Anti-nesting feelings

There's state of mind and then there's a state your mind's in. Or moments when I am so cranky it irritates me. Or I am so irritated I really want to cry.

My belly is HUGE. Correction: The thing under my boobs with red streaks and spider veins running all over -- that can sometimes change shape on its own -- is HUGE. I also projectile puked yesterday because the body felt like it.

I am terrified of the night. It usually means I will have tremendous tummy ache after dinner and will not feel good till I puke. Then I will feel worse for making myself puke. I am terrified of going to bed because I know I won't get any sleep. And because I will be hungry all night because I puked out my dinner. Then next morning it will be a repeat of the cranky-weepy-weepy-therefore-cranky phase. *whimper*

I seem to feel either perpetually terrified, tired, cranky or cantankerous. I am hating it because it's not me. I don't even remember who me is or was. Who me? I want to fight with Partner for doing *this* to me. Then realise I had always been the one going, "I soooo want a baby." (snort) Then I get mad at my body for feeling like this. Followed by bouts of extreme guilt and verbal apologies to my tummy saying, "I am so sorry, it's not your fault and Mamma didn't think those thoughts. Mamma is just tired, hungry and absolutely at her wits end." *waaaanh*

I REALLY want to fight with my doctor, who is so, so nice. Because I want her to say things like, "I think we need to get the baby out of you early." Even though the pregnancy is progressing perfectly (touch wood). Because I have HAD it with being pregnant. Really. And there are STILL four weeks to go. 4x7 = 28 days. If Bub is on time. I don't even want to think of what I'll do if Bub's late.

I want to be able to sleep ON MY BACK with my legs wide apart. Without cramping or my pubic bone hurting. I didn't even know I had a pubic bone (cartilage to be right), or definitely didn't think of it every waking, walking moment. I don't want to get up at night to pee. And pee. And pee. And then take at least 8 minutes to get on bed, keep legs together, swing legs up, hold belly while turning on right side, balance on one arm while gently lowering myself...and then get breathless with the effort.

:( I feel so guilty for writing all that. And more for feeling it. Bub is definitely not getting to see my blog for a long, long, long time. I REALLY want my baby. Now. It's got a lot to do with body going bonkers and also because three of my friends here have had their babies. Their ages (bubs) are 11 months, almost-three months and barely-over-a month (the twins).

I know that other than the belly-discomfort, I definitely won't get any sleep after the baby. But I've just had it and now want to get on with it. Ok, tata bye. Mope for the day over. Now I will go and look at the house and things that need to be done. Then make a list, stick it on the fridge and do nothing about it. At all. F**k nesting. It's just another way of making you clean up.
Don't want to.

Naming-shaming

Spent some really good hours with a friend and her 9 month old son today. The boy is absolutely adorable -- will be really handsome -- and it was so, so nice to see mother and son doing their thing. I loved the way he would just throw himself at her, completely trusting that she wouldn't let him fall. Of how she lifted him over her head and he simply stretched his arms out and shrieked with delight. Or how each time she left the room, he would crane his neck to see her or to hear her footsteps. Mostly I really cherished watching the exchange of touches between them.

When I was little -- as in not five feet 'little' but a kid! -- and I'd hurt myself or fall down or bump into things (which was usual and has not changed), Papa would rub wherever it was that I'd hurt myself and say, "There, it would now be all right." It didn't 'do' anything to the injury as such, but I would feel much better instantly. Or how when my period cramps would get really bad, Ma would fuss around me, stroke my hair and get me a hot water bottle. The bottle helped heaps, but it was the gentle touching that helped much more.

I clearly remember when I was 13 and Thamma (paternal grandma) was staying with us... I had developed these black corn-like things on my ankles from wearing tight shoes. Now my (late) Thamma was obese and didn't move around much. However, every nigh, unfailingly, she would painstakingly rub cream on my ankles and massage it in. "Snow cream will soften the skin and make the marks disappear," she would say. The marks did go away. She was so, so good at providing physical comfort to other people. Pressing your forehead if you had a headache, pinching the eyebrows (er, can't explain it in English but it's the most divine thing EVER!) if fatigued, gently massaging cream to relax the skin, the most bloody awesome head oil massages... It's amazing the things I have picked up from Thamma. Things I hadn't realised I had learned.

Like 'dotting' my face with cream before rubbing it in because "it spreads better and you don't miss out any area." Or knowing that when another is tired, nothing works a miracle quicker than running your fingers through their hair. So far I have not known anyone who does not like it. She 'finger combed' my hair every night when she stayed with us.

I am really fatigued today. I was fine in the morning but once my friend left, I have progressively become more and more tired. Now I feel it's in my bones and I miss Thamma so much. I miss my Ma a lot too. I had always assumed that I would have my mother around whenever it was that I had my first child. Now I don't know when I'll see her; though it's definitely sometime Bub's born.

I wonder how it would have been had either Ma or Thamma been around. I know it's normal to not be able to sleep in the third trimester but perhaps Thamma would have gently patted my back or stroked my hair each night I lay awake. And perhaps every time I would have said my back hurts, Ma would have rushed to get me a hot water bottle. Then arranged cushions around me, pulled a stool or something for me to rest my feet on, offer a back rub, touch my cheek and say, "Aaram kore di?" Papa on the other hand would have gone and brought some tandoori chicken, knowing it's comfort food for me.

Home-cooked Indian food, made by someone else -- that's what I have missed most during my pregnancy. I can make most dishes myself -- and I have -- but I have sorely missed the sense of being pampered with food. Restaurant food is just not the same. I have had -- and have -- many, many cuddles and hugs (Partner is really good with those), but I think I have really missed my Ma's concern. And I cannot tell her how much I want her near or how sorely I miss her because then she would really miss me and get upset.

Now as the date draws nearer (still couple of months though), I am getting sort-of edgy. Wondering about what's to come and wondering what I've missed out on because I am so far away. If I was in India, would I have had a naming ceremony for my child? And a traditional Indian baby shower? With bangles and henna? Would my baby have had many pishis and kakus and maamas? And many uncles and aunties instead of now calling everyone by their first names? On names: I know Bengali nicknames are joked about and well, I have at least seven that I can recall instantly... but would my child have had as many names...instead of Mum struggling with getting any names on the shortlist?

Indian or Australian? Complicated Indian? But how the hell will the Aussies pronounce it when even 'Jhoomur' has become "Zhumoore"? (Though to be honest even most Indians have had trouble pronouncing my name, rolls eyes) Simple Indian name? But then would Ratan become Rat and Pooja turn to Poo?! Based on grandparents? But Partner didn't know mine and vice-versa and 'Abha' would become Ava... it's not the same. A name that has a meaning? But desi or Aussie meaning!?

Stranger, danger?

One of my earliest random memories is from when I was 9-years-old. I had just won a prize for a dance performance (on Jahan chaar yaar mil jaaye from Sharaabi!) at an army function and was being pretty much adored by everyone around. ‘Everyone’ then included lots of army ‘uncles’ and ‘aunties’ and particulary a large number of ‘young’ uncles. Young uncles in the army are unmarried lieutenants and captains who are (or were back then at least) usually treated as the kids at a cantonment.

What I clearly remember is not the dancing or the prize but of some young uncle picking me up in his arms and throwing me in the air while the others cheered and applauded my (excellent) dance moves… and later, of Papa growling at Ma for ‘letting’ that officer pick me up, Ma whining her helplessness and Papa finishing off with, “You don’t let any bastard touch my daughter”. I remember feeling bad for Ma and being confused at Papa’s reaction (didn’t he like my dance?) and yet understanding then (and for the rest of my life) that Papa did not want me picked up or cuddled – even as a 9 year old – by other men, even nice young uncles.

If my vocabulary had included ‘over-reacting’ then, I probably would have used it. (I did use it often for Papa in my teen years). I understood the why of Papa’s fury much later; and now that I am expecting my first child, suddenly, mysteriously and guiltily, ‘over-reacting’ seems such a useless, over-used word. How can you overreact in protecting your child…or can you?

One of the things Partner really had to train me for (or against) when we first came to Melbourne was to NOT go “how c.u.t.e.” over strangers’ babies. I’ve always liked babies and have (or had) not thought twice about walking up to parents with an adorable tot and striking a conversation that usually started with, “Your baby is so cute etc.” Or if at times a child was found wandering by himself/herself – somehow toddlers seem to manage it extremely well despite vigilant parents – holding its hand and asking where its mother was and simply waiting for the parents to turn up.

In Melbourne, it’s not as easy. First couple of months here a similar lonely-child incident had happened. I had promptly walked up to the child and was asking it about its parents when they had come running...The mother was relieved and said thanks but the father – He looked like my father as he stared at me suspiciously. I was so hurt, Partner was understanding but upset (with me). “Baby, you cannot just talk to kids here, you could be arrested.”

I’ve received varied reactions from parents when I’ve smiled at a cute tot or made faces at babies (it’s awesome when they react and smile or laugh). Some parents have smiled back and others have glared at me, with mistrust, some with fear. I don’t think it had anything to do with me being Indian etc. These were protective parents. It hurt me initially and I wailed at Partner, “But I was just being friendly!” “You know I am not a ‘kiddie fiddler’!” And Partner had again patiently explained and I had understood but lamented how innocent people were being viewed through the same lens as the paedophiles.

And yet, can we – can I? – ever know who is innocent and who can harm my child?

It’s considered good mothering here if you let your baby be cuddled by others. ‘Others’ does not mean strangers but say family, friends etc. It is said that it helps children socialise better and lets them get used to other people more. If a mother smothers her child in her bosom (not literally but is over-protective), the child is thought to grow up as an introvert or someone who is not as socially adept. It’s here that I get confused. What if I trust the wrong person?

Papa’s (over) protectiveness did not end with strangers; it extended to everyone, regardless of friend or family status. He did not trust anyone. It protected but it also choked. I had no night outs at friends’ homes because they had older brothers and fathers; didn’t go for school trips or picnics because I’d be alone with boys, didn’t learn swimming because there were too many men in the swimming pool (and I had developed breasts at 10, bloody things), was not allowed to compete in the doubles badminton tournament (after winning three prizes) because that would have meant partnering with an unmarried officer (I was 14)…the list goes on.

But did it eventually protect? Or did it exclude me from people? Is that the reason that I can be ‘popular’ with people but don’t have many friends…and don’t know how to ‘make’ friends? Was it his protectiveness that harnessed extreme reckless, rebelliousness in me and made me seek out things and experiences that were the antithesis of whatever he believed in? Or was it my destiny to learn things the hard way (f**k destiny really)?

And most importantly, how am I going to be with my child? Am I content to teach it ‘stranger danger’? How do I explain the difference between good and bad strangers? Yes I know about the good touch and bad touch…but how do I explain how to see/fathom malicious intent before the touch? How do I prevent the touch? Will I be a good judge to know who’s good/bad for my child? Can I trust anyone… or have I become like my father?

How do you – those with children – know what to do? Are you not scared?

Read this on similar thoughts, from a mother of three

Some scary facts:
USA: Most sexual abuse offenders are acquainted with their victims; approximately 30% are relatives of the child, most often brothers, fathers, uncles or cousins; around 60% are other acquaintances such as friends of the family, babysitters, or neighbors; strangers are the offenders in approximately 10% of child sexual abuse cases.
[Julia Whealin, Ph.D. (2007-05-22). "Child Sexual Abuse". National Center for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, US Department of Veterans Affairs.]

India: 53.22% of children in India reported having faced sexual abuse. Among them 52.94% were boys and 47.06% girls (sample of 12,447 children, 2,324 young adults and 2,449 stakeholders across 13 states). The study looked at different forms of child abuse: Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse and Emotional Abuse and Girl Child Neglect in five evidence groups, namely, children in a family environment, children in school, children at work, children on the street and children in institutions.
["Study on Child Abuse: India 2007" (PDF). Published by the Government of India, (Ministry of Women and Child Development).]

Kaise ho?

There's really no point in me apologising for vanishing acts since I know I could (and would) be doing it again. Lots has been happening.

For one, Bub is kicking around, not very hard and you still cannot feel it from the top (as in if you place your hand on tummy etc) but I sure can feel the flutters. Doesn't seem to like spicy food since it kicks more after curries. Hrmph. I am determined that Bub shall like curries -- and all Indian food -- as much as its mum does; though I shall compromise and feed it vegemite as well. Personally I can't stand the damn thing.

Two, we've got to move from this house in May -- right when I will be mega-huge -- and so house-hunting as well. And surfing the internet for homes is about as much of the 'nesting instinct' I am indulging in. The moment I walk into baby stores the sheer sight of the things on display and for sale scares (the shit out of) me. What not to buy?!

Three, trying very hard not to say f**k and failing brilliantly. Very worried -- since now Bub is at the stage it can apparently hear me -- that the first word it will say will be either idiot, dingbat or f**k. 'Dingbat' is a new and recently coined term (by me), and I don't know why I came up with it but it's a good substitute for asshole (and other similar insults).

Four, very worried about swearing during labour. And worried about birth plan and all that since the only thing I have decided so far -- and which has met with either laughter (friends) or horror (Partner) -- is that I definitely want to play Smack My Bitch Up (Prodigy) during labour. That song really gets me going. :D Don't know if the hospital will allow it though.

Five, knitting these days. Tried it couple of months back and ended up buying a whole lot of wool and all possible needle sizes and then knitting the arm holes near the hem line instead of next to the shoulders. Now at it again but this time determinedly focussed on Bub-clothes. BUT if things go wrong will e-bay the wool and buy the damn things (always have exit options ready).

That's all from me. I am 57.30 kgs and think there's a bit of fat on my nose as well, though most of it is primarily distributed between the boobs (now udders), waist and upper thighs. Apparently the boobs are going to get EVEN bigger and I am considering buying crutches to support them. If I find any, shall report. ;)

Paranoia

I didn't know her in college. But I saw a picture where she had the kind of waist-line I could kill for. And had I known her then, perhaps would have hated her for it.

I got to know her -- not really -- through her blog. Even went to her house for dinner once with Partner. And I remember her Brat. He had that smile that makes you want to smile. No matter how pissed off you are.

Sometimes her posts piss me off. I will not go into reasons now. Sometimes they echo what I think. Sometimes they make me wonder about the starkness with which she writes.

I don't think she is perfect, but if there's someone flawed doing a damn good job of things -- fumbling, learning, screaming, loving -- perhaps it's her. Especially since we are the same age and she has two children.

My biggest problem as a blogger is that I am not reciprocal. In other words I really don't keep up with reading others. I do it sporadically. Read 20 blogs in one day and then not do it for months.

I loved this post. Not because of the happy ending but because it scared me to bits.

I am nearly 15 weeks pregnant. I was smoking till the day before I discovered I was pregnant. Smoking meant 20 cigarettes. I had drags the other day (judge me at your own peril, absolutely not up for moral declarations of any f*cking sort).

And I get scared. Will my placenta tear off? What if I have a spontaneous abortion before 20 weeks? What if the baby is still born? What if it has webbed hands and feet? What if he has ADD? Or is hyper-active?

Most of my doubts are related to smoking. I research everyday, incessantly on the effects of smoking on unborn babies. And everyday I find something new. What if, what if, what if... What is most scary is that every bloody research is inconclusive.

And then her this post. What if everything is right and then something goes wrong with my child? Four years, 10 years later...? HOW will I cope? What will I do? And most selfishly of all... will it be my fault? Will I be blamed?

"... it takes more than half a teaspoon of sperm to make a father." --- The Mad Momma

It's not me, it's the baby

IF I see one more Bollywood movie with divinely pregnant women practicing lullabies the moment their bloody ovum is fertilised...
Or any more filmi sequences where hero-heroine burst into "the moon of our eye and the apple of your womb" type romantic number when they discover they/she are/is pregnant.
Or any references to how life is going to change (completely, drastically, horrendously) because tum maa banne waali ho*. (All Hindi translations given at the end of this post, and if some are missing, I can't be f*cked.)
I swear I WILL kill.

I mean yes, it's great that I am preggers. Yes, it was quite shocking to discover something barely 6 cms long kicking around that energetically INSIDE me. And once I got over the first shock, it was quite... shocking, again, but this time more like, ''It is alive AND kicking.'' (Also finally understood the meaning of that phrase, thank-you very much) Then only to be scared persistently, horrendously for the next four weeks wondering, ''Is it still kicking?'' "Oh shit I was lying on my tummy...is it squished?'' ''If I sneeze or cough or laugh too hard...does it get dizzy?'' ''If I get horny, does it know?!" (Freaked me out completely that one)

What I am trying to say is that I am feeling... That yes I am willing to do all that's necessary....or simply that I know I am having a baby. Yes thank-you I am excited. But no thank-you I cannot pretend that everything is peaches and apples and other rosy things. I cannot be all angelic.
I am having a bloody nicotine withdrawal all right?! And my boobs feel like, like extra appendages from Total Recall that have a mind of their own. They certainly have a centre of gravity of their own given the directions they go off to when I lie down. (Like how would you feel if you had to tuck your boob from UNDER your arm pit and...nevermind.)

And my back hurts. And people tell me it's only the beginning. Ooh, ha, ha, very funny. And there are these twingy feelings at the side of my, well, uterus. (How many times have you spoken about your uterus in a normal conversation eh?) Though from where the uterus originally was now it has apparently risen. And I thought it was just man-balls (as against woman-balls?!) that did the rising-descending thing. And the time I told Partner, "I think I am hurting because my uterus is rising," he stopped, mid-step, one foot in the air, almost jerk-braked and whilst staring somewhere in the region of my belly said horrified, "What?! Like rising right now?"

I know gazillions of women have done it before me -- infact our friend group has a new mom and two others who'd be popping out their bubs before me -- and have all gone bravely etc, etc. But if I am a bit chicken, can I please not be laughed at? Can I please get some bloody sympathy?

And not have anyone (like Partner, though I know he is trying to be understanding etc) patting me on the arm and saying, "Ah, you'll be fine." Really and he's scared of tweezers.

And someone wished me a baby with a big head. :( Like severe constipation, multiplied by 20 times and the wrong orifice. I am petrified.
(*Translation: You are going to be a mother, usually said with nudge, nudge, wink, wink)
PS: Despite one father and one mother possibly reading this blog, I shall blog about Things That Piss Me Off About Being Pregnant, all filed under the category: "up the duff". For what that means and the origin of the phrase, go here.
Pic courtesy: Steve Harpster of Studio Harpster

A little, big thing

Why am I writing this, writing here? That’s the question I’ve asked the umpteen times I’ve tried blogging and haven’t. Each time I haven’t been certain of the answer and so haven’t bothered to write. I’ve sat and played game after game of online monopoly (pogo.com), tried the same campaign on Age of Empires at various difficulty levels, surfed through various websites…Done everything but blog.

Either I’ve not known why I want to write – not what, never what – or someone else has said it better than I would, could. There’s no dearth of opinions, I’ve always had them by the truckloads, there’s just a sense of… Can’t-be-bothered.

There’s so much that’s happened. It made the last year go by so fast, it seems I went straight from 2008 to 2010. Perhaps my not wanting to write was a way of dealing with so many new things, adjustments, changes. Perhaps.

So many remember-it-lifelong events, moments. So many that at times you (and I) forgot them in an instant unless it had a Facebook album dedicated to it.

The desperation of unemployment. While living an all-paid-for life. The consequent, complete loss of identity, or feeling thereof. It’s not money if it’s not my money, joint account be damned.

The jealousy (and anger) I felt…towards my own Partner because he was doing so well while I languished in self pity. You are someone and I am that someone’s girlfriend. The intense guilt because some times I really wished it was the other way round. And because I was never denied anything.

The acute realisation that I have different coloured skin. And that it’s supposed to be inferior. Not because anyone has been racist towards me. But because the media said they could be. Or that I am supposed to have a “new found sense of superiority”. A polite way of saying “Indians are getting cocky”. Apparently I belong to the “rising Indian middle class” with more “spending power”. I swear I didn’t notice.

A year – well couple of months at least – of travelling, where “travelling” did not mean an 18-hour train journey to see the parents or a road trip to Manali. International travel dudes, spending power and all that. (But it’s not your money said that thought at the back of my head, sometimes at the front of my head too).

The realisation people more qualified than me are walking around jobless. Like the Masters in Accounts waitress at the local restaurant… and feeling guilty that I got a job at one of the community newspapers. It’s a casual position – I have a job if someone resigns or goes on leave – it could go any day. Community reporting, it’s something I did when I started out as a journalist. BUT, it beats making sandwiches and cleaning tables any day. So I lied when she recently asked if I had a job.

It was a year of scoring really well in my Masters final semester. Being “awarded” (it was a book) by this high flying, resident-author-at-uni…and wondering if I deserved it or if it was international student appeasement. Of getting really good feedback from two well-respected industry sources on my novel draft… and wondering if it was because I was selling a West-accepted image of India.

Umm, what is the India-accepted image of India?

Then of course was the grand finale: Finding out that I am pregnant. And realising that I really didn’t ¬– and don’t – have an answer to, “Are you ready for it?” I don’t know, but I know I am having a baby. I know am excited. I know I am bloody petrified.

And I know that no matter how much I am paid, I don't think I can pose nude when pregnant. Nope.

PS: Will this blog now become a "mommy" blog. I don't know. Is it allowed?

Quote

"The human race would have died out if it was left to men to have babies."
--- Colleague at work when discussing a picture of a woman in labour that appeared in the Sunday Age newspaper. She believes, and we all agreed, that men cannot tolerate pain as well as women do. They (men) just don't have any pain threshold level.
Pic courtesy: theage.com