Written on friday, but posting delayed..
Oh I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking, “Woah, she doesn’t get tired of this guy? Because I know I’m yawning..”
I do. Like ALL THE TIME. Like you wouldn’t believe. I can walk around in a semi-permanent state of irritation. If you don’t believe me, ask my PMS. Go ahead.
He forgets things. Yes, would you believe it? A MAN WHO FORGETS THINGS. Bet you didn’t know they existed.
Well today he forgot about six things because on some days he is beyond simple instructions like, “Arvind needs raingear”, “Don’t forget the lunchbox”, “Call you mother about minding the kids on Monday” or “Make that appointment to discuss kitchens”.
Oh boy. He has blown it every which way today.
So today, I dig deep to find something good in him just to keep from going at him with a machete. So for all of you who have been reading the past couple of posts and imagining that we spend our available free time training my brown eyes to melt and drown in his blues, I’ll have to let you down with a thud.
No, we are more like that couple in aisle 3, you know – the diary aisle – making snarky comments about the other’s choice of soya milk or cottage cheese.
“Seriously, soya milk? Drink sewage.”
And you will agree that it can only go downhill from there.
So thank god for the odd moments when we can look back and not want to dismember our life partner. Seatbelts on for parts 3, 4, and 5 of the tag I have dragged out because employment is eating up my time. Damn you, employment. And in case, you thought we were done with blood, gore and entrails – wrong again! Now run away if you just ate.
#3a: The dude who sat on the edge of a hospital bathtub for over an hour while his wife lay there like Orca the Killer Whale, wincing as she met wall after wall of contractions. Like THWACK! woah, big one. And in that ridiculously uncomfortable position (obviously, I won THAT discomfort contest, but anyway), he managed to keep rubbing the small of my back and had the good sense to shutty uppy. My mother insists that he sat there for well over an hour and I’ve reminded her politely that I was the one fighting the 9 pounder.
#3b: For laughing when I got punch drunk on laughing gas and began apologizing to the the staff in the labour room for being a wuz. And for taking me seriously when I gasped, “Epidural. NOW!” For not killing the nurse who insisted on showing me my “beautiful nourishing placenta“, which basically looked like someone threw up on someone’s liver. Who the hell needs to see their placenta?
Its a placenta, not a Picasso.
#4: A week after I had Armaan – a dream C-section, no less – I developed post partum septicemia or sepsis as the shexy short form goes.
You don’t want to get it. If you can go to the drug store and they let you pick out an awesome infection, go for mumps, but don’t go for sepsis. It sucks in ways I can’t describe. Had it been 20 years ago, I would have kicked the bucket. Had I been admitted a day late, I would have probably kicked the bucket too, since my lungs had started to cave. I have never before or since experienced the kind of discomfort I experienced then, yet my first thought was, “I don’t have time for this. My baby is a week old.”
Forget breasfeeding now, the nurses said kindly.
They needn’t have worried too much. Because I couldn’t even remember I had breasts then. Body? What body? Where’s the air? I have no air. Can I have some air pretty please? Yes, that was pretty much where I was at. And just in case I was still moaning about the cup being half empty and all, just to be sure, Toxic Shock Syndrome also kicked in.
Yes, that is what the tampons warn you about. And it ain’t pretty either. Its a warning for a reason. It made me burst into a milky body rash before making all my skin peel. Skin is made of layers apparently. I learnt that the hard way when I shed it layer for layer like a snake.
So, there I am at the hospital getting assistance to breathe and trying to kick some intense bacterial ass, not to mention looking pretty damn gross. Yummy Mummy So Very Not.
And the dude? He went home to our two children and did it all alone. From making formula, making sure Armaan was fed, dry and well, showering with a week old baby in his arms because he thought that body contact was the most important thing when I temporarily disappeared from this little baby’s life – and making sure Arvind was cuddled, loved, cared for and surrounded by enough family so as not to panic about what was happening to his mother.
To this day, I don’t know how he did it, because he won’t go on about it.
No, that would be me. In his place, I would have sent in a formal application for martyrdom and – PUSHED that whole damn project through till that halo around my head glinted gold goddamit.
Every morning at 9 a.m., he would wheel a comatose Armaan into my room with a happy “Hey Hottie!” and give me the kind of kiss you would only give A Seriously Sick, Hot Wife. (humour me, people! His eyes closed, so it could have been Cameron Diaz in his head too. Ho hum.)
This is good to hear if like me a) you are prone to vanity and b) at that precise moment in time look like an all-body chemical peel gone disastrously wrong. He bought me every trashy magazine he could find and held Armaan so that i could sniff his head and his baby cheeks without holding him.
He also had the courtesy to wet himself quietly laughing at my stunned, disbelieving expression when The Only Extremely Hot Doctor In The Whole Hospital M.D. got to see me peeling and yucky and (horrors!!) even got to cop a feel under my dress where even I wouldn’t want to go. He was laughing the moment God ceased to exist.
We’ve never laughed so much. Or spent so much time feeling so utterly grateful.(except for the gawjus doctor bit).
# 5: For asking genuinely about my family every day. For giving me his family. For never putting me in a position when I had to choose between “his family” and “mine”. For making it possible – this impossibly large, loud, twisted and complicated family of “ours” spanning two continents.
Edited to Add: The Viking, who can never be arsed to read what I write, actually did so yesterday. And he reminded me of two things:
1. The night I got admitted to hospital, he and Armaan spent the night in the gynaec ward. Next to a woman who smelt old and had had a hysterectomy. Don’t even ask. He thinks that deserves a mention – and a purple heart. He will also have it said that he scored major capable-dad-of-newborn brownie points with the cute young nurses. Pity he was married and all.
2. And how I did I return his loving care? Last month, while we were in India, he had Lasik done. He woke me up in the morning to wash his lashes (done carefully and gently with a cotton bud and water) and drip-drop some eyedrops. Groggy after a late night of intense gossip, I ended up almost giving him the wrong drops. He pointed this out in his reasonable manner and I yelled, ” Well, I’m not a bloody nurse, ok?”
Ach. Thats me. All about the grace. I live to support the theory that even bitches can land decent guys. That, and more than one nurturer per family is just abnormal:-)