At our 12 man strong dinner my cousin's adorable but naughty three-year-old son ran to me and hugged my belly from behind, prompting his mum to touch my belly and ask if there was something in there. 'Kids know you know!' She claimed. My excitable not-so-subtle partner in life gave me a knowing grin and later inevitably said that should have been my cue to tell everyone. I gave my usual crap reaction when I lie, 'no' there's no baby, whilst looking far into the distance in a different direction.
On a different day, on a sunny morning, whilst sitting next to my aunty's pond, after years of refusing to say, I finally revealed to hubby the baby names I had always wanted. I withheld them before because I loved the name Hamza, the Prophet's (saw) uncle because of his noble character and bravery, and to which my husband promptly declared 'It sounds like hamster'. I replied his name sounds like 'dumptruck', which it doesn't but hey I was not-so-secretly annoyed. So these names were either Iman or Medina for a girl, or Marwan for a boy. I guess we'll have to see what we choose later on. I've since discovered our usual disregard for our differences in culture does not extend to what we may choose to name our precious little snot.
Pregnancy definitely induced hormone rages and jealous moods in Malaysia (well I would like to think it wasn't ME) but what it did not induce is a backbone when it came to my mother. So I made the husband say to my mum just before we got on the plane to leave them (we left a week before my family) 'You're going to be a grandma in about 8 months.' OK bye now! She stood there, shocked but expressionless as my aunty said 'Congrats!'
And off on the plane we hopped. Thus proving you can never be too old to be scared of your mum.
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Pregnancy and Long-haul Flights
To celebrate our nuptials three months prior, my enormous extended family insisted on throwing me weddings in the birthplace of my parents. Note: weddingS, one for dad's side, one for mum's side, as apparently grandparents did not do much but hump and produce legions of offspring back in the day. So off I went, with husband, mum, dad, sister, husband's BFF and other (female) friend and embryo on a 13 hour flight to Malaysia.
We had a whirlwind of a great time apart from the fact that I my holiday buddies had to endure a torrent of mood swings and I couldn't eat anything. Me, the halal eating, yet least fussiest eater ever. Whose top 5 reasons for going to Malaysia is the food. Due to subsidies, food is cheap as heck. Not that I ever have to pay for or prepare my own food when I'm there. Everything is halal, meaning no restrictions on eating ever. I mean halal Burger King, does it seriously get any better? Did I mention I like food? But alas, I couldn't enjoy a thing, food would arrive on my spoiled little lap and I just couldn't bear to eat it, maybe one or two bites with some shuffling but nothing more. I somehow managed to survive on scoffing loads of fruit but only fruit. Due to me not usual gorging myself, I remember the constant whispers from my sister 'you're making it bait'. If I read this when I'm old, that means you're making it obvious, that is to my mum, who I was too fearful to tell yet.
Still, it's definitely not the worst thing in the world and until now, I've never had the infamous morning sickness or even really felt nauseous. Lucky me!
On the first day, I went to a spa so I could mask my skin from the breakouts I was having, which I also have never gotten till reaching a quarter of a century old. Can I also blame this on my lovely little embryo? Just before my showcasing in front of hundreds of people, thank you my dear! It was so cheap compared to the extortionate prices charged in London and the results were amazing. They got rid of our blackheads which had not shifted for anyone prior to this. Before this sounds like a crappy googled review, I just need to remember this place for next time.
My cousin took the husband out whilst the girls had our pampering day and before they even met I knew this would be the bromance that dreams are made of. In the evening, husband said 'you should really tell your cousin you know, yada yada yada'. I eventually relented and said OK, next time. He then revealed he had already beat me to the punch. My own family member! Another excited reaction I was not to witness *sad face*
We had a whirlwind of a great time apart from the fact that I my holiday buddies had to endure a torrent of mood swings and I couldn't eat anything. Me, the halal eating, yet least fussiest eater ever. Whose top 5 reasons for going to Malaysia is the food. Due to subsidies, food is cheap as heck. Not that I ever have to pay for or prepare my own food when I'm there. Everything is halal, meaning no restrictions on eating ever. I mean halal Burger King, does it seriously get any better? Did I mention I like food? But alas, I couldn't enjoy a thing, food would arrive on my spoiled little lap and I just couldn't bear to eat it, maybe one or two bites with some shuffling but nothing more. I somehow managed to survive on scoffing loads of fruit but only fruit. Due to me not usual gorging myself, I remember the constant whispers from my sister 'you're making it bait'. If I read this when I'm old, that means you're making it obvious, that is to my mum, who I was too fearful to tell yet.
Still, it's definitely not the worst thing in the world and until now, I've never had the infamous morning sickness or even really felt nauseous. Lucky me!
On the first day, I went to a spa so I could mask my skin from the breakouts I was having, which I also have never gotten till reaching a quarter of a century old. Can I also blame this on my lovely little embryo? Just before my showcasing in front of hundreds of people, thank you my dear! It was so cheap compared to the extortionate prices charged in London and the results were amazing. They got rid of our blackheads which had not shifted for anyone prior to this. Before this sounds like a crappy googled review, I just need to remember this place for next time.
My cousin took the husband out whilst the girls had our pampering day and before they even met I knew this would be the bromance that dreams are made of. In the evening, husband said 'you should really tell your cousin you know, yada yada yada'. I eventually relented and said OK, next time. He then revealed he had already beat me to the punch. My own family member! Another excited reaction I was not to witness *sad face*
From Hip Hop Karaoke to Syria
What does hip hop karaoke have to do with a freakin embryo I hear you (no-one) cry? Well this was the venue I was forced to go before Malay Crew ventured out onto our holiday together. While I relished going here when I was a vibrant young thing, now at the grand old age of 25 I can't stand being within a one mile radius of people that are frittering their lives away dancing and drinking and having a good time. Plus it's not even free now pshhh.
When the karaoking began, I sat at the front table, a guy quickly came and said I couldn't sit there. Bit abrupt but fair enough I thought, if this is where those who wanted to rap had to sign up. But no, the man just sat there. He said I couldn't sit there because he wanted to sit there. Like did that just really happen? The hood in me would have cussed him out, but this is the new zen me. So I didn't say anything. When the first karaoking finishes he gets up to go to the loo. The other thing that I used to like about this place is that there's no usual hostile, touch me and I'll beat you, London vibe. Everyone in there was still like that, saying 'excuse me please'. Not this guy. He was an inch away from my face and decided he would rather slide his gross body over mine to squeeze past me than bother wasting three breaths saying 'excuse me'. Same when he sat back down. I gave him my best death stare to no avail, I thought there was no way I could feel more like my physical and mental self did not actually exist to this guy. AND THEN! He took his phone out and proceeded to elbow me in the crotch whilst texting. Even my crotch didn't exist to this douche bag. Although this guy would be privileged to be used for washing vaginas.
This incident propelled me to throw an adult tantrum and storm out of there, feeling a mix of emotions and asking myself many questions. How does this guy exist? How does he function in normal society elbowing women's crotches and acting like he didn't? And who would he be texting? Surely no woman would endure a disgusting selfish non-entity like that? If he can't even acknowledge my crotch how could he possibly maintain the duties of a boyfriend?
And why did my husband not say anything? Why did I want my husband to say anything? Why didn't I say something myself? He and everyone else in the vicinity should have known what a cunt he was. Was I really angry at him? Was I really angry at my husband? By the end of the 20 minute train journey I realised that I would never want a husband who gets aggro at total strangers, he isn't like that and that's one of the many reasons why I love him.
But that realisation was not to be the end of my possibly hormone-induced freak out. Outside my house I somehow managed to relate this douche lord's behaviour to the calamities of the world and eventually Syria. Yes hip hop karaoke became a hysterical, tear-filled rant about the tragedies of Syria and how no-one is stopping it. What a cruel, cruel world we live in and perhaps bringing a child into it is the worst thing I could do. From this night forward I respected my husband even more for enduring and listening to a weird little fuck like me.
When the karaoking began, I sat at the front table, a guy quickly came and said I couldn't sit there. Bit abrupt but fair enough I thought, if this is where those who wanted to rap had to sign up. But no, the man just sat there. He said I couldn't sit there because he wanted to sit there. Like did that just really happen? The hood in me would have cussed him out, but this is the new zen me. So I didn't say anything. When the first karaoking finishes he gets up to go to the loo. The other thing that I used to like about this place is that there's no usual hostile, touch me and I'll beat you, London vibe. Everyone in there was still like that, saying 'excuse me please'. Not this guy. He was an inch away from my face and decided he would rather slide his gross body over mine to squeeze past me than bother wasting three breaths saying 'excuse me'. Same when he sat back down. I gave him my best death stare to no avail, I thought there was no way I could feel more like my physical and mental self did not actually exist to this guy. AND THEN! He took his phone out and proceeded to elbow me in the crotch whilst texting. Even my crotch didn't exist to this douche bag. Although this guy would be privileged to be used for washing vaginas.
This incident propelled me to throw an adult tantrum and storm out of there, feeling a mix of emotions and asking myself many questions. How does this guy exist? How does he function in normal society elbowing women's crotches and acting like he didn't? And who would he be texting? Surely no woman would endure a disgusting selfish non-entity like that? If he can't even acknowledge my crotch how could he possibly maintain the duties of a boyfriend?
And why did my husband not say anything? Why did I want my husband to say anything? Why didn't I say something myself? He and everyone else in the vicinity should have known what a cunt he was. Was I really angry at him? Was I really angry at my husband? By the end of the 20 minute train journey I realised that I would never want a husband who gets aggro at total strangers, he isn't like that and that's one of the many reasons why I love him.
But that realisation was not to be the end of my possibly hormone-induced freak out. Outside my house I somehow managed to relate this douche lord's behaviour to the calamities of the world and eventually Syria. Yes hip hop karaoke became a hysterical, tear-filled rant about the tragedies of Syria and how no-one is stopping it. What a cruel, cruel world we live in and perhaps bringing a child into it is the worst thing I could do. From this night forward I respected my husband even more for enduring and listening to a weird little fuck like me.
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Placenta Serum Gate
Thus far, the hubby and I were not adhering well to this, anyone asks, don't tell rule. In order to satisfy my sometimes ridiculous loyalty requirement that the closer the person, the quickest they should be to know, I told my sister. Again it was in a fit of sadness rather than joy.
My sister, husband, my dad and I went to a mosque to get my husband's certificate of conversion to Islam to go with our marriage certificate so we would not get arrested when we went to Malaysia for being unmarried whores. My sister and husband are one of the few people that know the extent of my dad's lunacy and can therefore take the piss like I do. So in the car journey I decided to recall the time when I attempted to clear out the attic and found placenta serum. Yes placenta serum. It was also expired, whatever the hell you use that for. When I decided to throw it in the bin, he took it out, like he does with most things I throw away, toothbrushes, sponges, you name anything disgusting, he's taken it out of the bin and put it back in it's place. I recanted this funny tale in the car and he got so angry. I mean disproportionately, out of the blue angry!! Refusing to believe that this was true, even though I had only mentioned it because I had seen the disputed bottle of serum in his room earlier that day.
This brought up anger issues towards my dad's anger issues and I told my only sibling. Stating that if he treats me like that, I don't want him to be around my child. Probably really meaning that if he hates me this much, I will use his grandchild as a tool in my game of hurt. She did the perfect squeal on my news but being the kind soul that she is, she immediately addressed my view that most of the time my dad freakin hates my guts. I said, he goes on like I'm the worst daughter in the world, bitch I could be Lindsay Lohan, he should be grateful. In one of her signature older than her years moments she said 'He could be a lot worse, he isn't the perfect dad but we aren't the perfect daughters either... Plus he's old so he's just crazy sometimes'.
Next on the list was the husband's BFF who was coming to Malaysia with us. Said in a whisper so my parents wouldn't overhear he expressed his reaction in that surprise, innocent, happy face that he does. When the husband walked him outside he said 'This is nothing but good news. And don't let anyone tell you any different OK'. Did I mention our friends were awesome?
My sister, husband, my dad and I went to a mosque to get my husband's certificate of conversion to Islam to go with our marriage certificate so we would not get arrested when we went to Malaysia for being unmarried whores. My sister and husband are one of the few people that know the extent of my dad's lunacy and can therefore take the piss like I do. So in the car journey I decided to recall the time when I attempted to clear out the attic and found placenta serum. Yes placenta serum. It was also expired, whatever the hell you use that for. When I decided to throw it in the bin, he took it out, like he does with most things I throw away, toothbrushes, sponges, you name anything disgusting, he's taken it out of the bin and put it back in it's place. I recanted this funny tale in the car and he got so angry. I mean disproportionately, out of the blue angry!! Refusing to believe that this was true, even though I had only mentioned it because I had seen the disputed bottle of serum in his room earlier that day.
This brought up anger issues towards my dad's anger issues and I told my only sibling. Stating that if he treats me like that, I don't want him to be around my child. Probably really meaning that if he hates me this much, I will use his grandchild as a tool in my game of hurt. She did the perfect squeal on my news but being the kind soul that she is, she immediately addressed my view that most of the time my dad freakin hates my guts. I said, he goes on like I'm the worst daughter in the world, bitch I could be Lindsay Lohan, he should be grateful. In one of her signature older than her years moments she said 'He could be a lot worse, he isn't the perfect dad but we aren't the perfect daughters either... Plus he's old so he's just crazy sometimes'.
Next on the list was the husband's BFF who was coming to Malaysia with us. Said in a whisper so my parents wouldn't overhear he expressed his reaction in that surprise, innocent, happy face that he does. When the husband walked him outside he said 'This is nothing but good news. And don't let anyone tell you any different OK'. Did I mention our friends were awesome?
Rules, There Must Be Rules
Probably due to the fact that I still did not fully accept un-broody me was actually pregnant I swore the husband to secrecy until a medic who was not insane like me could confirm this turn of events. As my husband is nothing but an excited cute little puppy in human form, he did not adhere to the number 1 rule of Scared and Pregnant Club and admitted he told his older sister as soon as he saw her. 'How did that happen?' was her response. 'We had sex' he said. 'Ooh ok'. Having recently had two babies in two years, I suspect her reaction was happy. I can only speculate based on a male account of someone's reaction to something, i.e. it is never helpful. Little did I know this was not the only VIP's reaction I was not to witness.
March 11th: One of my oldest friend's wedding, a shotgun wedding, to a guy I had never met before until the engagement party two weeks before, to a guy SHE had known for not even a year. FYI, my Nikah was on December the 17th, my registry was on February the 11th, her wedding was March the 11th, her due date is July 17th, mine is November the 11th. See, just the kind of wedding and pregnancy facts that no-one else can possibly care about but you! As my friend was showing and her boobs were freakin ginormous and it was a wedding so of course there were legions of impossibly cute Chinese kids running around, people were inevitably making suggestive comments all day to the husband and I that we should be next, wink wink, bla bla. The puppy didn't help, with his whispering all day of 'you should just tell them'. Just like my friend, she knew she was up the duff at my wedding and didn't say, so I decided to return the favour.
Eventually the baby elbowing and winking wore me down and I admitted to my two best gals, since one was leaving for Leeds right after the wedding and as usual, and I didn't know when I would see her next. Having still got the right side of the brain on lockdown, I resolved that the fluke result was entirely theoretical as the test was from Asda guys, it is probably wrong! Leeds friend said we should both do one right now just to show hers would be negative. Depressed as the thought of further confirmation, I declined. I could tell they were happy but reservedly so due to my depressed story revealing and exaggerated lack of real confirmation. Unlike my other half, they adhered to the number 1 rule of scared and pregnant club. Love them.
March 11th: One of my oldest friend's wedding, a shotgun wedding, to a guy I had never met before until the engagement party two weeks before, to a guy SHE had known for not even a year. FYI, my Nikah was on December the 17th, my registry was on February the 11th, her wedding was March the 11th, her due date is July 17th, mine is November the 11th. See, just the kind of wedding and pregnancy facts that no-one else can possibly care about but you! As my friend was showing and her boobs were freakin ginormous and it was a wedding so of course there were legions of impossibly cute Chinese kids running around, people were inevitably making suggestive comments all day to the husband and I that we should be next, wink wink, bla bla. The puppy didn't help, with his whispering all day of 'you should just tell them'. Just like my friend, she knew she was up the duff at my wedding and didn't say, so I decided to return the favour.
Eventually the baby elbowing and winking wore me down and I admitted to my two best gals, since one was leaving for Leeds right after the wedding and as usual, and I didn't know when I would see her next. Having still got the right side of the brain on lockdown, I resolved that the fluke result was entirely theoretical as the test was from Asda guys, it is probably wrong! Leeds friend said we should both do one right now just to show hers would be negative. Depressed as the thought of further confirmation, I declined. I could tell they were happy but reservedly so due to my depressed story revealing and exaggerated lack of real confirmation. Unlike my other half, they adhered to the number 1 rule of scared and pregnant club. Love them.
Bit Late but Oh Well
So on Thursday, I will be 17 weeks along. If this was to be a parody of Emma's Diary, I would have documented my pregnant thoughts that no-one cares about, week by week. Oh well, tough shit, me.
So let me try and recall my weeks so far...
Got married on February the 11th, five days after two shits took my I Phone (see me other blog if you like). According to my shitty period math I might have gotten up the duff a week or two after this date. From the day you miss your monthlys you're already four weeks pregnant. At least the little un is in wedlock, phew! No hell or social chastisation for me! Although he or she or both (hopefully not) was unplanned. So I missed the beloved period and thought this is a tad strange, so on a trip to get cat litter I thought, why not spend the 3 quid and just take a test to make sure you're not in for a world of pain for the next 18 years, what the hey.
So I wee on the sticks and fatefully, there were two lines. If you're under 20 and not a chav, that moment is usually met by hysterical panic. If you're over 30, that moment is a joyous, sickeningly sweet occasion for the couple involved. So what of my reaction? A 25-year-old just married woman who until she met Mr P, never thought she would genuinely ever be happily married? Squinting at the lines and re-reading the instructions again and again and again to make sure two lines meant pregnant, EVEN A FAINT TWO LINES. I could explain away a late period as hormonal or stress induced, but an extra pregnancy hormone in my pee? That was harder for the left side of the brain to accept. However, the right side of the brain managed to block the two lines out for a while longer.
I then met up with a friend that night and had a marathon of Inbetweeners, the most immature but witty and awesome show ever, as you do. I stayed silent on the two lines because 1) I hadn't told my husband yet 2) She wasn't my closest friend in the world, cos I'm just weirdly loyal like that, there has to be a hierarchy people! and 3) It's something to this day, I can only talk about in small doses because let's face it, baby talk is boring.
Went home that night, when husband came back, or was it in the morning? Damn you stupid memory who remembers facts such as Kim Kardashian's middle name but not the actual moment I told my husband we were having a fucking baby! Before you google it, admit it, you were gonna! Her middle name is Noel. Anyway we were definitely lying in bed, when I said something like 'You know how I said my period was late...' To which the reply was 'You're pregnant/We're having a baby??' Stupid bitch ass memory, how do I get through the bloody day?! Anyway, future dad's reaction was happy and has just got more and more ecstatic every day since. His endearing words of happiness alone makes me it all worthwhile.
So let me try and recall my weeks so far...
Got married on February the 11th, five days after two shits took my I Phone (see me other blog if you like). According to my shitty period math I might have gotten up the duff a week or two after this date. From the day you miss your monthlys you're already four weeks pregnant. At least the little un is in wedlock, phew! No hell or social chastisation for me! Although he or she or both (hopefully not) was unplanned. So I missed the beloved period and thought this is a tad strange, so on a trip to get cat litter I thought, why not spend the 3 quid and just take a test to make sure you're not in for a world of pain for the next 18 years, what the hey.
So I wee on the sticks and fatefully, there were two lines. If you're under 20 and not a chav, that moment is usually met by hysterical panic. If you're over 30, that moment is a joyous, sickeningly sweet occasion for the couple involved. So what of my reaction? A 25-year-old just married woman who until she met Mr P, never thought she would genuinely ever be happily married? Squinting at the lines and re-reading the instructions again and again and again to make sure two lines meant pregnant, EVEN A FAINT TWO LINES. I could explain away a late period as hormonal or stress induced, but an extra pregnancy hormone in my pee? That was harder for the left side of the brain to accept. However, the right side of the brain managed to block the two lines out for a while longer.
I then met up with a friend that night and had a marathon of Inbetweeners, the most immature but witty and awesome show ever, as you do. I stayed silent on the two lines because 1) I hadn't told my husband yet 2) She wasn't my closest friend in the world, cos I'm just weirdly loyal like that, there has to be a hierarchy people! and 3) It's something to this day, I can only talk about in small doses because let's face it, baby talk is boring.
Went home that night, when husband came back, or was it in the morning? Damn you stupid memory who remembers facts such as Kim Kardashian's middle name but not the actual moment I told my husband we were having a fucking baby! Before you google it, admit it, you were gonna! Her middle name is Noel. Anyway we were definitely lying in bed, when I said something like 'You know how I said my period was late...' To which the reply was 'You're pregnant/We're having a baby??' Stupid bitch ass memory, how do I get through the bloody day?! Anyway, future dad's reaction was happy and has just got more and more ecstatic every day since. His endearing words of happiness alone makes me it all worthwhile.
My Intentions in Hating
I do realise that everybody and their dog is a keyboard warrior these days, i.e. says hateful, insulting things which they would never say to the unfortunate victim's face in real life. I would like to think if I did meet Emma I would say, "Emma your blog is shit", primarily because she probably makes loads of money from ads so probably couldn't give two shits what a random person thought of her shitty blog.
Am I hating because I can write a better blog yet will never get the recognition or money that she probably does?
Am I hating because of the abundance of rags to riches stories you hear these days and wondering why I can't get in on some of this action? e.g. J K Rowling and loads of successful authors being turned down a gajillion times before being published and are now gajillionaires, Heidi Murkoff; author of the best-selling pregnancy in the world just because she was knocked up by accident, teen fashion bloggers who end up in the front rows of Louis Vuitton, even the cute little boy in the US who made his own arcade and has now made enough money to pay for his future college tuition from people who visit his cardboard arcade.
Am I hating because I wanted a genuine pregnancy blog I could actually relate to but instead found a crap blog full of non-thoughts?
I promise you I am not a bitter person in real life at all but it probably is all three reasons. Even if no-one ever reads this, maybe I can look back on these musings, you know, when I have a stretch-marked strewn stomach and talk about nothing my adorable little baby (puke) and remember how I felt about this moment in time. Because everybody wants memories, a sense of who they used to be, no matter how cringe worthy I suppose.
So thank you Emma, this is MY boring pregnancy diary.
Am I hating because I can write a better blog yet will never get the recognition or money that she probably does?
Am I hating because of the abundance of rags to riches stories you hear these days and wondering why I can't get in on some of this action? e.g. J K Rowling and loads of successful authors being turned down a gajillion times before being published and are now gajillionaires, Heidi Murkoff; author of the best-selling pregnancy in the world just because she was knocked up by accident, teen fashion bloggers who end up in the front rows of Louis Vuitton, even the cute little boy in the US who made his own arcade and has now made enough money to pay for his future college tuition from people who visit his cardboard arcade.
Am I hating because I wanted a genuine pregnancy blog I could actually relate to but instead found a crap blog full of non-thoughts?
I promise you I am not a bitter person in real life at all but it probably is all three reasons. Even if no-one ever reads this, maybe I can look back on these musings, you know, when I have a stretch-marked strewn stomach and talk about nothing my adorable little baby (puke) and remember how I felt about this moment in time. Because everybody wants memories, a sense of who they used to be, no matter how cringe worthy I suppose.
So thank you Emma, this is MY boring pregnancy diary.
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