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.
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