loathing, cursing the day you were born. Shame.
Okay, so I’m getting side-tracked. Back to my story: Farhan, my husband’s cousin, is living with us right now, and he’s such a godsend ‘cause I have someone to talk to while Sajjad is at work. So, I have these very strict instructions for Farhan:
“Listen, bro, I’m gonna buy a chart paper and a permanent marker, and if I give birth to a baby girl, this is what I want you to write on it and stick outside my hospital room: IF YOU ARE COMING TO CONSOLE US INSTEAD OF CONGRATULATING, PLEASE TURN BACK RIGHT NOW. WE ARE CELEBRATING.”
I’m a religious person, and though I didn’t wanna bring religion into this blog, I can’t help but mention this: When Moses asked the Lord what he does when he’s happiest, God replied: “I create daughters.” I’m so looking forward to having a daughter. But then again, I’d be equally happy if it’s a son. So long as she/he’s healthy, happy and sweet-tempered.
I’m not going to choose. God will choose for me. Because you cannot—and should not—be picky about gifts. Especially when they’re coming from heaven………
This is our second valentine’s day after marriage. Normally I’m the super-enthusiastic, let’s-do-this-let’s-go-there types, but when you’re throwing up at least 6 times a day and feeling dizzy for the most part, all you want to do is lie back on the bed and groan. (The first Pregnancy Workshop I attended at my hospital revealed that I was the ONLY one out of about 40 women who was experiencing such severe nausea and fatigue. Hallelujah.)
So nowadays I have to be dragged from bed to go anywhere. But here’s the silver lining: although I can’t eat a bite of home-cooked food, every time we go out to a restaurant, my appetite returns and I have fun. Thank Heaven for small mercies!
This time, we’re celebrating our Valentine’s Day by having golgappas together. Not at some roadside stall, though—that’s forbidden for me right now— we’re at the food court of The Great India Place. (For my blogger friends—Golgappas are tiny edible balls filled with potato pieces and lip-smakin’ spiced up water.) Mmmmmmm….. Golgappas…. Even the thought makes my mouth water.
“Hey… chunnu is eating golgappas for the first time!” Sajjad grins at me.
“yeah…” I grin back. “I think she likes ‘em.”
Chunnu is a gender-neutral term for ‘little one’ and that’s what we’ve always called our baby, even when I was not pregnant. And this is a new ritual we’ve created: everytime I eat something new, Sajjad exclaims delightedly over it, reminding me that chunnu is trying out all this new stuff! And everytime I watch an animation movie—and I watch lots and lots of those—he asks me whether the baby likes it!!
So, I’m quite sure my chunnu likes golgappas. How can she not! I’m crazy about them….
For my V-Day gift, Sajjad gets me a fluffy, feathery, heart-shaped pillow that says ‘I LOVE YOU’. How sweet is that?
I know what you’re thinking: this isn’t a diamond ring. But the thing is, I’m not the diamond-ring types. I’d much rather have something fun, cute and imaginative, than something expensive and mundane. Or, if my husband really wants to spend that much money on me, I’d much rather he took me on a vacation to some exotic locale where I’d see the magic of a living world.
Who needs another stone?
And this pillow remained my best friend particularly for the entire duration of my pregnancy –supporting my bump when it began to grow, helping me sleep on my side. (As it is, I couldn’t sleep on my back from the very beginning coz of acute back pains even before the bulge appeared.)
And, of course, Sajjad would remark –“Hey, chunnu has already started using a pillow!”