Of Sibling Love

The little girl was watching TV, giving it her full and focussed attention as always.

The little boy was keeping his sister company, messing about with his cars and engines, not really interested in a program that featured neither firemen nor trains.

As the end credits rolled, their mother stepped into the room saying, 'Alright kids, time to turn off the TV. It's bedtime.'

A wail of protest from the little girl, 'But Mom! I only watched for 10 minutes!'

'Too bad', the hardhearted mother replied, 'You should have thought of that when you were dawdling over dinner. Now it's time for bed.'

'But...!'

'No buts. Now go brush your teeth before you lose your bedtime story as well.' So saying, she reached for the remote and turned off the TV.

Outraged at the unfairness of it all, the little girl burst into tears.

Taking a deep breath, the mother prepared to deliver the threatened punishment, but the little boy was too quick for her.

Inserting himself between his exasperated mother and his sobbing sister, he pointed an accusatory finger at his mom and yelled, 'Mama naughtyboy! Nay-nay TV watching!' Then with a yowl that sounded suspiciously like a war cry, he attacked, attempting to climb up his mother's legs and retrieve the remote that she held.

One-handed and slightly off balance, the mother tried to fend off her ferocious little attacker, even as her daughter stopped wailing to watch the struggle open-mouthed. In the meanwhile, the father had arrived at the scene and persuaded her to go choose her bedtime story.

'Come on, Munchie,' she said, in the manner of a warrior queen calling off her troops. 'Let's go choose a story.'

And just like that, he released his grip on his mother's leg and trotted off behind his big sister, ready to fight for her again should she need him.

Or just fight with her, as happened exactly one minute later in an all out brawl about which bedtime story should be read first, involving much yelling, hair-pulling, and scratching.

Oh, the love!

This post is dedicated to my younger brother on what would have been his 27th birthday.
Happy Birthday, M. I miss you.

Ready, Get Set....

Ready...Get Set...

Just say these words to Munch and watch him throw up his arms and yell:

GOOOOOOOOO!

At 16 months, that pretty much sums up his life's philosophy. He's always on the go, taking on each day with astounding energy and endearing good humour.

Although I had initially thought he'd be a bit later on his milestones than his big sister, except for that first roll-over which he managed a couple of weeks later than she did, he's actually been at least a month ahead of her in everything else.

I suppose it's because Munch believes he's really three years old, and therefore sees no reason why he shouldn't turn somersaults, jump off coffee tables, go up the slide the wrong way, and hang upside down off railings, just like his sister does. The only problem is that his gross motor skills, while fantastic for a 16 month old, are really not upto 3 year old standards. So he's never without a bruise or bump somewhere on his body, but he doesn't let that ever dampen his enthusiasm. Every cut or bump is forgotten and he goes back to do the exact same thing within minutes of the last tear being wiped. Whether that stems from real courage or from having bumped his head one time too many, only time will tell, but it certainly makes for exciting times around here!

Probably because of hanging around his extremely verbal sister (here we go again, do second borns EVER get any credit?!) Munch is so much better at communicating with us than Moppet was at this age. Not only does he have a large number of regular words, he also has some specific babble words that are used consistently for the same situation. So 'pacha pacha' is always said while handing over a bottle or a box and means open / take the lid off. Or 'minnum minnum' which means 'I want', or 'Taa!' said with a fat little hand held against his own cheek, meaning 'hot!'. And he understands so much of what we tell him too, it's amazing.

When he was barely a month old, I got the feeling that he'd be the family funny guy. I was right. He delights in getting a laugh out of his audience, and he gets plenty. His antics have us in splits all the time, and he's always coming up with new 'acts'.

At 16 months, I'm happy to report that while he continues lives up to his nickname of MatterEaterLad, his palate has gotten marginally more discerning. He's still happy to sample anything new that comes his way, animate or inanimate, but at least he's now better at recognising (and spitting out) inedible items. This also makes feeding him rather a pleasure, since he's open to a variety of tastes and textures, in stark contrast to Moppet who is an exceedingly fussy and slow eater. I have on several occasions caught her palming off her food on him which he, despite having already finished his own meal, is only too happy to accept.

He continues to maintain his easy-going good humour and is rarely cranky. He may sometimes be a little clingy around me, but usually that's only when he senses I may be going out without him, or when I've just come back home. Since for second kids, sharing is the only way they've ever known, there's none of that jealous possessiveness that consumed Moppet at this age. He is a teeny bit possessive about her, though - I've noticed that he doesn't quite like it when she plays with other kids. He comes around and generally tries to poke or shove the other child away.

He can be quite a ruffian at times and likes to play rough. Poor Moppet bears the brunt of this, because he throws himself on her and sometimes even bites her. It's him being playful and affectionate, but I've had enough of those bites to know it really hurts. And since I'd drilled into Moppet the need to be gentle with 'the baby', she neither resists nor retaliates, and just lies there crying piteously. It has reached a point where, unable to get the message across to Munch that this sort of play is not appreciated, I've had to show Moppet how to push him away firmly but gently.


Life with Munch is a big barrel of laughs, punctuated by mini heart attacks, and laced with exhaustion. But every night, despite the tiredness, I find myself holding him for a while after he has fallen asleep, his warm body curled into me, his head nestled in the crook of my elbow. I listen to him breathe, feel his eyelashes on my arm, and gently stroke his cheek. For those few minutes, I close my eyes and pretend that I have stopped time, and my walking, talking, 16-going-on-36 month old toddler is still my little baby.

Tales from the pot

Okay, so this is not exactly the best subject for a comeback post, but given my abysmal rate of posting this year, I figure at least it's a post, right? D, this is for you :-)

I have on occasion asked friends whose kids found all things potty hilarious, whether it's a boy thing, seeing that Moppet didn't seem to find it particularly funny. They assured me it wasn't, and that I only needed to bide my time. Yes, you have my permission to call me an idiot. Of all the things to worry about, I just had to worry about her not being age appropriately amused by potty.

Anyway, even that worry didn't last for long. These days she has developed a rather sophisticated (if indeed, this word can be used together with toilet jokes) sense of potty-humour.

For example:

Me: Are you done yet, Moppet?
Moppet (examining the contents of the pot): Not yet. I've only done a leetle baby potty. Now I need to do a mama potty, a papa potty, and a sister potty.

Or:

Moppet (making a sad face): Mama, my potty is very sad.
Me (against my better judgement): Why is your potty sad, Moppet?
Moppet: Because he fell in the water and lost his best friend Susu.

These little punchlines are usually followed by a 2 second pause during which she scans my face for the appropriate disgusted expression, and then bursts into peals of excited laughter. I think she's going to have a real talent for stinky pjs when she grows up.

And as for Munch, I already know I don't need to worry about him. Everytime he farts or burps he giggles and looks at me to make sure I appreciate the wonderful sounds he's produced. He's even been known to clap his hands for a particularly loud burp. And his father is genuinely proud.

I think my original hypothesis was right. It IS a boy thing.

You're One!

It's been an eventful year, hasn't it, my darling?

Starting with the day you arrived, it's been a such a full, rich, exciting year. We've had more holidays this year than in the last 3 put together. We've moved homes and countries, and you've accumulated more stamps in your passport than you have teeth! You've taken it all with your characteristic equanimity. I could learn a thing or two from you.

With your sister, I've often complained that I never quite realised how quickly she went from being a tiny babe who fit in the crook of my arm to a sassy little girl who wants to do everything by herself. I've tried not to make that same mistake with you. I've savoured every moment of this year with you, even those moments that were sad. Yes there were some of those, and plenty of tiring, exasperating moments too, and I have savoured them all. I can tell you this though - there have been no boring moments this year!

Watching you grow into the happy, friendly, fearless, enthusiastic little fellow you are today has been immensely fulfilling. You make me so proud, baby - I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell you how much.

As you step into your second year, I look forward to exploring life with you. Exploring, examining, and experimenting in that calm yet intensely curious way that you have.

Happy birthday, Munch!

All my love, always,
Mama.

All about Munch

Munch is 11 months old today and I've probably done 5 posts on him, if that. It's not my fault, just blame it on the second child syndrome!

Seriously though, I'm enjoying his babyhood so much more than I did Moppet's. Not that I didn't enjoy Moppet as a baby, but there was a lot more worry and self-doubt at the time. With Moppet, I'm finding her current phase much more enchanting than her baby phase. The things she says and does surprise and delight me every time. You'd think I'd have learnt to expect it by now, but she still takes my breath away with all her chattering.

But this post is about Munch and what a delicious little fellow he's turning out to be. Sadly, it appears that the whole 'good boy' impression was just an act. Having deceived us all into thinking that he was going to be a quiet, well-behaved young man, he sprouted horns overnight and turned into a babbling, walking, dancing, hair pulling, mischief mongering little imp.

He took his first unaided steps at nine and half months and now does what I call the zombie walk - arms outstretched for balance, he teeters and totters (particularly around corners), but manages to stay upright the whole distance. He's practically stopped crawling now, and no longer needs support to pull himself up. He goes from sitting to crouching to standing and walking all by himself. And now that he's figured out that when he walks he has his hands free to carry stuff, things are getting ferreted away and turning up in the most unexpected places.

Oh and he dances! It cracks us up every time. He toddles up to the music system and then jigs up and down in time to the beat, waving his arms like a windmill with a supersized grin on his face.

He babbles a lot - not just a a few repeated syllables, but a stream of made up words that sound so familiar that I wonder why I can't understand what he's

saying. Like when I go in to get him after his nap, he'll be standing in his crib and will say something that sounds like 'Aathaka?' on seeing me. And the tone screams 'what took you so long?' Or the way he puts his fist behind his ear and goes 'Aa-uh?' in exactly the same tone as I say hello on the phone. He does say a few recognisable words - Papa, Mama, and Ka (car) being the most oft heard.

He attempts to eat everything he comes across, earning for himself from his father the nickname MatterEaterLad, who is apparently some obscure comic book superhero. He has ingested some sort of insect (I only managed to extract the wings from his mouth so I have no idea what sort), assorted varieties of leaves and grass, mud and gravel, crayons (which I realised only when he threw up bits of it later), and plenty of paper. A nickname well-earned.

He's learning to stand up for himself against Moppet. Her days of being queen bee are numbered. If she tries to take something away from him, he hangs on for dear life and screams in her face. He pulls her hair every chance he gets. He bites, mostly out of affection, but sometimes in frustration, a habit I'm trying to nip (heh heh) in the bud. To her credit, Moppet rarely hits back. Having been the recipient of some of his pinches and bites, I know that they really hurt. But though she may scream or push him away, so far I've never seen her hit or poke or pinch him back.

On the whole, he's a most satisfactory baby. He's soft and cuddly and affectionate. Friendly, sociable and a complete clown. Total paisa vasool. Even though he's done his growing up as fast as Moppet, faster in some cases, he's still very much a baby, unlike his sister who always felt like an old soul to me.

Kaala tikka, my darling boy, and happy 11 month birthday!

Turn over a new leaf, Mama

So Munch rolled over by himself for the first time this morning, quite by accident I suspect, going by the comical look of surprise on his face when he found himself suddenly nose to nose with a baby bear on his playmat.

For weeks he has lain on that playmat making no attempt to turn whatsoever, just grinning gummily at me whenever I nudge him and say fondly, 'Move it, you lazy lump.' 

Then today, just like that, he rolled over cleanly, popped up his head and pulled his arm out from under him as if he'd been doing it all along. It was so quick that I missed most of it. I put him down on the mat, turned to say something to Moppet who was hopping around behind me, and turned back just in time to see his surprised little face popping up off the mat.

Since that first roll a few hours ago, it appears he has sprouted springs on his back. Lay him down and boinggg!, he's on his tummy in a flash. 

So he's been doing that all morning, and then another surprise. I left him on his mat for about 10 minutes as I went to deal with Moppet's home from school routine, and came back to find him curled up on his side, thumb in mouth, fast asleep! First time he's ever put himself to sleep with neither boob nor rocker to help him nod off. It must have been all the rolling around.

And as I write this, he's off to la-la land by himself again, after an energetic half hour of post lunch rolling over. 

It feels like he was just patiently waiting for the right time, so that he could do it correctly and with minimal effort. If I were a more mature adult, I'd admit that that's a far more sensible outlook to life than my own energy intensive try-to-do-everything-all-together one. 

But I'm not, so I won't. 

I may just follow his example and take a nap though. Baby steps, see? :-)

Back to (ir)regular programming

To quote Dora the Explorer, (who's quoted a lot in our household these days): 'Yay! We made it!'

Yes folks, the holidays were a super hit. The beach holiday was just the right sort of lazy, our time there evenly divided between beach, pool, siestas, drinks, and meals. 

Oh and some spectacular sunsets that had us all awestruck, but particularly fascinated Moppet. So much so that she actually, of her own accord, struck up a conversation with a random woman sitting on a deck chair next to hers, watching the sunset.

Moppet: Do you see the sunset?

Random Woman: Indeed I do. It's beautiful isn't it?

Moppet: (seriously, with an emphatic little nod) Yes. 

This was a holiday in which father and daughter bonded like never before. With me often stuck feeding Munch, and no nanny to call on, Moppet had to let her father help her with stuff, and he had no choice but to figure out how to do it. 

Bath times, bed times, and general keep-her-out-of-trouble activities, he took it all on with wonderful enthusiasm. There were  even a couple of days when I would wake up lateish in the morning and find her pottied, brushed, and breakfasted, wearing, upon her own request, a pair of strange pony tails that the husband had tied for her. They were strange but cute and he was so endearingly proud of his effort, asking me some 10 times during the day, 'How do you like her pony tails?' Well, I like. Very much.

As for Munch, he was his usual happy-go-lucky self. As long as he got his meals on time, he was quite content to doze in his stroller, or watch the world with interest. Having decided I wasn't about to spend my holiday in pokey little feeding rooms, I would just throw a dupatta over myself wherever we were and tank him up - by the pool, in a bar, in a deli, airport lounge, cafe, anywhere would do. Worked fine all round.

He also got lots of attention from assorted bikini-clad babes, prompting his father to remark enviously that that was already more female attention than he himself had got from babes in his entire lifetime. 

For her part, Moppet was the protective big sister to the hilt, dissolving into angry tears at the airport where a girl jokingly declared that she wanted to take Munch home with her. Whether that was out of genuine affection for Munch, or on the general principle of he's mine, don't touch, I don't know. But that first incident did make her a lot warier when other strangers approached him later on in the holiday.

Post a little break back home, we all then went north to the hills for a very different kind of holiday. This was much more tiring since we wanted to do some sightseeing as well, but it was great in its own way. We made a trip to the zoo, which houses the only pair of Giant Pandas in Southeast Asia. We got there at a great time and saw them at their playful best. Moppet was so excited she couldn't keep her voice down, despite the glares of a burly security guard brandishing a huge sign that said 'Quiet Please'.

The rest of the zoo was great too. We got to feed baby elephants and giraffes, and Moppet almost rode on a little pony but decided at the last minute that she was too scared. The zoo is built in a naturally hilly jungle and is very beautiful, with orchids everywhere (Northern Thailand is where some of the best orchids in the world are grown) but it was tough on our knees with a baby stroller and toddler who was very quickly too tired to walk. When, in front of a magnificent white tiger, she threw a fit wanting to see a cow of all things, we knew it was time to head back to the hotel.

The husband and I indulged in some street shopping - Chiang Mai is a centre for great wooden handicrafts, and artists who bring their own designs, art and other handmade items to the famous Walking Street Sunday Bazaar. Moppet spent most of her time perched precariously on the footrest of Munch's stroller, making faces at him and generally keeping him and herself occupied.

We also managed a quick trip to the beautiful hill-tribe village, set in the mountains among lush green terraced paddy fields. The Padong are a Burmese tribe where the women wear rings around their necks to elongate them, starting from as young as 3-4 years of age. It is controversial, this village, and I must admit to feeling awkward and intrusive, walking through their village as they went about their lives. Then we met Manan, a friendly Padong lady, sitting by her house and strumming her guitar (!) who chatted with us, told us about their customs, and cuddled Munch. I'm won't go into the politics of it here, but most residents of the village are refugees from Burma, and this is their livelihood. The women weave and sell authentic shawls along with other touristy items, and Manan at least, appeared to be under no illusions about living in this fishbowl.

Anyway, it was fascinating and sad at the same time. I leave you with a picture of two little girls who will probably lead unimaginably different lives, right now just being two little girls.

Three and Thirty

At 3 months, he is my angel child. 
Happy, peaceful, and adorable.

At 30 months, she is my wild child. 
Fiesty, impetuous, and unpredictable.

At 3 months, he coos and gurgles, and makes the most delicious baby sounds.

At 30 months, she sings her own songs, adding new verses to existing rhymes, or fitting different words to familiar tunes. She 'reads', tells stories, and is constantly telling everyone in the household what to do, how, and when.

At 3 months, he lies in his rocker waiting quietly for someone to come over to him and chat, rewarding them with a gummy smile and a full body wriggle of excitement when they do.

At 30 months, she has a full scale meltdown if  she doesn't get what she wants within a nanosecond of her ordering it.

At 3 months, he has his meals with lip-smacking, boob-thumping enthusiasm.

At 30 months, her meals give the term 'dinner theatre' a whole new meaning.

At 3 months, he stares adoringly into my face as I prop him up against my knees and sing to him American Idol style, complete with funny facial expressions and hand gestures.

At 30 months, she watches my performance critically for all of 5 seconds before commanding, 'Mama, don't sing!'

At 3 months, he shows no interest in wanting to turn or roll, lying peacefully on his playmat, observing his own hands and his sister's antics with interest.

At 30 months, she roams the house carrying a high plastic stool, so that she can be 'big and tall' and reach all sorts of forbidden places.

At 3 months, he perks up at the sound of music, smiling and 'singing' along with little grunts and sighs.

At 30 months, she picks a beat on the electronic keyboard and yells out: 'Ebbybody dance!', boogying with such enthusiasm and style as to get even her double left-footed father to join her.

At 3 months, his eyes flick open from the deepest sleep at the sound of her voice. His eyes follow her around the room, and his brightest smiles are always for her. 

At 30 months, she has not yet made up her mind whether she likes this big sister gig. 

At 3 months, he is a cuddly bundle of happiness, radiating contentment and that milky baby smell.

At 30 months, she is a prickly ball of energy, her sunny charm inexplicably transforming into stormy rage with alarming suddenness.

Three and thirty. Together, they are exhausting, entertaining, and utterly endearing.

A big sister's prerogative

Big sis, baby bro.

Come 'ere, you knucklehead.

Don't be scared, I only want to kiss you.

I also want to squash you like a bug, what fun!

It's okay, we're like this only.

And so the saga continues: she loves him one minute, hates him the next. He's just bewildered by it all.

In this moment

There is a moment, every morning, when I look into my son's sleeping face and gently call his name. 'Good morning, pumpkin', I say, and watch his eyelids flutter and his face scrunch up at the sound of my voice. He stretches luxuriously and opens his eyes. A few seconds to focus, then his eyes light up and the most delicious smile of recognition spreads across his face.

It is a moment that obliterates the memory of the many sleepless hours that went before. That leaches away the tiredness from my bones. That fills the room with sunshine, no matter what the weather.

It is a moment that I savour, knowing that soon it will just be another fading memory of his babyhood.

But that is tomorrow - for today, this day, this moment is enough.

Six weeks

For those of you who wanted to compare, here are MnM at six weeks:

One month of Munch

It appears Munch is going to be the family clown. Really, I think he's hilarious. I don't recall being this amused by Moppet when she was this age. To be fair though, I was probably too tense and worried about the whole motherhood gig to really enjoy her at that age. But with Munch I'm more relaxed, and able to laugh at all the silly squishy faces he makes, and enjoy the funny squealing sounds he produces without worrying if it's 'normal'.

So I can laugh at all the faces he produced when we were trying to click his passport photo, without worrying about his pronounced baby squint.

Or when he grabs his own hair and squeals in pain, not knowing why his head hurts and not able to do anything about it, I have to admit I laugh heartily before prying his fingers loose. (The memory of Moppet doing this as well came back to me as I saw Munch attempting to scalp himself. It seems there's a good reason why most babies are born bald.)

I was delighted when I got splattered with my first 'fountain' pee. It gets old pretty quickly of course, but the first few times, I was quite fascinated by how far it goes :-) And things that as the mother of a girl, I hadn't considered at all. For example, I realised a little too late that when you lift a little boy's legs to clean his butt, he is very likely to pee on his own head.

He's got quite a repertoire of squeals, grunts and growls, and uses them to best effect while he's feeding. It begins with loud, complaining squeals [what's taking so long? where's my food?], and then once the milk starts flowing, it's frantic gulping accompanied by little squeaks, as if his last feed was 2 days, not 2 hours ago. Then finally, as he settles down, quiet little hums of satisfaction which he keeps up till the end of the feed.

And the other sounds he produces are rather funny too. Like his cough, which sounds like very old person coughing in a baby voice, if you can imagine that. (Oooooooo-uh-uh-uh, he goes, and then follows it up with a big sigh that has me in splits each time). And in the interest of self-preservation when he grows old enough to read, maybe I shouldn't mention his musical farts?

When he's awake, he's happiest when perched on someone's shoulder, bobbing his head up and down and looking around like a curious little bug.

Kodi's Mom has said it far more eloquently than I can, but I need to echo that thought here - until Munch arrived, I couldn't quite imagine what life would be like with a second kid - and now that he's here, I know there couldn't be more perfect little person to complete our family.







*Anti-jinx sign courtesy Dotthoughts

MY Munch baby

I know Mama's been blaming me and Munch for not getting enough time to post, but y'all know that's not true, right? I've been extremely well-behaved, really. Sure, there's an occasional tantrum, but give me a break peeps, I'm two, ok?

Gotta say though, this Munch baby isn't all that much fun yet. He sleeps a lot - that's a bad example to set. Everyone keeps telling me, look Munch's sleeping, why don't you go and sleep too? As if! And when he's awake, he doesn't do much either. He's mostly either drinking Mama's dudu or doing potty all the time.

I like to take his photo with my camera when he's being changed, he makes such funny faces! And I also give dudu to my doll, just like Mama gives Munch baby. And when he sleeps, I like to wake him up by prying his eyelids open. I don't know why Mama yells whenever I try that, she's just being her usual Mama self, I guess.

I told everyone in school I'm a big sister and they were all most impressed. Mama's promised that when he's a little bigger, we can take him to my school and show him to everyone.

These days he's been awake a little more. When I kiss him, he sometimes licks me, or pokes me in the face with his hand. It makes me laugh - and seeing me laugh makes Mama laugh too. Fun times.
He's ok, my Munch baby. I think I like him.

The birth story - Part 3

Contd from Part 1: It begins and Part 2: Endless night

Rollercoaster Ride

I had had enough. Over 10 hours of painful labour and just 2 cms dilated? Cut me open, I moaned. Get this child out NOW!

Hang in there, the husband told me gently, stroking my forehead. You can do it. Come on, let's give it another hour or so.

The next 2 hours were a bit of a blur. The contractions appeared to have slowed down and were coming at 10 minute intervals. The pain was intense, but I know it was not so much the pain as the despair I was feeling that brought on tears with each contraction.

At 8.30 am, my doc finally put in an appearance. How're you doing, she asked. Not good Doc, I replied miserably, it's going too slowly. She examined me and looked up in surprise - but you're already almost 5 cm dilated, she said. I almost fell off the bed in shock. The husband gave me a huge grin and a 'see-i-told-you-so' look.

Then things really got moving - by 9 am, I was 7 cm dilated and the doc told me that since we were trying for a VBAC, I had to have an IV inserted and be hooked up to the fetal monitor for continuous monitoring from this point on. That effectively left me strapped to the bed, a terrible position for dealing with the contractions.

Having almost killed the husband by crushing his neck with my one free arm for the next few contractions, I finally gave up and asked for an epidural. I was exhausted from the all night labour, the puking, the lack of sleep, and being tied up on the bed was making it worse. Also, I knew that if for any reason I had to go in for a C-sec, having an epidural block already inserted would ensure that I could have the procedure without general anaesthesia, even if it was an emergency.

I got the epidural and though it was a low dose and I could still feel the contractions and slight pain, what blessed relief! The doc estimated that in two hours time I should be ready to push and left with a cheery I'll be back. The husband and I grinned at each other like maniacs and settled down to chat, get some updates from home on how Moppet was doing (absolutely fine, like the meltdown of the night before had never happened) and generally relax for the first time in more than 12 hours.

After an hour, the nurse came in to check on me and left looking rather unhappy. Not much progress, she said. The doc came in another hour and left looking unhappy too. Still at 7 cms, let's give it another hour, she said.

The third hour was tense. The husband watched the monitor and kept up a running commentary on my contractions in an effort to raise my flagging spirits. Wow, that's a big one; ooh that one hit 100; I bet you'll be ready in another hour; man, this kid's a strong one - look at his heartbeat etc...

The doc came back and there was still no progress. The contractions were strong, but the cervix was refusing to open further, and the baby's head was still high. The doc said that this could be an indication of CPD (cephalo pelvic disproportion) - and that we'd wait one more hour before taking a call on a C-sec.

Hour 4 seemed like it would never end. The husband was still trying to cheer me up, pointing out how strong the contractions were and reminding me of how quickly I had progressed from 2cm to 7cm, but my hope was fast fading. My body was failing me, and I felt a deep sense of disappointment.

When finally the doc came back, I knew even before she examined me that there had been no further progress. We should consider a C-sec, she said. Continuing this will put unnecessary strain on the baby, and increase the risk of uterine rupture.

I agreed. I had been mentally preparing myself for this over the last hour, but once I signed the forms, I couldn't help being consumed by bitter disappointment. The husband wiped my tears and held my hand in silence, instinctively knowing there was nothing to say at that point.

The rest was a familiar routine for me. Being prepped for the surgery. Lying in the operation theatre, staring up at the light, numb from the waist down, arms spread out like I was nailed to a fallen crucifix. A tug and a push, the sound of a baby's wail. Congratulations being offered. The husband's masked face hovering concernedly over mine. A pink squalling bundle laid next to my cheek. Tears. Joy. Relief. Exhaustion.

My son. Worth every single second of the pain and more.

Then someone turned up the morphine and I slept.

Coming shortly: Recovery room reflections.

The birth story - Part 2

...Contd from Part 1: It begins

Endless Night

So anyway there I was, convinced I had been labouring all day, and just 1 cm dilated. This did not look good. With Moppet, I had very mild contractions and yet was already 3 cm dilated by the time I reached the hospital. I had thought the second time around would be easier, but obviously Munch was determined to destroy all my preconceptions about second kids, beginning with labour!

The husband and I discussed going back home versus staying on in the hospital and finally decided to stay on. The nurse contacted my doc who suggested pethidine for the pain because it looked like it would be a long labour and the hardest part would probably only happen the next day. The pethidine would let me get some sleep, she said, and help me conserve my strength for later.

So we headed to our room, and I took the shot, which might have been water for all the good it did. Really, it was absolutely useless as pain relief and the contractions just got worse and worse. The birth unit nurse figured that I certainly wasn't one of those pop-in, pop-out cases, and left the husband and me to our own devices for the rest of the night.

It was the longest 7 hours of my life. I spent most of it pacing up and down the room, hanging on to the husband during each contraction, soft moans turning into loud cries as the pain got stronger and stronger. Wave after wave of nausea would hit after each contraction, keeping me busy till the next one came along. I filled a large basin with puke, but long after my stomach was empty, I continued to retch after each contraction.

Finally, at around 6.30 am on the 26th, I begged the husband to get the birth centre nurse. I'd been in really painful labour for another 7 hours, I must be at least 5 cms dilated by now. Right?

Wrong again! The nurse arrived and said most matter of factly - 2 cms dilated. If I'd had the strength, I'd have kicked her in the face. Instead I burst into tears and told the husband, just cut me open and get this child out.

Contd in Part 3: Rollercoaster Ride

(Apologies to readers who're in a hurry to find out what happens next, but it's not just that I get very little time to write what is a rather long story. It's also that this way, you get to feel a little bit of my pain too! ;-)

The birth story - Part 1

Warning: This post contains references to female body parts and bodily functions that one generally doesn't talk about in public. It is also loaded (far more than usual :-) with sappy emotion, so if you are the owner of a y chromosome and / or a delicate sensibility you are advised to give this set of posts a miss.

It begins

Despite my resolve to be all zen if Munch didn't arrive by his due date, I must confess to feeling rather antsy as the 21st of June came and went with no excitement other than a particularly agile housefly that confounded my efforts to kill it for most of the morning.

Bouncing around on the birthing ball, performing allegedly labour-inducing accupressure on myself, walking, swimming, visualizing going into labour, talking to the baby - nothing was working. (And no, don't tell me about orgasms - at almost 41 weeks pregnant I was NOT going to try that!)

It seems my body liked being pregnant so much it was refusing to give this baby up.

By the 24th, I was so desperate, I even considered castor oil, something I had sworn I would never do again. The next day, I was due for a checkup and a non stress test - to check if the baby was still doing ok and if the placenta function had started to deteriorate. If all was well, my doctor had said, it would just be a matter of waiting for another week. Ha, so easy for her to say!

(A word of explanation here - having had Moppet by C-sec, I was trying for a vaginal birth this time. This meant that labour couldn't be induced by the usual drugs since that has been shown to increase the risk of uterine rupture in VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean section) cases. It had to happen naturally. If it didn't, I'd have to go in for a repeat C-sec at 42 weeks.)

So anyway, on the morning of the 25th, as I was getting ready to go for the checkup, I realised that I was getting some mild contractions. Didn't tell anyone for fear that they might go away (it seemed a most reasonable fear at the time :-) and headed to the hospital. The doc did an internal exam and declared the cervix firmly closed.

But I'm having contractions, I burst out. The doc was not particularly impressed and told me to go on and take the test which would give us a clearer picture.

The birth centre nurse's reaction was far more gratifying. As the machine I was hooked to spat out a nice graph showing the baby's heartbeat and below it, my contractions, she looked at me in surprise. Oh, you're getting good contractions, she said. Yes, I grinned happily and added proudly, they're even hurting a little bit too.

Convinced I was cuckoo, she sent me back to the doc clutching my precious graph, but the damn woman was still unimpressed. Oh, she said with chilling casualness, they sometimes go away. But she was not entirely heartless, for she looked at my disappointed face and said, maybe you'll have the baby tomorrow, okay?

Okay!

So I called the husband and proudly announced that it had started, but that he didn't need to head home just yet; he should soldier on earning our daily bread (and medical coverage) and I would let him know when. Although after that bit of news, I doubt he really earned his daily wage that day :-)

Anyway, I came home and spent the day pretty much as normal, even heading out for a walk in the park with the husband that evening. The contractions were getting stronger but not coming any closer together. For most of the day the contractions were coming at 6-7 minute intervals, lasting for 35-40 seconds each.

By Moppet's bedtime, the contractions were so painful that I'd have to stop reading / talking / singing every time one came along, prompting Moppet to ask tearfully - Mama are you okay? I had wanted to put her to bed before I went to the hospital, but I realised it was beyond me. And worse, it was frightening Moppet to see me like that.

Eventually, it was Ammamma who put her to sleep, while the husband and I debated whether we should go to the hospital or not. I didn't want to go too early - somewhere in the back of my head, I felt my first c-sec was because I landed up at the hospital too soon - but staying and hearing Moppet cry for me and not being able to go to her was stressing me out even more.

Finally around 11 pm, with a whispered word to Ammamma, we headed out to the hospital. I was relieved that Moppet was finally asleep, and confident that I would be at least 3-4 cms dilated by the time I reached. After all, the pains were coming fast and furious and they'd been really strong from around 8 pm that evening. Right?

Wrong! We reached the birth unit and the nurse examined me and announced that I was 1 measly cm dilated. What?!!!

Contd in Part 2: Endless Night

Munch at home!

Well folks, he's here. Arrived on June 26th, 2pm Bangkok time. All of us are doing great, but it will take a week or so for us to find some sort of a rhythm as a new family of four.

More details later. Thank you all for your love and good wishes. It's all good! :-D

I leave you with a picture - he takes after his father, I think. Don't miss the enormous nose :-)