Daddy’s girl

"How are you? Everything okay? Under control?”

It was a first from my dad… okay, it’s a first for me to be pregnant and ready to pop and all of that, and I notice the dynamic around me slowly change with every passing month, but still… this degree of articulated concern from the father is something I haven’t been used to. And I have been through enough to deserve it.

For the longest time, I was always ‘one of the boys’ as far as my dad was concerned. We went to the same salon for a haircut when I was little, watched matinees together, played rummy, I was his errand girl for ciggies till my mother put a blanket ban on it, he inducted me into watching test cricket… exploring obscure places on the map, and quizzing. What we also shared was a passion for cooking, in which we collaborated quite often, to produce delicacies ‘off the rack’

Of course he also took me shopping, but it was always, “One, two three… pick up something soon, while I have a smoke at the door. Five minutes?”

Later, as I dated suitable and unsuitable boys, he had just a peripheral interest in what they were all about, and rarely went beyond a handshake or a grunt in his communication. To him, they were mere distractions, something that his "limited attention span Gemini daugher" would soon lose interest in, and until I announced I was marrying the man, he was never of any consequence.

It’s true that he never thought I needed to be ‘escorted’ for an early morning class that I had to take a 5.30 am train for (and the railway station was a good twenty minute walk from the house), or even fetch me post a late night excursion. As my mother whined about how times were bad and one had to take special care of daughters, my dad puffed away, “She is a tough one,” he would say. “I wouldn’t worry about her..”

I guess I was, and amply demonstrated it at age fourteen on a trip to Delhi, when a country bumpkin tried to paw me in one of the Teen Murti Bhavan museums… I picked up a stool to hit him with before dad arrived and tried to calm me down. He realized then that I was a woman.

Now, as I waddle into my last stage of pregnancy, dad can’t help but notice how vulnerable I am, physically at least… and I can sense that there is a lot he wants to say and ask, but all he manages, on the phone or in person is, “How are you?”

I guess it’s a big deal for him being a grand dad and all of that. More importantly, he realizes that finally, we will be even. We will soon both be parents, and that’s a bit surreal to deal with.

Some mothers do 've them

"Lap it all up now. Very soon, it will no longer be about you,” said one veteran mom who dropped by last week to check on how I was doing.

She is not the only one. Every woman has something to say about the imminent ‘storm.’

“Try and get all the sleep you can now…you ain’t getting any for months now..”

“ Don’t worry, all the pain will be worth it, when you hold your bundle of joy…”

“Watch TV, lie on your side…”

“Listen to music, read, talk to your baby…”

“Whatever you do, don’t use disposable diapers.. take it from me…”

“That’s the end of your life…only susu-potty now…”

Believe me, these are not regressive, low self-esteem, purposeless women—most of them have been high achievers, super-bright and super-creative, held or still hold good jobs, are attractive, articulate and make good money, but somehow transform into mommy divas the minute they know you are expecting.

Unlike marriage or career, motherhood instills a cockiness in all women, as though they have got a booster shot of hormonal confidence. Everyone, right from the lady in the lift to the maid to random woman you met at the Café to the sales assistant at the mall has this “We know.. we have been there” look and some advice to offer.

I wondered how such martyr mothers get created. Is it that some women use motherhood to create a new power equation that is so fuzzy that the world lets them have the benefit of doubt, because it’s pointless challenging it anyway?

But one friend Vasu who will remain my inspiration said something to me that stuck. “You will realize that there will always be another way … that you could have done many things differently. That someone else always knows more than you do. But when it comes to babies, expect the unexpected… just do what instinctively comes to you.”

It’s surreal, but I feel something is going to irreversibly change about me by the time I write this column again, which could well be next week, or a few weeks from now. I just hope it’s for the better.

Of course I will do exactly what seems right to me, even though I feel more laden with an information overdose than the 13 extra kilos on me. Yes, I am fully aware of the divide between natural birthing and epidural infused labour, of the politics of C-secs versus vaginal deliveries, of actual labour versus induced labour, of nursing versus formula, of super-lactating cows versus existential milk machines.

I do not know where I will fit into all this motherhood hierarchy and frankly, I don’t care. All I know is that I will be one cool mom. And hopefully, I will have enough chick and wit in me to last a while, mommydom notwithstanding.

Parent trap

The mother is over to ease me into childbirth, as I waddle through my last days of pregnancy. We haven’t shared a habitat in a while and have different approaches to things—life, people, food—although when it comes to hospital visits, my mother has much more bravado than I do. She has, after all, squeezed twins out, had valve replacements and dealt with ICUs like it’s second nature to her.

We are both currently in parenting modes in different ways, as she cares for me and I do the same for the little one kicking away inside of me. And then of course there are my two resident feline offspring, who have also sensed that something’s up, so they are ever so gentle and clingy with me, and we also have conversations about the same. The husband, who still doesn’t speak Cat finds it fascinating to hear an ongoing dialogue that me and Nadia (my first born) or Bravo (my three legged James Bond of a cat) have at 6 am every day. Nadia seems concerned that our relationship will change, and I assure her that it won’t, and before she knows it, my child and her will be buddies. Bravo doesn’t have any such apprehensions, and is in a “more, the merrier” kind of zone.

I have always wondered whether I’d make a good mother—even though I have had (and continue to have) a pretty good innings with four legged babies— the fact that one day, my two-legged offspring could tell me (as I do to my mom) that what I’m doing doesn’t make sense, and here is a better way, rattles me.

I also have a high benchmark to live up to, as mine is nothing short of a super mom. She has balanced work, parenting, social life and family ties immaculately, and is a top scorer in each of these spheres. She loved her job till the very end (after having worked close to forty years) and won many accolades in her long career, and is still fondly remembered as a teacher. As a mother, I think she did a pretty good job of us, me and my twin siblings, though she still laments, “If only I had more time. If I could only have stayed at home..”

The problem with being a parent is that one never ceases to be one— it’s a process that begins, but never ends, like it hasn’t for my mother— I had better come to terms with that. And it’s not about cleaning poop or washing butts or feeding or any of the chores. It’s about always putting someone else’s interest before yours. Marriage doesn’t necessarily teach you that; hopefully, becoming a parent does.

Am I ready for it? I don’t know, but will soon find out.

Mamas and papas

The husband casually mentioned the p-word a few weeks ago, on one of our weekend drives to some place for lunch. We haven’t had too many existential discussions thus far, so I thought all was going well.

Back when I was a child, there was no parenting. You were born, someone ended up looking after you (in my case it was grandma, great grandma, assorted uncles, aunts, a few good neighbours) and one day you went to school, and before you knew, you were out of it. Now, it’s about “What’s your parenting approach going to be like? Hands on or hands off? By the book or improve? Traditional or modern?

“So when are we going to discuss parenting?,” he piped with much glee. I shuddered at the thought. I never thought he would bring it up, and I seriously believed it was going to be a case of whatever mommy says, goes. And why not? Even the supreme court justices seem to propagate that one must always listen to ‘the wife’.

I wasn’t nervous without reason. The husband’s idea of parenting includes, among other things, a second Play Station controller that I have always been an unlikely candidate for, a trip to Mc Donald’s (or was it KFC?) when the child is six, and a sustained anti-lauki, anti-karela and anti-padval campaign.

Suddenly, I had visions of the kid ordering a triple cheese burger with extra fries and coke on its first outing (the husband’s idea of a healthy meal) and me bursting a capillary at the table. Or the child learning to use a Play station controller before he/she learns to read or write. Worse, the child rejecting vegetables at the table and demanding hot dogs.

The whole vegetarian thing, which so far has been rather cool with the husband might soon become a bone of contention in our relationship. Okay, when you marry a man, you marry his habits, not his family. But when you have a child with a man, some of those habits are likely to be passed on. My point is, who decides what to pass on?

Here is my “god please don’t let this pass on” list

1. Imagining ants, cockroaches where there are none and making desperate attempts to gas them, believing they will multiply into millions in minutes, invade your body and destroy you.

2. Not being able to look at footwear that hasn’t been perfectly aligned, and aligning them at every given opportunity

3. Hoarding clothes and things one hasn’t had any use for in years.

4. Announcing that one is starved, making one’s plate with much flourish and admiring and sighing at it, but eventually eating four hours later.

5. Wanting a backup of twenty bulbs, ten packets of chips and peanuts, ten toothpastes and toothbrushes, innumerable shaving gels and aftershaves, “just in case”

This is what I wouldn’t mind being passed on:

1. Being good at cleaning up after a meal

2. Taking the garbage out

3. Efficiency at sink duty

4. Never raising your voice when with a lady.

Which brings me to why do men get married? Answer: It’s their only chance to look good. And fatherhood just rounds it off so well. Oh well!

Power of three

Okay, if I am getting too much into the baby zone, let me know and I will quietly withdraw. In any case, if you see me disappear from this page rather abruptly, I would have checked into Breach Candy hospital for the whole birthing business, just so you know. I will, of course, try to make it not so abrupt, and say my good byes nicely and all that, but babies these days seem to have minds of their own even before they come into this world. I am just keeping you, dear reader, in the loop. When you are in the nine month-zone, you never know.

There I go being batty and losing focus again (true to what they say in those books). What I actually meant to talk about was my baby shower. To cut it short, there were 20 people who showed up, the cats had a wild time with the pink and blue balloons, though initially, they were entranced by the visual, as though it was a space ship. Once they figured that all it took was one touch of a claw to render it to shreds, they were happy all over again, as also with the multiple footwear that had parked itself at our entrance, each of which displayed nesting possibilities.

So purr so good!

But, as it turned out, the auspicious day was also marked by three other events fighting for attention. Two IPL matches, the Spanish Grand Prix and Man U Vs Man City at the Barclays Premier League.

The husband hadn’t uttered any sounds of such parallel action when I first announced the date. But after he guesstimated the restlessness of the guests, most of whom arrived on time, he created a parallel entertainment zone. The fact that my shindig began at 6 pm suited the couch potatoes fine.

So there were two clear groups—one that stuck to the brief (came to the baby shower, hung out with mommy and baby, and did baby shower things, like talk to mommy, ask suitable and unsuitable questions, act interested in what you have to say, nibble at the eats, and such like)

And then there were the ones that hung in the recreation zone. So there was much screaming –the Man U husband lost all sense of decorum since best man and Man U supporter was there for company. At some point, there was an ousting of the men when the women decided that watching Kolkata Knight Riders destroy themselves (for the 12th time) was a cooler option, counter plotting by the husband, who thought our sangeet DVD with all its embarrassing moments would be a neutral entertainment option..) and finally, rampant betting against KKR—of which, it turns out, I am the beneficiary, as the spoils have been directed towards contribution for the baby cot—which, by the way is frigging expensive, as are most baby things and having a baby.

So baby or no baby, when sport wants to steal the thunder, it always can..

Pink or blue

I am not about to join the pink chaddi brigade, nor do I subscribe to colour clichés, but I had to tell you this. For the last few months, my posterior has been the subject of much discussion amongst near and dear ones. Well, that should itself be strange, as my anterior is where all the action is—by now, I am so obviously pregnant—my belly makes an entry ten seconds before I do.

Fact is, they are all trying to predict if it’s going to be a boy and a girl. And the most ridiculous thing that I have heard—right from the mother-in-law to a radio-jockey friend is this—if your ass grows madly out of proportion, it’s a girl. If it stays as is, it’s a boy. And my pert ass shows no signs of being out of shape, so I am mortified that the illegal alien inside is a boy!

For all those who say, what difference? It’s god’s gift! (although I am still wondering at what point did god get involved?) Of course it would make a difference. Of course dealing with another man in the house (however little) is going to take a lot out of me. I am just tired of making the men in my life look good—either it’s the father or the brother or the husband or the son (if it turns out to be a boy). It seems like lifelong labour, with no perks, really!

A girl, on the other hand is a breeze to handle and pretty much grows up okay, whatever the circumstances. Okay, I am not being biased here, but how many women do you know who really really need a man to sort them out? I can’t think of anyone. How many men? Well, practically the entire population!

So, from an utterly selfish point of view, I would like a girl.

And I want her so bad that I am utterly at a loss for boy’s names. Even though my posterior says that it’s a boy. I am at a loss for imagining if he’ll have my unruly mop or the husband’s low-maintenance one. Whether he will have my bronze skin or the husband’s fair one. Whether he will inherit my dimples. Or the husband’s fetish for salami, hot dogs and gaming (shudder!).

It’s just that boys have too many issues. They have to be seen doing the right thing, playing with the right toys (usually guns or extra terrestrial objects or something equally violent), wearing the right colours, having the right friends (a smattering of alpha males that they can look up to and some that look up to them, just to keep their fragile egos under check), eating the right food (it’s not cool to eat healthy or organic—they might as well coat their intestines with garbage right from the start—an exercise the husband is eager to partner in), have the right vocation, even the right voice (imagine sounding like Sachin Tendulkar!), grow tall (even I have issues with short men, at five feet nothing), be a man… the list is endless!

Dear god! I hope you are listening….

Double decker woes

“No tight clothes, no high heels, no nail polish, no eating outside, no keeping relations with husband…” These were the doctor’s orders upon pronouncing me pregnant.

It took me 30 seconds to realise that ‘keeping relations’ meant having sex. It felt odd…why would an obstetrician need a euphemism for sex? Wasn’t that the core of his business (the fact that people had to have sex to get pregnant, so that he could deliver the babies and make money)? Why then, would he speak of it like it was a four-letter word?

Even after repeated visits, he flinched from the use of the word and I found it amusing.

Okay, I convinced myself. Clearly, he was old school and it would take a lot for him to say the word. I dare not ask him about alcohol, or late night partying or driving to work (which I still do, as the drivers I encountered nearly drove me to premature labour with their idiocies). He might just have turned blue and look aghast at my irreverent self.

I did muster the guts to ask him about yoga though. Thought he would approve. On second thoughts, he wouldn’t, if he just came to my Iyengar Yoga class and watched me hanging off ropes, balancing head-stands and hand-stands with panache. He declared without a twitch on his face, “Nothing for three months. Now just go home and rest!”

“Rest? But I feel good.. and I have a job!…” I manage to get the words out.

“Okay, take it easy then,” he said with a tone of resignation.

It’s been 29 weeks and I have done everything but take it easy.

The sonologist was another one who could come out tops in the I-will-not-smile contest. “First pregnancy?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow. What was unstated is, “Why have you taken so bloody long?”

I feel like telling him, “It took me so long to find a man worth making a baby with, I just couldn’t help it…” Or something like, “You know I have made so many, I have lost count…”

Instead I grin sheepishly and say a meek yes. I don’t think my humour would do down too well with his steely, clinical exterior.

He then divulges his goodies on a screen. “Okay here is the baby’s spine, this is the head.. blah blah…” It all looks like a blur to me, but I say, “O, how nice..!”

Think about it. Having a baby is closest to a fun time you can have with a doctor. You could laugh off cholesterol disorders, or piles or obesity or stuff like that, but seriously, being pregnant is the only time you need not ‘feel like a patient’. Rather like someone who has undertaken a mission and needs a facilitator.

Why then, do women in obstetrician waiting rooms look like they don’t have a bone of humour in their bodies? How then, are they thinking happy thoughts to make happy babies?

Mum’s not the word

The mother was over visiting this Saturday, laden with goodies as usual, positive energy and plenty of advice on this, that, and the other. She claims that meeting me gives her a sense of clarity, because on the phone, she can never be sure she has said all that she wanted to say. I did try to get her to make notes and give me a 30-second lowdown on everything, or just highlights rather than the unedited version (I sub enough copy anyway). But it never really works, because mothers like details. “Wait till you become a mother. Then you’ll know,” is her retort. I can’t imagine how mothers have gotten away all their lives with this line. Yes mother, I can’t wait to find out, and I will keep you posted, is what I say.

Now, moms are a great species, god bless their soul, but if they just learn how not to dispense advice unless asked for. They don’t. They just wait till they ensnare you into their trap, and then the advice comes gushing, like a dam just broke or something. My rules for the mother-in-law are just the same. My simple logic to being straightforward in my communication and not sugar coating everything is, “I don’t want to set any precedents that I can’t keep up with. She might as well get to know me as I am in the first year of marriage, so there are no illusions.”

So if she tells me, in a roundabout way how I should rethink my pets, I tell her, no thank you, I have thought it all out. If she tells me now to always think happy thoughts and listen to happy music, I tell her I don’t really have the liberty, as I have to go with the flow. If she tells me I should use the baby to emotionally blackmail the husband to stop smoking, I tell her that’s a pathetic plea, and he is adult enough to know what he is doing.

My friends are shocked. They wish they had done the same. But most of them have worked themselves into the ideal-daughter-in-law trap and now it’s too late to wriggle out.

But this time, the mother blew me over. The advice was not from her, but from a third party. Apparently, a certain geriatric in her society (who claimed he was a fan of my writing) believes I should not be making digs at my husband in my column—how the male ego is rather fragile, and so are marriages, and so, in the interest of the longevity of my relationship, I should refrain from making any remarks about the husband in print. I was shocked, and told her no thank you, but the biggest component of our marriage was SOH, and that the said gentleman should email me if he wished to discuss it further.

I am still waiting for that email.

Belly buttons

When you are pregnant, you get ‘the vibe’. Suddenly, people realise that they can love you or hate you, but sadly, can’t ignore you, especially when your belly makes an entry before you do. The reactions are many. Some good, some weird, some bad:

Like triumph, from the husband, who was ecstatic to find out that his sperm was not as lazy as him.

Fear too, that the baby might oust him from his recreation zone.

Ecstasy, from the mother, who is thrilled that you have moved to stage two now, and finally she gets to do whatever she missed doing for us.

Approval, from the relatives, who might have dismissed your marriage as a fluke, but this, they think is serious business. Finally, they recall that you did grow up in their laps, even though you never had much of a rapport in your adulthood.

Lust, from single men who still have a crush on you, and are now intensified in the demonstration of their affection, as you are more woman that ever before.

Skepticism, from DINK couples who look at you in askance, thinking, “Ah, another one bites the dust. We thought she was cool, but she is probably not..”

Curiosity, from couples who have been ‘at it’ for a few years, keeping ovulation diaries, taking fertility treatments, working on their sperm motility. “How the hell did they manage?” is what they are not saying.

Relief, from women on the wrong side of 35 who are paranoid about their biological clocks ticking away, and thinking, “If she can, yes, we can.”

Indifference, from confirmed singletons who puff away and pretend they didn’t notice your bump.

Hatred, from women who have been trying hard to get there, and not succeeded, and hated you anyway.

Cynicism, from couples who are still dealing with the existentialism of marriage.

Admiration, from fellow yoga students who are curious about how you manage with the belly.

Competitiveness, from other couples who got hitched the same time as you.

Euphoria, from friends who love you anyway, single, married, pregnant, not pregnant.

Deep care and concern, from some who have been there, done that, and think it’s a great expedition and have tons of advice to give you.

Irony, from some women who have been there, done that, think it’s a big deal, but never thought you would make it.

Sympathy, from random strangers who think you might need help crossing the road or getting into an elevator when you don’t.

Fellowship, from Mommaholics Anonymous, who are happy to welcome you into their fold, and assure you not to worry too much, it will all be good.

Fear, from single men and women who don’t quite know what to do with you, now that you are off-debauchery and therefore, not much use to them.