A is for Ache...

When I became a mom for the first time, it was like opening the doors wide open for all types of aches and pain to set shop inside my body. I suddenly felt like I was in someone else’s body. It felt old, tired and abused. The C-section was traumatic because I never expected something of that sort. And apart from the surgery pain, which stayed for a loooooong time, my muscles were all weak and devoid of energy. And this blasted hip ache started that continues to plague me.

I went through the new-mom-depression phase for a while too. I wondered why people want to go through all this to have kids. Why do they want to kill their strong bodies by putting themselves though the crazy pregnancy-delivery process? Why do they want to completely change the lives they were leading and devote every moment to a screaming tiny newborn? Why do you want to forsake sleep and leisurely baths and other fun stuff to this human being that came out of your body? And to top it all, it is a thankless job. You are supposed to do it. Because you are a mom.

At the same time, I was horrified at myself for having these thoughts. Why didn’t I naturally love being a mom? Why didn’t my love just overflow from my heart and banish all these negative thoughts? Weren’t moms meant to be made of unconditional love? What was wrong with me??!!

Thankfully, that phase lasted for only a couple of weeks and I was converted when I finally fell in love with my baby. My beautiful baby girl Zainab. She slowly taught me what it meant to become a mom. She taught me unconditional love. She gave me all the answers to why people have children. And slowly everything became worth it. The sleepless nights, the constant crying, the fussy meal times, the physical exertion, the absence of a social life... it was all worth it. Because I was a mom.

Now apart from the physical aches that were present, I realised another ache. One that hurt much much more. The aches in my heart that I got when my darling little girl got hurt. Or when she struggled with something. Each time I would wish I could wish away her pain. Or physically remove the pain from her body and place it in mine. Her vaccination days made me weep long before and long after the pricks. Every tooth that sprouted through her gums made me instinctively place my hand on my own jaw wondering how bad it must be for her. When she was around 10 months she had a bad case of constipation. It broke my heart to see her body go rigid and her face all contorted as she cried out for me to do something to help her. It’s heart-wrenching to see your child suffer. And it’s amazing that parents suddenly become so vulnerable to aches when it comes to their child.

Every day is a test when you are a parent. Today I have another reason for my heart to get all knotted up with pain and fear. Another reason to have the tears spilling over my cheeks at the most inconvenient of times. I won’t get into the details in this post; I’ll save it for another time. But when Zainab is older, I want her to know that her mom is going to be there for her every step of the way. It’s all just part of the surprises life keeps throwing up. Like hurdles in a race. This too shall pass, sweetheart.

Terrible Tuesday

This morning has been quite a strain on my nerves. I woke up to find that the constant hip ache that has plagued me since the start of this pregnancy has decided to do some more damage. The pain is currently radiating to various connecting bones and stretching right down to my toes. Now my penguin walk (given the size of my ever growing belly) is even more pronounced and I feel like a penguin with crutches. At least that’s the pace I’m walking at.

The pregnancy has been weird for Z. As a toddler she finds it difficult to understand why her mamma is suddenly so tired all the time, why she can’t play wrestle and tickle games anymore, why she can’t sit on mamma’s tummy , why mamma won’t pick her up and carry her around (my heart breaks when she asks, so I do pick her up at times, only to be scolded by those around), among other things.

My lethargy has resulted in Z constantly running late for play school for about a week. The teachers at school usually take a few minutes of tardiness in their stride but today when we arrived a good 20 minutes late, the teacher-in-charge thought it best to bring it to my attention that being late is causing Z to miss out on the funnest part of school – nursery rhymes. I already knew this. But as I heard her gently and most politely give me a lesson on ‘Time and tide wait for no pre-schooler’, the blasted pain in my hips threatened to explode and my legs were ready to buckle. Not to be left behind, the little one growing in my womb decided to make a statement with a powerful kick. I struggled to be composed as I apologised for being late so often and assured her I would try my best to bring Z to school on time. I hope she didn’t notice the tears pricking my eyes, as she enquired about my health and commented on how weak I looked. Unable to handle the sudden concern about how I felt, I quickly ended the conversation and turned to walk back home, tears spilling over. The rain clouds gathered and decided to keep me company with their own tears and I wondered why oh why I was being so silly and full of self pity. The answer lies in this post – I hate messing up what I do and Z becoming a tardy child because of my problems is unforgivable.

Also it was just one of those days. The combination of physical discomfort and sleep deprivation was getting to me. Not to mention, the frustration of dealing with a tantrum-throwing toddler and the jitters of knowing that I’ll soon have to handle and be responsible for two children (not counting the hubby). Also, today is the day my feet have started to look a little swollen. I can only pray that I don’t end up with elephant feet like the last time I was pregnant. Lastly, I’ve been waiting all these months for the shiny and luscious head of hair that pregnant women can flaunt, but it just didn’t happen this time. *sigh* Okay, I’m done with wallowing in self pity.

Introducing Z

I have been putting off writing about my daughter Z for a long time. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe I preferred being seen as a ‘writer’ blogger as opposed to a ‘mommy’ blogger. Yes, shallow, I know. But I think that could be a reason. Another (more justifiable) reason would be that I’m a little weary of writing about my family. I wonder if it’s fair to lay specific characteristic details about them bare for all to read just because it’s my blog.

Damn, I now wish I had an anonymous blog. Just think about it. I would never fall short of post topics. I could happily wax eloquence on the eccentricities of practically everyone I know, myself included, of course. And people would think “Wow, this is interesting stuff.” But instead (shallow person that I am) I bully my friends into reading my blog, as well as publicise new posts through my FB account. In the bargain, I chose not to be this wonderfully mysterious blogger who people stumble upon suddenly and get hooked to. Frankly, I don’t think I’m good enough for the latter to actually happen much. I know because most of my readers are my friends. Or friends of friends. Or my mom. I think I’m depressing myself.

So, as I was saying, I was worried writing about Z’s shenanigans would be like asking her to just hate me once she is old enough to read her mommy’s far-from-anonymous blog. Crappy old age home guaranteed, I thought. But what I was doing was just putting off the inevitable. I can’t continue making myself believe I currently have a life outside my home. And how can one not write about something or someone who consumes one’s thoughts, hopes, dreams, and worries so greatly?

Taking care of Z, listening to her non-stop banter, chasing her around the house with food, stopping her from finding strategically stashed away chocolates, singing songs with her, listening in awe at her rendition of ‘Give me some sunshine’ from 3 Idiots, watching her dance to every kid’s reality dance show on TV, obsessing about how she’ll fit into play school, among other things, is what my whole day is all about. As I type this, she is stripping the pants off her rag doll and applying generous amounts of Johnson’s Baby Powder to the doll’s butt. How can one ignore that, tell me?

So, it really is the easiest thing for me to write about Z. Yep, I think she’s ready for the spotlight now. I think I can manage a decent job of it too, and thus, spare myself the crappy old age home.

Random Notes: Nausea, the Reading Habit and a Big Heart

I haven’t gone in for the check up with the doctor yet, but thankfully things are looking hunky dory. That is, if you consider constant nausea, wild cravings (yes, this early on!) and miserable mood swings to be normal everyday behaviour. Just another mad pregnant woman with hormone levels rising...

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A friend of mine in Mumbai always carries a book with him to work, so he can read during the one-hour journey in the early morning local train. Why not on the one-hour journey back? I ask. Because I’m too bushed to read and prefer to doze, he says. Anyhoo, he said he noticed something different among Mumbaikars lately. Every day he comes across people who want to know what he’s reading. Every day there are at least three inquisitive people in the train.

If you’ve lived in Mumbai, you know how Mumbaikars don’t give a damn about the throngs of people they meet every day in their travels to and from their work places. So it’s quite strange to have random people strike a conversation with you every single day. And all because you carry a book. He says this never used to happen about 8 years ago. I find this wonderful. It means more and more people in Mumbai are getting interested in books.

My friend says some enquirers even ask him what the book is about and if it’s any good. He says Chetan Bhagat’s book (he read Two States recently) has generated the most interest, hands down. That’s what I love about Bhagat. Purists can scoff all they want at his writing skills (lack of?) but ultimately, he is one of the few writers doing a great service to the common man, namely pushing the reading habit in India.

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I was reading this post on adoption which got me thinking about something I’m sure a lot of us have thought about sometime or the other. When I was younger I was almost certain that I would adopt a child one day. But the problem is we grow up and as we do, we rapidly shed ourselves of courage and idealism, preferring to link ourselves to things more within our comfort zone. Oh for the strength, love and determination to happily go through all the sticky issues that come with raising an adopted child! Especially when one already has biological children. I know no one is perfect and we are only human, so it is hard to imagine parents being completely unbiased all through.

Then again, I know there are exceptions. The following example is not really about adoption but it comes close, I think. Growing up in the Gulf, my family was very close to this family with five kids. We never realised till years later that the older two kids were products of their father’s previous marriage. They were only toddlers when their real mom passed away and their father remarried. No one in our circle of friends knew this bit of history, and the amazing woman who became their new mother never gave anyone a reason to doubt that all five kids were her own flesh and blood. We came to know the truth much later when the eldest child was in med school. I do remember when I was probably only ten years old, my mother remarked to this fine lady how much her eldest daughter resembled her and she only smiled in response.

Family Expansion in Progress

The assistant at the doctor’s office took down my history. “29 years old, third pregnancy,” she said aloud while scribbling on a notepad containing other important details.

I suddenly felt quite old and wise. I repeated the words in my head. Third pregnancy. That would make me a pro by now, right? Something I can probably just breeze through. Never mind that my first pregnancy lasted only two weeks or so (after I found out I was pregnant, that is) and ended in a heart-wrenching miscarriage.

It was a beautiful two week period. The excitement of finding out that a life was growing within me was overwhelming. Countless plans and expectations soon came crashing down and I spent my first wedding anniversary flat on my back, hoping against hope that somehow, the life within would put up a fight and sustain. It was not meant to be. Thinking back, I now realise that it was for the best. I grew, professionally and personally, in leaps and bounds the following year.

The second time round, praise the Lord, it was meant to be, and I delivered a beautiful bundle of joy, complete with powerful ear-splitting wails. I had a harrowing C-section experience, followed by night after night after night of trying to constantly coax, sing and plead the wailing baby to please, please go to sleep. She was a very light sleeper during the day too, so you can imagine how much rest I got. This went on for over a year. She is almost two now but still wakes up twice at night. Despite being a complete brat from day one, our daughter enveloped our lives with love and a warm, cosy, baby pink feeling of fulfilment. I don’t think I have experienced anything as beautiful as the feeling I get when my baby girl puts her chubby little arms around me and says “Love you, Mamma.”

This time feels nothing like the previous two. Our future plans didn’t have a second child in it. But there I was, in the doctor’s office talking about nausea, tiredness and the other baggage that comes with pregnancy. And here I am, announcing my pregnancy to the world through my blog. :)

It’s elation I feel again, but from a different perspective this time. My daughter will have a sibling. I can be a mom to one more little person. It’s uncanny that one can have enough love to go around no matter how big a family one has. It’s still a strange feeling though, the love that I’m feeling, having not being in the scheme of things for us. I’m still trying to come to terms with it. My thoughts and feelings are a little too disoriented right now, but that could be due to the hormonal rollercoaster my body is experiencing.

A minor complication put my doctor on high alert. She tells me it’s too early to know if the foetus is strong enough. We’ll know after two weeks. If we can detect the heart beat at that point, things should be fine. Until then, I’m told I need to put my feet up and get some rest. I’m nervous. I hope the little angelic life within will pull through. And when we are back at the doctor’s office in two weeks I hope to see that miraculous heartbeat flutter on the ultrasound.