...when your husband comes home from office with this, because he knows you're feeling a little down about something!Sunday, January 27, 2008
True love is...
...when your husband comes home from office with this, because he knows you're feeling a little down about something!
Friday, January 25, 2008
Puds again - the learning curve
As I said recently, Puddi is going through an amazing learning journey and whenever we have the time to stop and watch, we can only marvel at how ingenuous her tiny little brain is. Last evening, Puddi marched out into the kitchen to play her favourite game of climbing on and off the low plastic stool we keep there. Shortly thereafter, she marched back into the family room with the stool in her arms. She carefully put it down in front of the toy cupboard.
The toy cupboard is an ancient cupboard we wheedled from my parents and has a front that is half glass and half wooden panels. The kids toy collection has long outgrown the cupboard and so their stuff is just piled higgledy-piggledy wherever we've found space on the shelves so it's become more a catchall than a cupboard. So anyway, Puddi hoisted her body onto the stool, doing all kinds of acrobatics on the way which made me certain she was going to tumble right off any second ( I do have some pictures which I'll post up later).
Having finally figured out how to climb and then stay on the stool without falling, she turned and stared gravely into the glass-fronted half of the cupboard. Then, she reached up her tiny hands to the latch which was firmly shut and struggled to manipulate it. That's when A and I realised that she had a definite plan hatched out and that was why she had gone and fetched the stool from the kitchen in the first place!
Eventually the latch proved too tight and also just out of her reach despite her standing on tiptoes to try and reach it so I opened the cupboard door for her. Madam instantly got in front of the open door and thoughtfully regarded each and every shelf. "Kya chahiya, what do you want?" I asked. "Ball..."
I took a look at the cupboard but didn't see any ball there. I remembered she had rolled a ball under the futon in the morning and thought she was talking about that, so A got on his hands and knees and dug it out for her. I pointed it out and said, "See - ball". Puddi shook her head - No. I pointed to a tiger in the cupboard and asked if she wanted that. She waved that away imperiously.
Finally she got onto her haunches, to be able to see the bottom shelves better, dug deep into the cupboard and triumphantly emerged with the toy she had been looking for - Chubbocks's toy robot. She tends to call all toys 'ball' but in her mind had been perfectly clear about what she wanted, and made sure she got it too!
The toy cupboard is an ancient cupboard we wheedled from my parents and has a front that is half glass and half wooden panels. The kids toy collection has long outgrown the cupboard and so their stuff is just piled higgledy-piggledy wherever we've found space on the shelves so it's become more a catchall than a cupboard. So anyway, Puddi hoisted her body onto the stool, doing all kinds of acrobatics on the way which made me certain she was going to tumble right off any second ( I do have some pictures which I'll post up later).
Having finally figured out how to climb and then stay on the stool without falling, she turned and stared gravely into the glass-fronted half of the cupboard. Then, she reached up her tiny hands to the latch which was firmly shut and struggled to manipulate it. That's when A and I realised that she had a definite plan hatched out and that was why she had gone and fetched the stool from the kitchen in the first place!
Eventually the latch proved too tight and also just out of her reach despite her standing on tiptoes to try and reach it so I opened the cupboard door for her. Madam instantly got in front of the open door and thoughtfully regarded each and every shelf. "Kya chahiya, what do you want?" I asked. "Ball..."I took a look at the cupboard but didn't see any ball there. I remembered she had rolled a ball under the futon in the morning and thought she was talking about that, so A got on his hands and knees and dug it out for her. I pointed it out and said, "See - ball". Puddi shook her head - No. I pointed to a tiger in the cupboard and asked if she wanted that. She waved that away imperiously.
Finally she got onto her haunches, to be able to see the bottom shelves better, dug deep into the cupboard and triumphantly emerged with the toy she had been looking for - Chubbocks's toy robot. She tends to call all toys 'ball' but in her mind had been perfectly clear about what she wanted, and made sure she got it too!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Tagged
Tagged by madmomma, I'm taking you through The Story of Me, through blogs.
The rules: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better. Now don’t forget to read the archived posts and leave comments.
Well, my links are going to be on a varied set of subjects because I blog about a lot of different things and haven't really mentioned any of these specifically as the focus of any posts...Family - I wrote about my grandma here and here who I think is just awesome. There's a hysterically funny story from a summer back when I was in college. And many of my memories related to food and family.
Friend - weirdly, haven't really blogged about them. Did do a draft once, but it didn't read well to me so never posted it. But I will tell you that I'm lucky enough to have 2 BFFs/ soul sistahs and we've survived going from single-ready-to-mingle fashionistas to married to mothers who think they're well-dressed if they don't have a snotty towel perched on their shoulders with our friendships intact. Now sanity, I'm not so sure about!
Me: well, the whole blog/ blogs is me, dontcha think? Though, thanks to mummyjaan, I did find this one.
Love: Well, now, that opens up the floodgates, in more ways than one. I love books and reading, music, gardens, monsoons, winters, food, India...but even more, I love my babies, Chubbocks who's growing up too fast and Puddi - the urchin princess whose smile makes my day, and my better one third.
Anything I like - I'd classify that as posts which I enjoy reading over again or which speak about something dear to my heart, so I'll start with mother love and the issues of being a working mom, and about bringing up a mixed up family. I always think age is such a non-issue too. I'm really looking forward to our summer holiday by train after re-reading this. You can see what A and I look like here. And these are some of my favourite recent food posts: Secret sauce, Terroir and Chocolate.
Now to tag, I pick:
Sujatha
mummyjaan
Anita
Indosungod and
Shella
The rules: Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better. Now don’t forget to read the archived posts and leave comments.
Well, my links are going to be on a varied set of subjects because I blog about a lot of different things and haven't really mentioned any of these specifically as the focus of any posts...Family - I wrote about my grandma here and here who I think is just awesome. There's a hysterically funny story from a summer back when I was in college. And many of my memories related to food and family.
Friend - weirdly, haven't really blogged about them. Did do a draft once, but it didn't read well to me so never posted it. But I will tell you that I'm lucky enough to have 2 BFFs/ soul sistahs and we've survived going from single-ready-to-mingle fashionistas to married to mothers who think they're well-dressed if they don't have a snotty towel perched on their shoulders with our friendships intact. Now sanity, I'm not so sure about!
Me: well, the whole blog/ blogs is me, dontcha think? Though, thanks to mummyjaan, I did find this one.
Love: Well, now, that opens up the floodgates, in more ways than one. I love books and reading, music, gardens, monsoons, winters, food, India...but even more, I love my babies, Chubbocks who's growing up too fast and Puddi - the urchin princess whose smile makes my day, and my better one third.
Anything I like - I'd classify that as posts which I enjoy reading over again or which speak about something dear to my heart, so I'll start with mother love and the issues of being a working mom, and about bringing up a mixed up family. I always think age is such a non-issue too. I'm really looking forward to our summer holiday by train after re-reading this. You can see what A and I look like here. And these are some of my favourite recent food posts: Secret sauce, Terroir and Chocolate.
Now to tag, I pick:
Sujatha
mummyjaan
Anita
Indosungod and
Shella
Being Proposed to...
One of my cousins - whom I didn't recognise from this story, by the way - was madly in love with his girlfriend, but not yet ready to commit. She, being a sensible woman, threw him out. Shortly before her 24th birthday. And in the few days that he was in the doghouse, S realised he would do anything for her, including the big M. So he turned up on her 24th birthday, with a bouquet of 24 red roses. And 24 gifts, one for each hour of the day/ years she had been on earth/ whatever. And proposed on bended knee. She took her time figuring out what to say to this change-able man. And he pleads romantically, "Hurry up and say yes. My knees are killing me!" Eventually she figured that even if he was hopeless, he was her hopeless and so they did get together for the happy-ever-after.
After a romantic story like that in the family, naturally I expected a lot. I'd had my share of proposals, including a crazy one from a boyfriend back in college( now a dear friend) who took me to JNU one day and said, a propos of nothing ( ha ha no pun intended) - 5 years from now, I'll bring you back here and propose to you. I ran like a hare - no way could I commit to 5 years ahead when still in college.
Anyway, A and I had had this on-again, off-again relationship for quite some time. He proposed quite a few times, but I was never ready because of a variety of reasons. Finally I decided that this was THE man and told him I was ready. A kept waiting to propose in some super-romantic way and I got a little impatient because I wanted to tell my parents and get the all-hell-breaking-loose part over with. Finally one day as we parked the car under a tree in the parking lot behind office ( no naughty thoughts - we were back from a client meeting), I said, "Hurry up and propose!" And A said, "Uh...so will you marry me?" He didn't even have a ring ready - and till date I don't have an engagement ring. I did get him one later but he dropped it down a drain in France.
So much for romantic proposals. Humph!
After a romantic story like that in the family, naturally I expected a lot. I'd had my share of proposals, including a crazy one from a boyfriend back in college( now a dear friend) who took me to JNU one day and said, a propos of nothing ( ha ha no pun intended) - 5 years from now, I'll bring you back here and propose to you. I ran like a hare - no way could I commit to 5 years ahead when still in college.
Anyway, A and I had had this on-again, off-again relationship for quite some time. He proposed quite a few times, but I was never ready because of a variety of reasons. Finally I decided that this was THE man and told him I was ready. A kept waiting to propose in some super-romantic way and I got a little impatient because I wanted to tell my parents and get the all-hell-breaking-loose part over with. Finally one day as we parked the car under a tree in the parking lot behind office ( no naughty thoughts - we were back from a client meeting), I said, "Hurry up and propose!" And A said, "Uh...so will you marry me?" He didn't even have a ring ready - and till date I don't have an engagement ring. I did get him one later but he dropped it down a drain in France.
So much for romantic proposals. Humph!
Sunday, January 20, 2008
True love is...
when your better one third, instead of raving about the unholy mess of clothes you have piled up in the messing room, neatly folds and sorts them into categorized piles....I'm turning into a puddle of mush right now!
Thursday, January 17, 2008
What are they thinking...
Puddi is at a very interesting stage of development right now. All her gears and wheels and cogs are constantly turning as she explores the world around her and tries to figure out how it works. These days, you only have to use a phrase once for it to stick in her mind, and I find myself amazed at the way she can call it to mind at apt moments. She recently learned to say 'Pata nahi' (I don't know). Yesterday the lady who's looking after her temporarily while our regular one is away on vacation asked her, "Where is Anuroopa?" Promptly, the little tyke says, "Pata nai". Puddi was visiting our downstairs neighbour when I got back from work last evening. While turning to leave, I said "Theek hai" about something. Immediately the little one pipes up, "Theek hai, bye, cheeeyuuu".
She's always up to something because she really wants to test her limits( and our nerves) - climbing on and off the sofa, the arm of the futon, the glass table in the drawing room, trying to jump while perched on a swing or on my parents' rather high bed...She loves water - maane, as she calls it - and one of her favourite games, after drinking as much as she wants, it to take some in her mouth and experiment as to what sounds she can emit. She also picks up whatever water glasses she can find ( all steel tumblers, thank god ) and carefully props them one on top of another, trying to check in which position they will stay upright and which way they'll fall down.
She loves books and runs around digging out books from Chubbocks' bookshelf all day. She carefully opens them - by now she knows not to tear the pages - and looks at first one page then the other to figure out what's written. She'll let out a laugh at an illustration, as if she finds something really funny about it. At night, when Chubbocks is having his 3 stories read out to him, madam cuddles up to me, having duly picked out a book or whacked one from his selection, and asks to be read to. I don't know how much of the story she understands or even how many of the words, and whether she is only mirroring Chubbocks, but it's fascinating to watch.
She loves music too. These days, Chubbocks is into watching the Krishna cartoon on cartoon network, whenever he's up that late. Puddi, if not otherwise occupied - i.e. gargling with water, running around the house like a loon, tumbling off the bed - also watches alongside, and loves the song which comes on afterwards. She can't not dance if there is any music coming from anywhere, and now tries to sing along to the show's tune while swaying her tiny body. Chubbocks has picked up the words of Bum Bum Bhole from TZP, and Puddi has learnt some of them from listening to him, so whenever he's singing, she also says, "ba ba doday", swinging her chubby little butt from side to side. It's fascinating to see, if we put on a music CD, that for each song she varies the steps and the way she moves her body - for some she'll just swing her hips, for some she'll try to jump, for others she'll raise her pink index fingers in the Bhangra gesture, and for others she'll move her arms up and down. All the more intriguing because I haven't started teaching her the typical song and action stuff yet.
She's been watching my parents do their daily puja and prayers and has learnt to do a beautiful namaskaara, where she lays her whole body down on the floor. She loves ringing the small bell at prayertime. Yesterday, she picked up the bell in one hand and the brass plate for aarti in the other, and rang one and made circular motions with the other in perfect imitation of dad, while singing her own prayer - a chant composed of la la la ye yo do da...
I know I went through this period of intense curiosity even when Chubbocks was small and I'm going through it with Puddi. I wish there was some way in which I could get inside her head, to understand how she's learning and processing everything she sees and hears, what she's making of it all, what she's thinking, what her emotions are as she goes through her action-packed day. There are so many books on the human brain and on adults and the way they think and feel - fiction and non-fiction. But I guess, limited by their ability to communicate, we have no such resources on toddler minds, and all we can do is stand back and marvel at what God has gifted to us.
She's always up to something because she really wants to test her limits( and our nerves) - climbing on and off the sofa, the arm of the futon, the glass table in the drawing room, trying to jump while perched on a swing or on my parents' rather high bed...She loves water - maane, as she calls it - and one of her favourite games, after drinking as much as she wants, it to take some in her mouth and experiment as to what sounds she can emit. She also picks up whatever water glasses she can find ( all steel tumblers, thank god ) and carefully props them one on top of another, trying to check in which position they will stay upright and which way they'll fall down.
She loves books and runs around digging out books from Chubbocks' bookshelf all day. She carefully opens them - by now she knows not to tear the pages - and looks at first one page then the other to figure out what's written. She'll let out a laugh at an illustration, as if she finds something really funny about it. At night, when Chubbocks is having his 3 stories read out to him, madam cuddles up to me, having duly picked out a book or whacked one from his selection, and asks to be read to. I don't know how much of the story she understands or even how many of the words, and whether she is only mirroring Chubbocks, but it's fascinating to watch.
She loves music too. These days, Chubbocks is into watching the Krishna cartoon on cartoon network, whenever he's up that late. Puddi, if not otherwise occupied - i.e. gargling with water, running around the house like a loon, tumbling off the bed - also watches alongside, and loves the song which comes on afterwards. She can't not dance if there is any music coming from anywhere, and now tries to sing along to the show's tune while swaying her tiny body. Chubbocks has picked up the words of Bum Bum Bhole from TZP, and Puddi has learnt some of them from listening to him, so whenever he's singing, she also says, "ba ba doday", swinging her chubby little butt from side to side. It's fascinating to see, if we put on a music CD, that for each song she varies the steps and the way she moves her body - for some she'll just swing her hips, for some she'll try to jump, for others she'll raise her pink index fingers in the Bhangra gesture, and for others she'll move her arms up and down. All the more intriguing because I haven't started teaching her the typical song and action stuff yet.
She's been watching my parents do their daily puja and prayers and has learnt to do a beautiful namaskaara, where she lays her whole body down on the floor. She loves ringing the small bell at prayertime. Yesterday, she picked up the bell in one hand and the brass plate for aarti in the other, and rang one and made circular motions with the other in perfect imitation of dad, while singing her own prayer - a chant composed of la la la ye yo do da...
I know I went through this period of intense curiosity even when Chubbocks was small and I'm going through it with Puddi. I wish there was some way in which I could get inside her head, to understand how she's learning and processing everything she sees and hears, what she's making of it all, what she's thinking, what her emotions are as she goes through her action-packed day. There are so many books on the human brain and on adults and the way they think and feel - fiction and non-fiction. But I guess, limited by their ability to communicate, we have no such resources on toddler minds, and all we can do is stand back and marvel at what God has gifted to us.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Cesarian deliveries
I'm terrified of pain. I have no qualms in admitting it - I flinch even at the thought. I'm the kind that, when I go to the dentist, starts boo-hooing, has to have someone hold my hand and starts wincing in pain as soon as the dentist puts his flashlight in my mouth. So was I going to let myself in for a normal delivery and God knows how many hours of pain? Uh, I don't think so.
My doctor, a stern martinet, kind of like a high-school principal, would tell me in her high voice, "Things are going very well. You're all set for a normal delivery", as if she was giving me some good news, and I'd smile palely and skedaddle on out of there to moan in fear to A.
Somewhere around the 7-month mark of an otherwise smooth pregnancy, I started itching. Itching as in so crazy with the need that I sat up all night scrubbing myself with the clothes-washing brush. So we rushed to the hospital and were told it's something to do with the liver and I needed medication. It's called cholesthiasis and basically means that bile starts building up in the mother's body. There were medicines to ease the itching, but that pretty much put paid to the possibility of a normal delivery.
Then when I was about 9 months along, I started to feel really hot on my face one morning, as if I was flushed, even though I wasn't. My BP was normal, but that night my body swelled up. I gained 5 kilos of weight overnight and looked as bloated as a whale. The doc said to come on in and check myself into the hospital. Mom had organised one of my God bharaai events for that afternoon, and thereafter we went to the hospital. My BP which is usually very healthy, had skyrocketed to something like 160 or 180. I was put on a drip and told I'd have to stay there and they'd observe me.
Now hospital stays are amongst the worst things on earth. First of all the boredom. Then, the inability to move around without having someone unhook you from the painful drip. Then the food. I have thin veins so the blood would constantly clot up and make the drip highly painful. Like the human pincushion I'd been through the pregnancy, I had to constantly be injected with something that delays clotting - gory, eh?
The BP didn't come down despite the boredom they induced, and to cinch the matter, Chubbocks had wound the cord around his neck rather tightly and was in breech position, so it had to be a C section. "We'll watch her till Saturday and then we'll decide", says the doc sternly on Thursday. "But I'm going to Bombay on Saturday", says A. Doc gives him a piercing glance. "Saturday morning". "Yes ma'am". A still claims that he uttered those words on a purely reflexive urge, without thinking, and didn't mean - can she wait while I finish my business trip.
I, who am usually non-observing, asked Dad if he could go to the Ganesh temple for me and break a coconut there before coming to the hospital Saturday morning. All manner of dark thoughts about death were running around in my head the night before the surgery, and I kept instructing A about what to do for Chubbocks in case it happened, at which A stuck his fingers in his ears and refused to listen anymore. A asked if he could be present during the surgery but the Doc said she didn't let fathers in on principle, because she'd rather attend to the original patient than a fainting dad. I had no intention of hanging around half conscious while they yanked and pulled and blood came out of me so blissfully sank into the general anaesthetic.
I have to admit, I did have the out-of-body experience that general anaesthesia induces in some people. At one point, I felt myself going down this peaceful, calm white tunnel. There was a blaze of light and of joy at the end of it and I speeded up my footsteps as I got closer and closer to it. But then, suddenly, I thought of A and how much I'd miss him and how he'd feel if I didn't come back, and of my infant son and how he would need me. I reluctantly turned my back on that place of joy and retraced my steps, glancing at it over my shoulder and saying, "Not now. Not yet." I resurfaced and saw someone lying on the surgical bed. I could feel some tugging and pulling going on, and I saw a technician and the doctor's face in the mask. Then I decided I didn't want to know anymore, because the person on the bed was me. I went back into the body and retreated to a quiet, dark place this time.
I resurfaced many hours later in my hospital room, with my parents, my inlaws and A in the room. I had asked dad to take a video pic of the baby as soon as he came out, and I saw the picture. I couldn't tell much about the baby from the picture, though everyone around me said he was cute. I felt nothing towards him at that moment either, and just had an overwhelmingly groggy need for everyone to go away and let me be.
I recovered from the surgery pretty quickly. The second time we were having a baby, I hoped it would be a painless C section again, but the doc, with what I thought was a malicious glint, insisted that I could have a normal delivery this time. BP monitored - check. Cholesthiasis pre-prepared for - check. Baby had wound cord around her neck but only little bit which would slip off - check.
Then we went shopping for the baby's clothes, one saturday. As I got out of the car, I stepped on a loose stone and promptly turned my ankle on it. I sank back into the car with a loud cry, and tears of pain started pouring down my cheeks. A and Chubbocks were horrified and alarmed. "I think it's a sprain. Get me a painkiller", I managed to say and they raced off. I gulped the tablet down and we went on to shopping and lunch and then a visit to my sis-in-law in town from Toronto, with me propping my leg up everywhere, since it was still hurting. Back home I went upstairs to nap for the afternoon. When I woke up, I set foot on the ground and it had swollen up badly. I hollered for A who was sitting downstairs and he came running. Poor thing had to help me to the loo - than which I can think of no other more intimate service - and we dashed to an orthopaedic. Sure enough, had broken two bones in my ankle. I couldn't take any medicines apart from the crocin, though the doc put a new fancy-type plastic plaster on the ankle which immediately dried up, was light and could be bathed with.
We were back at the ob-gyn's the next morning and she looked worried but still pressed for a normal delivery. I of course was insisting on working until just a week before the due date, so hobbled in and out despite the doctor's orders and my extreme ungainliness, especially with the plaster. Then I started getting stomach pains and when the Ob-gyn saw me, she said my old C-sec stitches had come loose with the body movements during the broken ankle incident and the Puddi's kicking, so there was no way they could take the risk of a normal delivery.
This time we were much calmer about the surgery, and had packed up all the baby's clothes and nappies, diapers etc. I tried to sleep but couldn't the whole night, and went to hospital in my PJs, figuring who's going to see me at 6 am. The doc said they would deliver the baby with an epidural only. I protested that there was no way I wanted to see, hear, fell anything that was going on and preferred to pass out. She rebuked me and read me a stern lecture on moving with the times and did I know that I would lose only a quarter of the blood that I'd lose with General Anaesthetic and so on. I finally agreed and we rolled into the OT.
The anaesthesiologist says lean over and I'm going to inject you...now your toes are getting heavy...now your legs are getting numb. I experimentally wiggle my toes and say, yeah, my little toe does feel kind of heavy. They exchange glances over my head and give me another dose. Are your toes getting heavy now...are your legs getting numb...Well, my little toe does feel heavier and number, I guess...Finally the doc decides that maybe it's psychosomatic and that she should try a little nick with her scalpel. I almost fall off the bed flailing from the pain. I'm surprised the roof didn't cave in from my scream. They exchange resigned looks, and then I'm off to la-la-land.
I woke up only that evening, having taken so much anaesthetic in. Everything was all blurry and I figured that was because I was still groggy. I could barely see what the baby looked like. The whole night, my eyes hurt every time I open them so I keep them tightly shut. I haven't been able to take a good look at the baby. I don't know why they make hospital beds so narrow you feel like you may fall off every time you move.
By morning, my eyes are still smarting and teary. We call in the doc, the nurse...the doc calls in a senior ophthalmologist by midday because I'm seeing ten of everything. Oh, it's nothing to do with the surgery, maybe your eyesight was weak, he says. Pardon me, but do you think I might have noticed if I was seeing ten of everything, even before the surgery? Oh right...then some eyedrops and eye exercises are prescribed. There's no effect and I begin to have terrifying visions of having to go through life like this. Everything I do and like uses my eyesight - reading, writing, watching films, painting - how will I manage? Eventually it takes a good three days before the tearing up stops, and a further ten days of regular eye exercises before my vision goes down from seeing ten to only three of everything - and that starts to feel almost normal! My eyesight is still not back to the way it was before, and things that looked crystal clear before are still blurry to me at a smaller distance than before, though the power hasn't increased drastically. My uncle, who's been through it ( surgery and general anaesthesia, not pregnancy and C section), says it might be nerve damage. It might take years for the nerves to recover.
Well, that's the price I paid for having two beautiful little children and while I may wish I didn't have the side effects, I can't imagine life without my two rainbows.
Strangely, my good friend S had her second child, a girl, recently, and she had the same experience with the anaesthetic, though thankfully not with the eyesight. She's an Arian too, like me, and we were actually wondering if there is some congenital predisposition against anaesthetics...???( music from the twilight zone...)
My doctor, a stern martinet, kind of like a high-school principal, would tell me in her high voice, "Things are going very well. You're all set for a normal delivery", as if she was giving me some good news, and I'd smile palely and skedaddle on out of there to moan in fear to A.
Somewhere around the 7-month mark of an otherwise smooth pregnancy, I started itching. Itching as in so crazy with the need that I sat up all night scrubbing myself with the clothes-washing brush. So we rushed to the hospital and were told it's something to do with the liver and I needed medication. It's called cholesthiasis and basically means that bile starts building up in the mother's body. There were medicines to ease the itching, but that pretty much put paid to the possibility of a normal delivery.
Then when I was about 9 months along, I started to feel really hot on my face one morning, as if I was flushed, even though I wasn't. My BP was normal, but that night my body swelled up. I gained 5 kilos of weight overnight and looked as bloated as a whale. The doc said to come on in and check myself into the hospital. Mom had organised one of my God bharaai events for that afternoon, and thereafter we went to the hospital. My BP which is usually very healthy, had skyrocketed to something like 160 or 180. I was put on a drip and told I'd have to stay there and they'd observe me.
Now hospital stays are amongst the worst things on earth. First of all the boredom. Then, the inability to move around without having someone unhook you from the painful drip. Then the food. I have thin veins so the blood would constantly clot up and make the drip highly painful. Like the human pincushion I'd been through the pregnancy, I had to constantly be injected with something that delays clotting - gory, eh?
The BP didn't come down despite the boredom they induced, and to cinch the matter, Chubbocks had wound the cord around his neck rather tightly and was in breech position, so it had to be a C section. "We'll watch her till Saturday and then we'll decide", says the doc sternly on Thursday. "But I'm going to Bombay on Saturday", says A. Doc gives him a piercing glance. "Saturday morning". "Yes ma'am". A still claims that he uttered those words on a purely reflexive urge, without thinking, and didn't mean - can she wait while I finish my business trip.
I, who am usually non-observing, asked Dad if he could go to the Ganesh temple for me and break a coconut there before coming to the hospital Saturday morning. All manner of dark thoughts about death were running around in my head the night before the surgery, and I kept instructing A about what to do for Chubbocks in case it happened, at which A stuck his fingers in his ears and refused to listen anymore. A asked if he could be present during the surgery but the Doc said she didn't let fathers in on principle, because she'd rather attend to the original patient than a fainting dad. I had no intention of hanging around half conscious while they yanked and pulled and blood came out of me so blissfully sank into the general anaesthetic.
I have to admit, I did have the out-of-body experience that general anaesthesia induces in some people. At one point, I felt myself going down this peaceful, calm white tunnel. There was a blaze of light and of joy at the end of it and I speeded up my footsteps as I got closer and closer to it. But then, suddenly, I thought of A and how much I'd miss him and how he'd feel if I didn't come back, and of my infant son and how he would need me. I reluctantly turned my back on that place of joy and retraced my steps, glancing at it over my shoulder and saying, "Not now. Not yet." I resurfaced and saw someone lying on the surgical bed. I could feel some tugging and pulling going on, and I saw a technician and the doctor's face in the mask. Then I decided I didn't want to know anymore, because the person on the bed was me. I went back into the body and retreated to a quiet, dark place this time.
I resurfaced many hours later in my hospital room, with my parents, my inlaws and A in the room. I had asked dad to take a video pic of the baby as soon as he came out, and I saw the picture. I couldn't tell much about the baby from the picture, though everyone around me said he was cute. I felt nothing towards him at that moment either, and just had an overwhelmingly groggy need for everyone to go away and let me be.
I recovered from the surgery pretty quickly. The second time we were having a baby, I hoped it would be a painless C section again, but the doc, with what I thought was a malicious glint, insisted that I could have a normal delivery this time. BP monitored - check. Cholesthiasis pre-prepared for - check. Baby had wound cord around her neck but only little bit which would slip off - check.
Then we went shopping for the baby's clothes, one saturday. As I got out of the car, I stepped on a loose stone and promptly turned my ankle on it. I sank back into the car with a loud cry, and tears of pain started pouring down my cheeks. A and Chubbocks were horrified and alarmed. "I think it's a sprain. Get me a painkiller", I managed to say and they raced off. I gulped the tablet down and we went on to shopping and lunch and then a visit to my sis-in-law in town from Toronto, with me propping my leg up everywhere, since it was still hurting. Back home I went upstairs to nap for the afternoon. When I woke up, I set foot on the ground and it had swollen up badly. I hollered for A who was sitting downstairs and he came running. Poor thing had to help me to the loo - than which I can think of no other more intimate service - and we dashed to an orthopaedic. Sure enough, had broken two bones in my ankle. I couldn't take any medicines apart from the crocin, though the doc put a new fancy-type plastic plaster on the ankle which immediately dried up, was light and could be bathed with.
We were back at the ob-gyn's the next morning and she looked worried but still pressed for a normal delivery. I of course was insisting on working until just a week before the due date, so hobbled in and out despite the doctor's orders and my extreme ungainliness, especially with the plaster. Then I started getting stomach pains and when the Ob-gyn saw me, she said my old C-sec stitches had come loose with the body movements during the broken ankle incident and the Puddi's kicking, so there was no way they could take the risk of a normal delivery.
This time we were much calmer about the surgery, and had packed up all the baby's clothes and nappies, diapers etc. I tried to sleep but couldn't the whole night, and went to hospital in my PJs, figuring who's going to see me at 6 am. The doc said they would deliver the baby with an epidural only. I protested that there was no way I wanted to see, hear, fell anything that was going on and preferred to pass out. She rebuked me and read me a stern lecture on moving with the times and did I know that I would lose only a quarter of the blood that I'd lose with General Anaesthetic and so on. I finally agreed and we rolled into the OT.
The anaesthesiologist says lean over and I'm going to inject you...now your toes are getting heavy...now your legs are getting numb. I experimentally wiggle my toes and say, yeah, my little toe does feel kind of heavy. They exchange glances over my head and give me another dose. Are your toes getting heavy now...are your legs getting numb...Well, my little toe does feel heavier and number, I guess...Finally the doc decides that maybe it's psychosomatic and that she should try a little nick with her scalpel. I almost fall off the bed flailing from the pain. I'm surprised the roof didn't cave in from my scream. They exchange resigned looks, and then I'm off to la-la-land.
I woke up only that evening, having taken so much anaesthetic in. Everything was all blurry and I figured that was because I was still groggy. I could barely see what the baby looked like. The whole night, my eyes hurt every time I open them so I keep them tightly shut. I haven't been able to take a good look at the baby. I don't know why they make hospital beds so narrow you feel like you may fall off every time you move.
By morning, my eyes are still smarting and teary. We call in the doc, the nurse...the doc calls in a senior ophthalmologist by midday because I'm seeing ten of everything. Oh, it's nothing to do with the surgery, maybe your eyesight was weak, he says. Pardon me, but do you think I might have noticed if I was seeing ten of everything, even before the surgery? Oh right...then some eyedrops and eye exercises are prescribed. There's no effect and I begin to have terrifying visions of having to go through life like this. Everything I do and like uses my eyesight - reading, writing, watching films, painting - how will I manage? Eventually it takes a good three days before the tearing up stops, and a further ten days of regular eye exercises before my vision goes down from seeing ten to only three of everything - and that starts to feel almost normal! My eyesight is still not back to the way it was before, and things that looked crystal clear before are still blurry to me at a smaller distance than before, though the power hasn't increased drastically. My uncle, who's been through it ( surgery and general anaesthesia, not pregnancy and C section), says it might be nerve damage. It might take years for the nerves to recover.
Well, that's the price I paid for having two beautiful little children and while I may wish I didn't have the side effects, I can't imagine life without my two rainbows.
Strangely, my good friend S had her second child, a girl, recently, and she had the same experience with the anaesthetic, though thankfully not with the eyesight. She's an Arian too, like me, and we were actually wondering if there is some congenital predisposition against anaesthetics...???( music from the twilight zone...)
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Protective Instinct
I knew when I was going to become a mother, that I didn't want to be a hyper-involved and over protective mother. By hyper-involved, I mean the kind that organises their whole lives around the children and disconnects the cable when their exams are coming up, who get competitive about how their kids are doing in every sphere and so on. And over-protective mothers who cluck over their kids all the time fuss me to death. I wanted to be a chilled out mom, much like my mother who is intensely loving and maternal, but has always has her own stuff to do and never hovered over us, watching each move. She and dad never fussed when we had exams or homework, it was our 'job' to study and do well and get it done on our own, though of course if we had questions or doubts we always got help.
It's a bit annoying for me to discover that I am an over protective mother after all. I make sure my over-protective instincts don't come out and affect my kids but they're clamouring inside me each time I see Chubbocks trying to do a flying leap or every time Puddi climbs on or off a sofa. The other day Chubbocks lost a race with A and got really upset about it. We were trying to tell him that it's ok to lose and he should enjoy the running more than winning. that's when he told us sadly, "But main to school mein bhi roz haar jata hoon." ( But I lose in school every day). It just wrings my heart and I don't know how to deal with it. A and I had a long discussion over the weekend over what we could do and how we could help the little kiddo win just one race at school.
I can still be a little tough when it comes to the kids tumbling around and getting hurt - I figure that's how they'll learn, but when it comes to emotional distress it's almost too hard for me to cope with. Chubbocks is quite different from many of the other boys who come to the park. He is more gentle, more polite and as such a favourite with the girls. But he wants to play with the boys and so he desperately tries to ape them, tumbling about, yelling, talking loudly and asking them to see this or that. Sometimes the other boys play with him, but some days they are too busy rough-housing with each other and ignore him. It's like a knife to the heart to watch him desperately trying to reach out and get their attention, or try and be as tough as them in an effort to win them over. I want to grab each one of them and threaten them...or beg them...to play with my little Chubbocks.
Most of all I want to protect them from me and A - from our tempers when we're stressed out or irritated...from disappointing the kids' little hopes by canceling plans or by not paying attention to the things that seem tiny to us and loom large in their world. Yesterday, Puddi was playing in the garden and repeatedly touching the rose bush which is quite thorny. The stubborn little thing just refused to understand the word no, though she is usually very good about it. I got irritated and scared and smacked her on the hand. She looked up at me, her lips quivering, her face crestfallen and eyes uncertain...this was the first time ever that her mama had smacked her. She didn't know how to deal with the fact that mama, her protector, had hurt her. This morning, Chubbocks was running around and playing instead of getting ready for school. We were all in a rush and A yelled at him to stop wasting time, so Chubbocks says, "Why are you always angry with me, abba?"
Both A and I have spent the day feeling sick with guilt and at the same time aware that we might do something similar again. It's not something we mean or plan or want to do, but like they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions...
How in the world do you keep a child safe, apart from cocooning him or her in cottonwool and stuffing them in a vacuum? Do you harden your heart and say everyone goes through the same thing and that getting hurt makes them toughen up? Do you filter out the entire world, only exposing them to the things that you think don't hurt them and what does that do to their worldview when they step outside the comfort zone of your home and your environment? Do you teach your kid to be tough, to hit back when someone hits them even if that doesn't fit with your values, because you don't want your kid being beaten up by anyone? Or do you just hope that the process of getting hurt is also the process of learning and silently stand by, bandaid and huggy arms ready?
It's a bit annoying for me to discover that I am an over protective mother after all. I make sure my over-protective instincts don't come out and affect my kids but they're clamouring inside me each time I see Chubbocks trying to do a flying leap or every time Puddi climbs on or off a sofa. The other day Chubbocks lost a race with A and got really upset about it. We were trying to tell him that it's ok to lose and he should enjoy the running more than winning. that's when he told us sadly, "But main to school mein bhi roz haar jata hoon." ( But I lose in school every day). It just wrings my heart and I don't know how to deal with it. A and I had a long discussion over the weekend over what we could do and how we could help the little kiddo win just one race at school.
I can still be a little tough when it comes to the kids tumbling around and getting hurt - I figure that's how they'll learn, but when it comes to emotional distress it's almost too hard for me to cope with. Chubbocks is quite different from many of the other boys who come to the park. He is more gentle, more polite and as such a favourite with the girls. But he wants to play with the boys and so he desperately tries to ape them, tumbling about, yelling, talking loudly and asking them to see this or that. Sometimes the other boys play with him, but some days they are too busy rough-housing with each other and ignore him. It's like a knife to the heart to watch him desperately trying to reach out and get their attention, or try and be as tough as them in an effort to win them over. I want to grab each one of them and threaten them...or beg them...to play with my little Chubbocks.
Most of all I want to protect them from me and A - from our tempers when we're stressed out or irritated...from disappointing the kids' little hopes by canceling plans or by not paying attention to the things that seem tiny to us and loom large in their world. Yesterday, Puddi was playing in the garden and repeatedly touching the rose bush which is quite thorny. The stubborn little thing just refused to understand the word no, though she is usually very good about it. I got irritated and scared and smacked her on the hand. She looked up at me, her lips quivering, her face crestfallen and eyes uncertain...this was the first time ever that her mama had smacked her. She didn't know how to deal with the fact that mama, her protector, had hurt her. This morning, Chubbocks was running around and playing instead of getting ready for school. We were all in a rush and A yelled at him to stop wasting time, so Chubbocks says, "Why are you always angry with me, abba?"
Both A and I have spent the day feeling sick with guilt and at the same time aware that we might do something similar again. It's not something we mean or plan or want to do, but like they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions...
How in the world do you keep a child safe, apart from cocooning him or her in cottonwool and stuffing them in a vacuum? Do you harden your heart and say everyone goes through the same thing and that getting hurt makes them toughen up? Do you filter out the entire world, only exposing them to the things that you think don't hurt them and what does that do to their worldview when they step outside the comfort zone of your home and your environment? Do you teach your kid to be tough, to hit back when someone hits them even if that doesn't fit with your values, because you don't want your kid being beaten up by anyone? Or do you just hope that the process of getting hurt is also the process of learning and silently stand by, bandaid and huggy arms ready?
Inheritance
This morning, A was looking at Puddi and marvelling, "How did we ever get this perfect little thing?" DNA is a peculiar thing - sometimes you see the plainest of people (yes, the shoe fits, if you'll only look at the picture of the two of us that Chubbocks drew) with the most amazing looking children. Or you'll find unexpected talents emerging in a child that no one in the family has ever displayed, to your knowledge.
I'm amazed by the weird or silly little things that my two seem to have inherited - the things that DNA found esential to pass on to this generation. For instance, my paternal grandmother used to have a habit of lying down with one leg crossed on the other. Both my kids barely waited until their legs were long enough before they started crossing them in that exact same manner. And they've never even seen my grandma since she was gone long before I had kids.
Both of them seem to have inherited a huge sense of fun, and Chubbocks certainly has a sense of humour as well. He unfortunately has my temper which is red-hot at any given point. But he thankfully combines it with his dad's sensitivity - he can crumple into tears if you even speak too loudly. They both have an inherent love of music and a sense of rhythm, which I guess came from both of us. But from A, Chubbocks has inherited an ability to distinguish a song from hearing just the opening bars. He loves painting, which comes from both sides of the family, but hates to get his hands dirty, which comes from A. It's strange that an active little boy should be so particular but he hates feeling that his hands are dirty and so barely touches the clay in his clay class at school :)
They both love water and can spend any amount of time wallowing in it. Puddi takes the cake by loving it so much that if you ever leave the loo door unblocked, she's in there trying to play with it in the toilet bowl (Yeuch). Chubbocks loves making up stories and listening to them. I have a feeling he's going to be a reader which vindicates my having started collecting children's books from the time I had any money to call my own, and Puddi shows signs of going the same way. She always picking up books, shouting 'Buth, buth' and turning the pages in an effort to decipher what they're all about. That, I guess, comes from both A and me - or maybe it's observed behaviour since we're always nose-deep in one book or another. Chubbocks is also amazingly confident when interacting with other people, and highly talkative which I think comes from me. At the same time, he has a tendency to mirror the way people around him speak - which is a trait I'm not proud of in myself.
I don't know if there's any scientific truth to the old wives tale that kids follow the eating patterns they were exposed to as embryos. But Chubbocks is a picky eater who loves milk, dahi, soup and salad and can pretty much live on them. And that's about all I could eat when I was pregnant with him. Whereas with Puddi, I ate like a horse, and so far she shows no signs of being picky and is a curd-o-holic to boot.
It's going to be fun finding out how they add new dimensions to themselves as they interact with other people and with school and discover new abilities in themselves. While I always wanted to adopt kids I didn't end up doing so and when I observe these inherited traits in my kids, I'm kind of glad we had our own. It's like the most gigantic experiment a person could do - to try and create a mini-me and see what happens, no?
I'm amazed by the weird or silly little things that my two seem to have inherited - the things that DNA found esential to pass on to this generation. For instance, my paternal grandmother used to have a habit of lying down with one leg crossed on the other. Both my kids barely waited until their legs were long enough before they started crossing them in that exact same manner. And they've never even seen my grandma since she was gone long before I had kids.
Both of them seem to have inherited a huge sense of fun, and Chubbocks certainly has a sense of humour as well. He unfortunately has my temper which is red-hot at any given point. But he thankfully combines it with his dad's sensitivity - he can crumple into tears if you even speak too loudly. They both have an inherent love of music and a sense of rhythm, which I guess came from both of us. But from A, Chubbocks has inherited an ability to distinguish a song from hearing just the opening bars. He loves painting, which comes from both sides of the family, but hates to get his hands dirty, which comes from A. It's strange that an active little boy should be so particular but he hates feeling that his hands are dirty and so barely touches the clay in his clay class at school :)
They both love water and can spend any amount of time wallowing in it. Puddi takes the cake by loving it so much that if you ever leave the loo door unblocked, she's in there trying to play with it in the toilet bowl (Yeuch). Chubbocks loves making up stories and listening to them. I have a feeling he's going to be a reader which vindicates my having started collecting children's books from the time I had any money to call my own, and Puddi shows signs of going the same way. She always picking up books, shouting 'Buth, buth' and turning the pages in an effort to decipher what they're all about. That, I guess, comes from both A and me - or maybe it's observed behaviour since we're always nose-deep in one book or another. Chubbocks is also amazingly confident when interacting with other people, and highly talkative which I think comes from me. At the same time, he has a tendency to mirror the way people around him speak - which is a trait I'm not proud of in myself.
I don't know if there's any scientific truth to the old wives tale that kids follow the eating patterns they were exposed to as embryos. But Chubbocks is a picky eater who loves milk, dahi, soup and salad and can pretty much live on them. And that's about all I could eat when I was pregnant with him. Whereas with Puddi, I ate like a horse, and so far she shows no signs of being picky and is a curd-o-holic to boot.
It's going to be fun finding out how they add new dimensions to themselves as they interact with other people and with school and discover new abilities in themselves. While I always wanted to adopt kids I didn't end up doing so and when I observe these inherited traits in my kids, I'm kind of glad we had our own. It's like the most gigantic experiment a person could do - to try and create a mini-me and see what happens, no?
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Portraits
I always thought it was a 'firang' thing to get portraits of the family shot by professionals to hand out to your relatives. Why pay for something when you can do it yourself, why formal versus the spontaneous pics etc etc. Then of course, I realised that a professional makes sure everyone comes out looking good - we did family portraits in end 2006 when my sister and family were visiting, along with my family and the parents and they turned out beautifully. Then too, in spontaneous pictures, someone always has to be the patsy taking the pictures...So I resolved that every year end, we'll go to a studio and pay to get portraits done. They'll be a wonderful record of the family over time, from last year's wriggly puss little Puddi and Chubbocks who looks handsome but like a small little boy ( which he was) to this year's naughty and active Puddi and a Chubbocks who's no longer Mama's little boy.
Chubbocks decided to help the effort along by creating a portrait of his dad and mom as our Christmas gift from him. I think it's a beautiful portrait and plan to get it framed either for our family room or as part of our Nameplate for the front door. If any of the Desimomz ever see this in front of a house, feel free to walk in and say Hi!
PS. Now you know what we look like!
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