Celebrating #YummyMummy!

Pregnancy is a beautiful period of exploring the new phases of your body will endure and also, that of your baby. The feeling of giving life to another human being, to take responsibility for this new person is truly overwhelming. When I took the test first, I was thrilled beyond belief. I ran out of the bathroom, screaming my head off. But here’s the funny thing, apparently, I was already two and a half months pregnant and I didn’t even know! Thinking back to the point when I might have gotten pregnant, I was rock climbing and hiking in the vast fjords of Norway.

Having cruised through the first trimester effortlessly (or recklessly unaware), the second one rolled in. Since I was decked up in Sweden throughout my pregnancy and delivery, I had to prepare anything that I wished to eat at that time. I recall waking up one morning at around 2 am and cooking chicken majboos (An Arabic dish, where the rice is cooked with exotic spices, tomatoes and chicken stock, topped with charred and baked chicken). And how can I forget the southern fried chicken, along with southern buttermilk biscuits? Not to brag or anything, but I have gobsmacked myself as it tasted scrumptious!

Sadly, that was not always the case, I slept through most of the day, as winter had the longest nights (sunset was at 3:30 pm). I didn’t entirely follow the midwife’s orders, so naturally, I did not bother to squeeze in the healthy routine! My meals usually constituted toasted brown bread, corn/chicken/broccoli soup and boiled veggies. And I am talking about all the three meals, devastating, I know! My husband would take pity on me and make biriyani every week or something new and excitingly fun. Really, though, he was like my literal rock, massaging my aching back and toes.

In between all that misery, came a moment which I cannot describe to this day. She nudged me from the inside and I can still remember the feeling, like when you are in the elevator and it drops all of a sudden (or something like that?!). It is that indescribable intimate connection that the mother and child share.

Towards the end of my third trimester, my mother arrived and suddenly, the air was breathable, the rooms were cleaner the food was tastier and I didn’t have to thrive on leftovers after she stepped into my elaborate apartment. She would cook anything and everything I wanted and what more could I ask for? And like that, days rolled by in a gleeful haze.

The D-Day arrived on the 24th of April, I remember the entire procedure- the breathing exercises, the long strolls near the hospital lake, the amazing bunch of midwives and nurses who took care of me and pampered me like a child. The whole experience was effortless and incredible.

After five hours of panting, huffing, puffing and pushing, fast forward to the moment the nurse placed Safreen on top of my chest. She was a little dirty as she was smeared with some blood on her tummy. I could hear the rapid heartbeats of hers. It felt like her heart beat entwined with mine, just like how it used to be when she was inside of me. And at that moment, when you hold her in your arms, NOTHING MATTERS. The pain would be an alien concept to you and you will realize the true meaning of happiness and love.
My hubby was quaking with fear as the midwife handed the scissors to cut off the umbilical cord. I mocked him by clapping mutedly. Honestly, I was chilling out with my delivery crew, throwing away high-fives to the nurses and midwives. In my opinion, that is what you should feel, VICTORY.

Through this post, I want to tell you that you must worship your body, tend to its every need, celebrate it and live life to the fullest without the slightest worry on your shoulder (let your hubby do all the worrying!). Being pregnant is nothing but beauty, so you are beautiful no matter how you look! Just stop for a second and feel.

bio-oil-pregnancy-women-blogadda-contest

 

“I’m writing about my wonderful journey of pregnancy for the #YummyMummy blogging activityat BlogAdda in association with Marico Bio Oil.”

 

 

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#ShareTheLoad – It Starts At Home

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Nishad Aunty is my mom’s bestie. She is a lovable human being and a fun person to hang out with, specifically, the one that doesn’t ask too many questions about my personal life. I have stayed over at her place numerous times along with my mom. They have had their fair share of sleepovers when we used to come down from Dubai for our summer vacations.

Inadvertently, I have observed the way she treated her kids. It is funny how she had pampered both her son and daughter to a point where neither of them lifts a finger. She is a constant machine, buzzing about the house getting chores done in a jiffy. The kids just take undue advantage of her active nature, but it’s all on her. She is to be blamed for not splitting the responsibilities amongst them.

I would say that her daughter is the laziest. Even the paste on her brush needs to be present before she wakes up for school. Now, that is a tad bit too much! Here we are, talking about gender equality and this girl (who is now a fully grown woman and yet pesters her mother like a parasite) takes the cake for being a slothful monster.

Now, they are adults and the cawing never ceases at their place when the daughter flies in from Dubai (for a solid half year) and gets her mom to do EVERYTHING for her, right from her son’s diapers to the numerous breakfasts the kid discards because he is picky as hell. The son is equally competitive, he will shriek when he does not find clean innerwear before he trots off to work with a three-layered, home-packed meal.  There is a line between doing things out of love for one’s children and seizing the reins of a woman’s brain!

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So far, we haven’t even come to the crazy part. The husband is the fascinating creature of all. Even though he walks by the kitchen and encounters a tea pan brimming with milk on the gas stove (Mind you, about to freaking spill all over the cook-top), he coolly beckons his wife to turn off the gas! I mean, what is wrong with this man?

You can envision how his skills to do chores can be after the incident I just narrated to you. Honestly, after experiencing these events, I thank God because my dad willingly helps my mom with the household chores (like bathroom cleaning, fan dusting, taking out the trash, etc.). Sometimes, he even cooks when my mom falls ill instead of ordering take-out. (He makes the best Malabar Parathas!)

The whole idea of the #ShareTheLoad campaign is to promote gender equality and I thought it best to bring up this story, of a woman whom I love, admire and respect. Though she bends to the whims of her family, her love blinds the possibility of establishing a code of sharing the workload within the family. The kids, even after becoming grown-ups, think it is okay to squawk their mother’s name for practically everything. Because the daughter obviously faces the same issue at her place, this family accepts that it is the duty of the mother to look after everyone, putting aside her desires and dreams.

We, the generation of today, must preach the message of equality to our children, be it a daughter or a son. We have to make them realize that it is a responsibility to uphold for many more years to come. This may be the foundation to their future life, not being hazed by a primitive thought such as a woman is to be burdened with the house-hold chores and the satisfaction of the family.

 “I am joining the Ariel #ShareTheLoad campaign at BlogAdda and blogging about the prejudice related to household chores being passed on to the next generation.

Momma’s Special


I was sleeping in my bed, literally sprawled on it. I was tired and my body was aching. Every inch of my body screamed to be massaged and caressed, I was so damned beat. I was so lazy that I did not bother to have lunch. My mom would never let me sleep in and skip the meal. So the next thing I knew, she bangs open the door of my room. Yes, she never knocked and she made it pretty clear that she never will. That’s my mom for you! But before I saw her face, I could smell her divine fried rice and butter chicken. It engulfed the room and ensnared my senses. I was in a trance, minus the zombie-walking pose.

“Mom! Do I smell butter chicken and fried rice?!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, sweetie. I knew you were tired, so I brought the damn thing to your room.” She said and smiled at me with all her mommy love pooled on the plate. She makes the best fried rice and she knows it alright. She placed it on the side table and walked towards the door, when I yelled out, “Mom!! Feed me will you?”

My mom does not like to feed us, well, she loathes it and that is one of the reasons I make her do it. Not in a sadistic way, but I feel special when she feeds me. My brother has a way for making her feel guilty if she feeds me and not him. So she ends up feeding the both of us, but only on rare occasions.


***


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A mother just knows.




It was one of those big fat Iftaar parties (During Ramadan) at our house. I was trotting about, the usual nine-year-old who was up to no good along with my brother who probably would have been three years old. Mother was busy, preparing her special delicacies for Iftaar and the smell made our tummies rumble. But I could not eat anything until the ‘Adhaan’ calls out to break my fast. This irritated me deeply as I was the biggest foodie in the entire family and my mother had the habit of the locking the refrigerator because of me. My father loathed the whole process of unlocking the fridge to get food out of it. Since there was a party on the cards, he unlocked it for the whole day to make things easier for him. 

I was lurked about and played with my action figures (yes, I loved them a little too much to stop playing with them and DON’T forget that I had a little brother to please.) I had noticed the unlocked fridge and this pleased me immensely. Stealthily, I walked into the store room where the fridge was kept and pretended to carry some fruits into the kitchen. It was prayer time, so mum had gone out for a ten minute prayer break. I saw my chance and leapt to open the fridge door and gorge down the first thing my hands could grab. But I was in no rush, I took my time, savoring the beautifully garnished food, wrapped in thin cellophane transparent (glad) sheets, much to my delight. I was scanning it from the top to the bottom when a small cake box was tucked away in a corner behind the huge watermelon. I just hit the jackpot, I thought. Haphazardly, I opened it and gobbled up the creamy chocolate cakes. (There were two pieces, one for my brother and one for me.)

Approximately three hours later, my mother found out that I ate those cakes, but she did not breathe a word. It’s amazing how moms work, they just KNOW things. She is like a mini Sherlock when it comes to cooking and everything and anything even remotely related to cooking. I was guilt ridden and restless. I knew I committed a terrible deed, broke my fast for a chocolate cake! Hey, I was dumb and hungry back then (facepalm). And then I decided to confess that I had broken my fast and stolen my brother’s cake as well. 
The guests were due to arrive any minute so I had to hurry. I heard the grinding sounds of the mixie when I walked into the kitchen, mum was making mango smoothies. I stood right behind her, hesitating and fidgeting. 

“I already called up your father and asked him to get another box of those cakes.” She said. Without even turning around to see who it was.

“How do you know?!” I exclaimed.

She raised her right brow and said, “You reeked of chocolate cake, dear.”

“Are you sure you don’t practice magic or anything?” I asked and gaped at my mother.

Ignoring the preposterous comment, she said, “I am glad that you chose to come and tell me that you had broken your fast. In fact, I am proud of you.”

This was a small incident from my childhood and even though it simply involved stealing cakes and breaking my fast, my mother’s confidence in me strengthened the whole notion of being honest in life. She trusted me back then and she trusts me to this very day. That was one of the lessons I learnt from the book of honesty – my mother’s belief in me.




I am sharing my Do Right Stories at BlogAdda.com in association with Tata Capital.

Momma!

A scent so unique spreads in the air
That’s my Momma I declare,

Her lap so soothing and cosy
Making a thousand beds look lousy,

One bite of thatscrumptious dish
Not caring if its chicken , mutton or fish,

My Angel , my Saving Grace
No sanity without a glimpse of your face.