This day that year - III

March 31, 2006

4:00 AM

It's taken me a while to figure it out, but I finally realise that these mild cramps I'm feeling must be contractions.

8:00 AM

"It's started!" I announce happily to husband and mother. "Actually, it started about 5 hours ago."

"5 hours?!" The husband springs into action "Let's go then! I'll get the suitcase. Can you get to the car? Should I call the doc? Where are my pants? Where's the blue notebook? Where's my stopwatch?"

I am feeling strangely calm, but the husband does not quite appreciate my being so zen. He hops around timing my contractions as I have a light breakfast and take a shower.

"Come on! Let's go, let's go, let's GO!"

9:30 AM

"Everything's looking good," says the doc cheerily, giving me a friendly pat on the hip. "But it will take a while - you're only 3 cms dilated. So make yourself comfortable, I'll check on you later."

Now that we're actually in the hospital room, the husband and mother have relaxed somewhat; and we settle in to what looks like will be a long wait.

Every once in a while, the assistant doc comes in to check the fetal monitor. The contractions are getting stronger, but not by much.

Time appears to have slowed.

This is b-o-r-i-n-g.

Yawn.

11:30 AM

The assistant doc and a couple of nurses burst into the room.

"Lie down, please. We need to give you some oxygen."

"What? Why?" I am bewildered.

"Nurse, start an IV," the doctor barks. To me, she says, "The baby appears to be in some distress. We'll see if things get better with oxygen."

"But how, I'm not feeling anything! What is causing the distress? What's different? What do I need to do?"

I feel like I've forgotten how to breathe. My mom looks like she's going to faint. The husband grabs my hand and squeezes it.

"Just stay calm. It may be nothing. We'll just keep monitoring for a little while."

12.00 noon

The baby's heartbeat is way above normal. It appears my contractions, puny though they are, are still too much for the baby.

My main doc arrives. They rupture the amniotic sac and find that the fluid is meconium stained. Apparently the baby is so stressed out at having to be born that it's pooped itself.

We listen in disbelief as our doctor explains that in these circumstances we have no option but an immediate C-section. The danger to the baby is real and immediate.

Assorted forms are thrust in my face, and I sign them shakily. I am crying hard. I had played different birth scenarios in my head several times, but none of them had involved any possibility of the baby's life being at stake. My own, yes. But not the baby's.

Never the baby's.

1:05 PM

"It's a girl!" the doc announces over the baby's thin, reedy cry.

"She's ok, right? She's ok?" I yell, or at least try to. I've been given a spinal anasthetic, so I'm fully conscious, but it appears to have triggered a major shivering fit. My upper body is trembling uncontrollably, and my teeth chatter as I try to talk.

The husband, who has been sweetly crushing the bones of my left hand all through the surgery, unceremoniously drops it as he reaches out to hold his daughter for the very first time.

"She's fine," says the doctor "We got her out in time."

She proceeds to explain something about delivering the placenta, and how I'll feel something or the other, but I can no longer hear what she's saying. All I can see is the little pink blob that my husband is proudly holding near my face.

It's squishy, and pink, and loud, and look - I can see tiny fingers curled over the edge of the swaddling blanket.

"Hello, Moppet!" are my eloquent first words to my daughter before the tears and laughter come together and render further speech impossible.

Welcome to the world, baby girl!

This day, that year - II

March 28, 2006

The time, 8:30 pm:

The bottle is small, the liquid in it a thick, clear gold. It looks quite innocuous; inviting even, but I know how vicious its contents can be.

Should I, shouldn't I? I turn the bottle around in my hand.

Heck, I can't take this any longer. I just want this to be over.

I add one tablespoon of the liquid to the tall glass of strawberry squash standing ready on the table and stir.

A deep breath, a quick look into the still swirling red depths, and then I gulp it down in one shot.

The effect is immediate. And terrible.

I clutch at my throat, retching and coughing so much that my eyes almost pop out of my head.

*************
Earlier that day:

'Sorry to have kept you waiting', said my doctor, not looking or sounding sorry at all. 'I just delivered Hrithik Roshan's baby. A gorgeous baby boy. Susanne had no trouble at all.'

'Much as that gladdens the heart, Doc, what would really make me happy is if you would tell me what you're going to do about this baby of mine which is refusing to come out.'

Having been told on my last visit that the baby's head had 'engaged' I've been expecting to go into labour for a whole week, and getting increasingly frustrated at the lack of action.

'Castor oil,' suggests the doc. 'Works almost every time.'

'Castor oil? Blech! What are my options?'

'Well we can wait another week or so....'

'I see. So will you write me a prescription, or do I pick it up at my local store?'

*************
After the first dose, 8:40 pm:

'ACK! AUGH! GRRRHAH! I've brushed...GAK!...three bloody times. This is all YOUR fault!'

'Mine? How?' The husband is genuinely surprised.

'Let me count the ways. First, for getting me pregnant. Second, for passing on your lazy bum genes to this baby who doesn't want to come out. Third, because I'm the one suffering and you're not. And fourth...'

'...well I think we're better off with a baby who has my lazy bum genes rather than your manic-bouncing-off-the-wall energetic ones!'

'Oh you do, do you? You can drink the next dose then. I'm NOT having any more. NO! I'll stay pregnant for another month if I have to!'

*************

Edit: I realise there's some confusion on account of me being currently pregnant. The 'This day that year' series of posts is about my first pregnancy, leading up to Moppet's birth on March 31, 2006.

This day that year - I

March 24, 2006

The Big Blue Sofa

I am yelling at my husband. Again.

"You and your #$@% veto! I don't want to hear that word any more, unless I'm the one saying it! I swear if we can't agree on at least one boy name and one girl name soon, I'm going to go with my own choice. You can veto till you're blue in the face, I don't care!"

He is sprawled on our enormous blue sofa, cushions precisely arranged to ensure that his angle of recline allows him a straight line of vision to the TV. Assorted remotes and a late-night snack are laid out on the broad arm of the sofa.

He flashes his crooked, boyish grin at me. "Relax, will you? Look, I've set everything up. Star Trek: The Next Generation. Come on!" He plumps up the cushions he's arranged for me.

I mutter evilly about lazy fat asses as I heave my bulk in next to him, but I'm not really upset. The big blue sofa seems to magically expand to accomodate us - the husband, who no one can accuse of being a small man, me, fully nine months pregnant, and four outsize cushions, so big that we sometimes use them as floor cushions.

The sofa was the first piece of furniture we acquired after we got married, custom-made for us in Bangalore by a friend in the furniture business. We had no idea what he was sending us, having told him only that we wanted an L-shaped sofa, and that it should be blue. I was quite nervous until it arrived, 2 pieces that fitted in an L shape, each the size of a twin bed. It was deeply blue and absolutely perfect.

When we are at home, our life plays out on the sofa. Talking, eating, reading, watching TV, playing Scrabble, fighting, making up (and out ;-), and falling asleep cuddled up against one other with the lights still on. We have spent the better part of 3 years on this sofa, so much so that its grooves appear to have moulded to fit our bodies.

Tonight, I stretch out in my groove and adjust my husband's arm around me as the familiar opening track of Star Trek: TNG plays. I know this baby is coming soon, and that life as I know it will change for ever.

What I don't know yet is that in just a few days, when we come home from hospital with our firstborn, the beloved blue sofa will be the first place she will rest her head.

Edit:
Just found this picture of Moppet on the sofa, napping by the window after her bath. It's not her first day at home, but she's certainly not more than a week old in this one. She would spend most of the day on the sofa, and move to her crib only at night.

Sadly however, this is not a tradition that Munch will have the pleasure of following. When we moved to Bangkok, we thought long and hard and eventually gave away / sold all our furniture and appliances, including the sofa.

My only consolation is that the sofa went to another young couple like us who were furnishing their first home. I hope it is part of as many fond memories for them as it was for us.

A tag, with love

I am not a deliberate hoarder. If you find something in my possession that's more than a few years old, it's mostly because I've been too lazy or too absent-minded to throw it out.

Books are the only exception. It was with great difficulty that my parents persuaded me (at age 19 or 20, I think) to give up all those Ladybird books from my childhood and donate them to the local library. I hadn't looked at them in over 13 years, but even so, the thought of giving away my precious books was physically painful. Moppet's Papa is the same way. We currently own 2 complete sets of PG Wodehouse titles, and neither is willing to give away their set. So they stay, in bookshelves acround our home, and our parents' homes, re-read very occasionally, but always loved.

So I guess it's not surprising that when I considered what I should write about for this beautiful tag from Tharini, the only thing that came to mind was a pair of notebooks. This is their story.

I was a naive 20 to Moppet's Papa's worldy-wise 25 when we first met. It was the first time I was living away from home, and for all the freedom and independence my parents gave me growing up, it was still a very safe and sheltered life that I had led. Not so this young man, a Bombay boy, used to having to fight to get his way, who had lived and worked all over the country, and who knew by now exactly what he wanted from life.

It was also clear to him very early on that I was the girl for him, and he lost no time in telling me so. His certainty freaked me out - how could he be so sure? I liked him very much, this fella who so obviously knew who he was, and didn't need to pretend to be anyone else. I liked his faintly bad boy air, with his self-painted graphic t-shirts and ripped jeans. He was cute, he was smart, he was my kind of guy.

But I worried about me. I'm just starting out, I told him. I've got so much to learn and see and do. I can't say if I'll be the same person you see today 5 years from now. My arguments did nothing to shake his certainty, but he agreed to take it at whatever pace I was comfortable with.

Over the 3 years that we dated, we 'broke up' twice, both times because of my doubts and fear of commitment. He never wavered. Talked me through my issues, gave me space, and waited for me to call him, as I always did in the end.

We got officially engaged and set a wedding date, and though I knew this was what I wanted, I would still suffer from periodic bouts of self-doubt. I was 23. What was I doing getting married this young? What did I know of men, relationships, the world? Nothing! Nothing!

A couple of months before the wedding, as part of the requirements for a church wedding, we had to do a weekend retreat called 'Engaged Encounter', run by a priest with help from several volunteer couples. We were both highly sceptical going into the program, neither of us being fans of organised religion, but we had no choice, if we (or rather, our families) wanted a church wedding.

And so we arrived, sniggering about the place and the people to each other, settled in, and prepared to be bored out of our minds. Instead, we were blown away.

The program was structured as a series of sessions on different subjects that affect relationships including things like money, sex, family background, friendships, careers, and life priorities. Each of us was given a blank notebook, and a set of questions for each session that we needed to answer honestly - both our own point of view and what we believed was our partner's point of view. After we wrote all that down, we'd exchange notebooks, read what we'd written, and discuss it privately.

Session after session, beginning from the first one which asked us why we were there (our identical answers - because we had to), we discovered how well we knew each other, how closely our hopes and dreams had already become intertwined, and how our thoughts were almost always first for the other before ourselves.

That was the weekend that dissolved my doubts, and it was a very sure and happy bride who skipped down the aisle 2 months later. Even today, 5 years later, when I get out those notebooks onto which we poured out our hearts, I'm amazed afresh by the connection we share.

And to think it might never have been.

So although we've never celebrated Valentine's Day (I'd rather celebrate more personal special days like birthdays and anniversaries), I think it's somewhat fitting that this post should end up being written on this day of love.

Edit:
I just got the most beautiful bunch of red roses from the husband. I'm floored, especially since he's not in town today, it means he must have remembered and arranged for them a couple of days ago. (That, or his new secretary is very efficient ;-)

Thank you, sweetheart, you just made my day.

The flowers were immediately appropriated by Moppet, squealing excitedly, "Mama look, WED foWERs!" so I took a quick photo to save this memory of my very first Valentine's day bouquet before it gets dismembered :-)

People don't sing when they're feeling sensible

...said W H Auden; a perfect line for Moppet's Papa and me. We're sensible - even practical - about us, and our relationship. We're not romantic at all. Really. Remember the proposal?

But we do have our moments - completely uncharacteristic, slightly goofy, sometimes cheesy, almost-romantic moments. The song story is one such. It doesn't quite qualify as 'our song' - we don't have one - but it's the most likely candidate for this tag.

Now, Moppet's Papa guards his no-nonsense, no-time-for-romance image fiercely, so for the few people who know him that are reading this - please know that this was a very, very, rare occurrence, an aberration, if you will and there have been no further slips in this regard.

It was at the Marketing Fair at B-School, a weekend affair where folks come and play specially designed games that are supposed to work as consumer research. Then we crunch the collected data and draw out (or make up ;-) deep-sounding insights and conclusions and present fancy reports to the sponsors and profs. It is set up as a fair and along with the various project booths, there are the usual food stalls, fair games, a jukebox etc.

So there I was in my booth when suddenly I heard Moppet's Papa's voice blaring out through the loudspeakers with a sweet little message and a song dedication for me. I nearly died of shock. I know that this won't seem like a big deal to many people, but it really was for me because Moppet's Papa is a very private person, and what he did that day was so completely out of character that it could only have meant one thing - he was crazy in love! Certainly not feeling sensible! :-p

Oh and the song? I Want You by Savage Garden.

Tagging anyone who has a song and would like to share it.

The middle name tag

The intrepid Dotmom has handed me the middle name tag.

The three rules to be followed are:
a) The rules must be mentioned in the beginning of the tag.
(Um, why? They'd work just as well at the end, wouldn't they?)

b) You must list one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don’t have a middle name, use the middle name you would have liked to have had.
(Well, I don't have an official middle name, although I do have a christian name that exists in no official record but my baptism certificate. Having spent a large portion of my life denying knowledge of that name to my husband and friends, you don't think I'm about to tell you, do you? I thought not. So I'm taking the easy way out and choosing Moppet. Also, I'm in a nostalgic mood today, so I'm going to match off the letters with random details from my past)

c) At the end of your blog post, you need to choose one person for each letter of your middle name to tag. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

(Oh dear, I think I'm one of the last people doing this tag. Still, tagging:
MadMomma,
Orchid (whenever she comes out of hibernation),
Parul,
Parul again (just kidding!),
Enigma's Sunita (I know, that's cheating, but I don't know anyone else with an E)
Tharini)

Ok, now that we're done with the rules and stuff, let's get down to business.

M - Maruti 800. Suzi, my first car and first true love, was seven years old when she was given to me on my 18th birthday. She was a very basic model with no air conditioning and no sound system, so on early morning drives, I would just wind down the windows and sing loudly as I drove, feeling the cool breeze on my face and hair. Heaven!

O - Oleander bushes. When I was a kid, my family lived for a few years in a small oasis town in north Africa. In the Sahara. All the buildings in the campus were set around squares lined by Oleander plants in pink and white. Although it was drilled into our heads that they were poisonous, I liked them. They brought colour and life to the dusty grey environment of the campus. It was a happy, carefree time in my life, and seeing Oleander plants always brings back lots of warm childhood memories.

P- Petticoat. What I wore when I went swimming with my granny and cousins in the river (it was more like a large stream, really) near our house in Kerala. Petticoats are thin cotton shifts and are usually white, so once they get wet, they're pretty much useless as body covering. But this was a village, the times more innocent, and it didn't matter to anyone, least of all the bunch of us, splashing, jumping and dunking each other in the stream.

P - Pageant. Yes, I was actually crowned Miss (my school's name) in class X. I got a cheap little crown and a sash and everything! It was at our farewell party, and I had put my name down as a joke, mainly to clown around on stage. I was shocked and hugely embarrassed when I won because I was (and am) under no illusions as far as my looks go. Today, being marginally better groomed, I'd say I'm average looking, but back then as a teenager, I was all bones and teeth and hair, certainly nothing like any beauty queen you've ever seen! Embarrassed as I was, I knew why I had won - they liked me. The judges were a mix of teachers and juniors from school, and I made them laugh with my silly answers to their questions and my refusal to take the whole thing as seriously as the other girls did. I learnt that day that there is such a thing as 'inner beauty', cliched as it may sound, and that there are still plenty of people in the world who can see it.

E - Egg puffs. I've never eaten any as good as the ones made by Real Bakery in Hyderabad. Just thinking about them makes my mouth water. I have searched high and low in every city I've lived in since, and eaten a lot of substandard egg puffs as a consequence, but have never found anything that came close to the Real one.

T - The Mask of Zorro. The first (sort of) movie date I had with a guy. It was pouring that day, and we got drenched just getting from the open car park to the cinema hall. And despite being so wet that any movement in our seats would produce embarrassing squelching sounds, we still enjoyed the movie. And I remember we had hot drinks and snacks at a little cafe nearby afterwards.

Ah, those were the days.

An Engaging Conversation

It is a pleasant evening in November. The air smells crisp and fresh, so different from the city air they have been breathing for so long. They are sitting side by side on the verandah looking out at the moonlit lawn.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to her: "What say we make this official, huh?"

He turns to look at her, surprised: "Are you asking?"

There is a pause as she contemplates what has just slipped out of her mouth. And then: "Yeah.... I guess so."

A huge grin appears on his face: "YES! Of course, yes!" Then he adds, more seriously, "But you know you're a moron, don't you?"

"I know"

**************************

This post is not-quite-a-tag, taken up from Grail's lovely post. Don't miss Pixie's and Poppins' great engagement stories either.

Update: To set the record straight, Moppet's Papa claims he was planning to propose in some fancy way (involving a chartered helicopter, I believe - his cousin is a pilot at some company that charters helicopters). I was all for taking back my proposal so we could do the helicopter thing, but of course, he wouldn't let me do that! This way, he can (and does) respond to my complaints about him with an unanswerable, "Well, YOU asked!"

This one's for you

One hot summer afternoon when I was 15, I answered a phone call. It was a wrong number, but intended for someone I knew. That got me talking to the caller for a little longer and we ended up having a wonderful conversation.

It was the start of an intense friendship. He would call every day and we would talk for hours. He was smart and really, really funny. We talked about absolutely everything. I thought nothing of asking him things that I would be embarrassed to ask my real life friends. We shared secrets and confided in one another. We engaged in animated debates and freewheeling discussions on topics that ranged from profound to utterly banal.

And of course, it didn't hurt that his voice was deep and friendly, and that he possessed a delicious laugh that warmed my heart.

We talked every day for about 5 months. And then he went abroad, and I didn't hear from him again. We never met.

Knowing him was like having an imaginary best friend, only for real. And my life was certainly richer for having known him.

Now 13 years later, in a city where I have no real life friends, where life is sometimes terribly lonely, I find myself surrounded by real imaginary friends. A welcoming circle of friends I have never met, yet know so well.

The warm voices, the teasing laughter, the consoling pat are all imagined. But the friendship, the empathy, the concern - that's for real, I know.

For that, to all my real, imaginary blogging friends, I say thank you.

Where's my gift?

It was a quiet morning Chez Moppet, with Moppet's Papa, me, the laptop and the PC all companionably surfing the net together, when I came across this post by Tharini. Of course, I had to show it to him.

"Nice," he said.

In the silence that ensued, I debated whether I should leave it at that and hope he had got the hint, or hammer my point home.

I decided to go (as I usually do) with stating the obvious.

"Now that's what I call a thoughtful gift," I said, meaningfully.

He grinned. "I knew that was coming!"

He would. He knows his record with gifts is abysmal. And I know he knows, but still insist on reminding him every chance I get.

*Cough [nag!] cough*

Hey, I heard that! But really, I can count on one hand the gifts I've received from him in the 8 years that we've been together. Surely that entitles a girl to some nagging on the whole gift situation?

Although I must admit that though they've been few, his gifts have all been rather special.

One of my favourites is the paper lantern. It magically appeared in my dorm room one day, hanging over my bed from a bent wire hanger, and transforming my pokey room into a cosy haven with its warm orange glow.

But my most cherished gift from him probably doesn't even qualify as a gift. It is a handwritten note that was tucked under my pillow the day I came home from hospital with Moppet. Written with raw emotion, it is a beautiful expression of love, pride, and confidence in me.

On days when I feel like I can't do this any more, when I feel like I'm just not enough - I pull out that note. I don't really need to read it, I know it all by heart. But to see the words in his handwriting is to hear him say that he loves me, that he believes in me. That I am an amazing wife and mother. That I can do this.

Hmm...I guess I don't have it that bad after all. Sheesh! And this post started out as a complaint!

Anyway, I'd like to hear from all of you on the best gift you've ever got. I need some ideas that I can pass on to Moppet's Papa!

I did it again!

This afternoon I was jolted out of my blogaholic stupor by the telephone. It was Moppet's Papa, asking breathlessly if we were okay.

"Yeah, why?"
"There was an earthquake!"
"Where?" (yes, I am that slow)
"Here, of course! Our building has been evacuated! How could you not have felt it?"

I don't know why he was surprised. My record with earthquakes has been less than stellar.

During the Latur quake in September 1993, some mild tremors were felt in Hyderabad where we lived at that time. Pots and pans rattled on the kitchen shelves, doors slammed, and my aunt made a hysterical midnight phone call to my parents. I slumbered peacefully through all the excitement, and suffered the intense mortification that only a 14-year old can experience when I found out the next morning that I was the only one in my class who hadn't felt a thing.

And then there was the massive earthquake in Bhuj in January 2001. Even I couldn't sleep through that one, although I assure you, I tried!

At that time, Moppet's Papa and I were second year students at a B-school in Ahmedabad. Our annual cultural fest was on and we had returned from a concert at 4 am that morning and crashed in his dorm room. I also have a vague memory that alcohol - lots of it - had been consumed.

So you will understand why, when at 8.45 in the morning, I was vigorously shaken awake and opened my eyes to see the cupboard doing a happy jig, I just closed my eyes and turned over to go back to sleep. But then tiny bits of brick started landing on me, and I sat up and glared at Moppet's Papa. Was that any way to wake up your girlfriend?

He was already up, apparently mesmerised by the dancing cupboard. It took another 5 seconds for us to register what was happening and scoot out of the dorm even as more pieces of brick landed on our heads.

I was fully awake now, and any alcoholic fog that might have remained quickly dissipated at the sight of one of our classmates, clad only in a hopelessly tiny towel, streaking towards the open grounds.

At the time, the entire thing was little more than an exciting episode in our lives. Although the campus itself was a bit of a disaster zone - brick walls had collapsed here and there - everyone on campus had been accounted for and there were only some minor injuries.

We didn't realise until later that day what devastating damage the earthquake had caused all over the city and in Kutch. That was when it stopped being a fun adventure and the magnitude of the tragedy sunk in. That was when it turned scary. For days after that, as the aftershocks continued to hit, the slightest rumbling - whether real or imagined - would get me dashing frantically out of the front door.

Looks like that heightened sensitivity was only temporary though, because here I am again, the only person in Bangkok who didn't feel a thing.

No wait - not the only person.
Moppet didn't feel a thing either! :-)