Pregnancy Diaries 7: Imagine. Imagine. Imagine.

While I was already safely back home, Hard-working Husband (kinda Hard-working..o.k. I tried to be nice to Worse Half, but it doesn't come easy after all these years :-)) came back just in time during the final month of the pregnancy. Just in time, in case the baby decided to arrive early. He had missed all the earlier sonographies and we went together for the final one.

There are all these cool new machines, 3-D, 4-D and what not where you can see the almost finished product (and probably add 2 weeks life to the current image and tell you exactly how the baby would look at birth!)

Naturally, my Anglophile, by-the-book-gynaecologist wasn’t interested in all this posh-tosh. Neither was my mother for that matter, who said, “You will be seeing the baby in two weeks. And then you will have to keep seeing it,” she concluded darkly “for the rest of your life. Whether you want to, or not.”

My gynaecologist believed in the Power of One and only One sonographer who could do the job perfectly. Only with her was he in perfect synch and only in her readings and images did he have faith.

Except that she worked in this not-so-great hospital with a not-so-great machine. Although I am sure both were perfectly fine from the medical point of view, the problem was you could see little, apart from large blobs and patches. It was largely left to imagination, which the doctor herself admitted.

“Look , here, just here is the spine,” she said.

Really, I thought, peering at an oval shaped blob. Gosh, how can the spine be oval?

Worse Half in the meantime was trying to earnestly figure out whether the blob had that-organ-that-defined-manhood-or-not and told me authoritatively later that the blob definitely had it. I had almost resigned myself to having a son called Sachin...

Hah!

“You have to imagine it a bit,” she said finally, looking at our blank faces.

But even among the blobs, the patches and the supposed-organ-that-defined-manhood, there were two things that even this old-fashioned and out-dated machine could not hide.

An extremely chubby cheek and a head full of little strands of hair.

Awwww. This was cute.

No. It was more that cute. It was very very cute.

I admit it. I almost shed a tear.

No, stupid. Not because I got sentimental or anything like that. Just plain relief that the blob, (with or without that-organ-that-defined-manhood) had not inherited his/her mother’s scanty hair gene. At least the fund I had started for my hair transplant was mine alone...

Pregnancy Diaries 6: Home sweet home

I was back in India for the final leg of the pregnancy. A few people I know were horrified at my apparent stupidity of having the child in India. “What or rather Kem? Why are you coming back to India? Waste of opportunity. Your child can be American Citizen, no?” In fact, people actually thought I had planned the pregnancy, once I knew Amit would be in the U.S. to ensure that the baby would get American citizenship!

Well.  If baby is desperate for American citizenship in the future, he/she can work out his own path. There are multiple routes that the child could consider and not all of them included studying, working sincerely for an employer who was sponsoring the Hara-Bhara Card. He/she could smuggle in on a boat, open a restaurant and dish out some inedible over-oily Balti to some unsuspecting locals, for all I cared. I wasn’t going to stay back in the US where I would probably have to probably drive myself to the hospital when in labour (after having cooked food for 7 days and plonked it in the freezer, so that when once back from the hospital, you don’t have to cook for the first seven days!), and come back to a home with no support and all struggle all because of the child’s citizenship. No thank you!

I was going to come back and be in the place called home…

…where my mother would make me breakfast I liked. Freshly made luchi (Bengalis belive that luchi is infinitely superior to puris) and torkari (Bengali vegetables, generally potatos) , or steaming hot upma.

…where I could hop into a cab and catch an exhibition and buy some completely unrequired things to “help” the artisans and ensure that dying traditional art forms were suitably revived.

…where I could come back after a morning of having suitably supported a significant number of artisans to sink into a deep slumber without interferences, worries or anxieties.

 …where I could wake up in time for chai-biscuit, which would include 12 tarts since I had expressed the desire to have 1 and my father doesn’t understand the power of one! A genetic trait I admit, which I have happily inherited.

…where a cocoon of love and concern enveloped me and protected the unborn.

You bet. Home is where it’s at.

The Pregnancy Diaries 5: In the U S of A

My stay in Charlotte was largely uneventful. I generally relaxed and chilled and for the first time in my life "waited" for my husband to come home from work and dish out lavishly cooked meals.

My baby did not appear to have developed a palate for American food. I stopped accompanying Worse Half for the "included" breakfast at the hotel we were staying at.

The West Coast Trip

We made a short trip to the West Coast where I met my lovely uncles, aunts and cousins and caught up with Rima, one of my closest friends from school.

Rima was driving us to Universal Studios. Unfortunately just before that, Choto Kaku (my youngest uncle) and Ann (his wife) took us for the All American Breakfast. The quantities were beyond humungous. Worse Half ordered the standard eggs and realised later that each portion was six eggs! wooo. Live life King size!

I tucked into the pancake happily enough...but didn't feel too good soon after on the way to Universal studios.

"Rima, I croaked weakly, (the pancake egg mix just about restrained by a hair's breadth), we have to stop, I can't wait for the washroom." Rima, of course petrified that I was going to erupt into a smelly puke fountain all over her extremely well maintained car, made some smart manoeuvres and pulled up in the brake down lane of a fast moving freeway. I practically collapsed out of the car.

The Great All American Breakfast found its resting place in a large all American ditch.

I looked up to see Worse Half grinning at me with a love-struck moony expression, an expression seen so rarely, that at first I put it down to him feeling queasy at my puke sight, "It’s so cute to see you throw up. I missed all the puking in the first few months because I wasn't around.”

"If you don't stop watching me puke...," I started venomously.

Worse Half hastily withdrew from my line of vision. Or rather my line of puke.

He would certainly not think it cute if he was at the receiving end of the all American pancakes!

The Pregnancy Diaries 4: Saat Samundar Paar (Across Seven Seas)

Pregnancy provided me with the happy opportunity to be a full-time home maker. I quit my job, as I really didn't think being in a stressful sales job would enable me to have a "happy" pregnancy. With Worse Half away in Charlotte, I moved in with my parents and soaked in all the love and pampering. This meant that I wasn’t even a full-time home maker (or half-time, for that matter) It simply meant that I was back to my college days, living with my parents, tanking up on home-cooked meals and pretty much doing nothing. In short, bliss.

My gynaecologist was a wonderful support, ensuring that absolutely nothing went wrong this time round.

I finally flew in to be with Worse Half in the second trimester. My gynaecologist, who is a pucca Anglophile and felt far more comfortable about the UK healthcare system, than the one in the US, eyed me with concern and announced.  “Never been there, never want to,” even as he flipped through his British Journal of  Medical names to quadruple-check on something.

After all the necessary, unnecessary and incidental checks, my gynaecologist gave me the go-ahead to fly. However, he dished out some pretty unnerving instructions. "You have to set an alarm every 45 minutes and ensure that you walk. In your current condition and weight, in case you develop Deep Vein Thrombosis,” he said, very very grimly, “There is only one outcome. DEATH!" I paled and nearly cancelled my tickets, but the thought of not seeing Amit at all through the pregnancy made me resolve to fight even potential death. That and the knowledge that Worse Half too, was truly missing me.

In fact, he was missing me so much that he had to fly down to New York every other weekend to drown his sorrows with his friends. It was only after much merry-making and marking territory through the bars of New York, could he overcome his deep sorrow. (I know, Reader that you were beginning to wonder where the Beer Bellies part fitted in! :-) - it's not me!)  I simply couldn't bear to see him suffer so. Here I was in India, consumed with nausea and heart-burn getting poked with every possible injection and Worse Half all alone, all all alone in Uncle Sam's land. Tragic...I simply had to make the trip.

And so there I was on the flight to Charlotte. Amit had thrown caution to the winds as far as our steadily depleting bank balance was concerned and had flown down to take me back with him. My gynaecologist’s words rung in my ears and by the clock on the dot, you would see me scuttling up and down the aisles in the aircraft. Hup two three four, hup two three four. I would just have to mention that my legs were feeling "tingly" and Worse Half, freaked out by the thought of Instant Death on the flight due to Deep Vein Thrombosis would be on the job, massaging them vigorously. Need I say that this was the last time?

And with that, I managed to "conquer" Deep Vein Thrombosis, Death and other such Dark prophecies and make it safely to Charlotte.

Digression 0: So what’s the purpose, exactly? - May 2013

Now that people have started actually reading my blog, all sorts of interesting questions and queries have popped in.

“You have said that it is about marriage and motherhood,” said a well-wisher. Will you be using any post-modernist, existentialist theories to deconstruct this experience?

“Marriage and motherhood? That’s more like “chick” stuff right?” was yet another query. (The only time I find a bird reference acceptable is when I am called a mother hen. Cluck, cluck)

“Are you sharing guidelines on being the perfect mother?”

Since, it more difficult to actually tell you what it’s about…I thought I should tell you what it’s NOT about…

And so here it is up front: A disclaimer as to what this blog is NOT about.

It’s not about soul baring experiences. My soul is firmly wedged in layers of fat and only makes guest appearances. On special occasions. Like birthdays and anniversaries.

It’s not a sad, involved story of a female protagonist who is busy finding herself and wallowing in self-pity. I don’t believe in drowning – and since I don’t know how to swim, I rather not enter the pool of self-pity!  I’d rather get on with it and have a jolly good time.

I am using absolutely no theories – post-modernist or post-post modernist – to deconstruct anything in my life. When the motherhood bus hits you theories, self-help books and the like fly out of the door!

It’s not just “chick” stuff – since marriage and motherhood almost always involve having a husband, a father.

It’s certainly not about any guidelines on perfect anybody or anything! I thought a perfect mother was fictitious like Super Man or a myth like Nessie.  And even if there was a perfect mother, would she raise a perfect child?

It’s not even a riveting, “unputdownable” version of a book which you have to come to every hour. Oh no, I respect that you may have other commitments that you may want to attend to (painting your nails, watching IPL – all the time! or making an appearance at the altar as a bride, maybe).

None of the above. Instead, here is a compilation of funny and warm episodes which you can enjoy and relish whenever you want. The stories are like a buffet of specially crafted dishes, some unique and never tasted before and some “comfort” food category, so that you can enjoy the familiar while exploring the unknown.

And strangely enough, even though it is about a precocious child and in a sense, the journey of mothering – I believe the over-arching hall-mark of this blog is humour. So, read it well, all non-mothers!.

Enjoy a laugh?  Read this. If you remember an age which had good, clean humour and luckily enough lived and experienced it, this is for you.

So start reading. And get entertained. In a feel-good, therapeutic, kind of way.

So dig in and enjoy. It’s an invitation. Nothing would make me happier.

And no, there isn’t really a purpose. In a purposeful kind of way. You could call me shallow like that!