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.
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