From Pilates to Baby in Under Nine Hours: My Medication-free Nearly Accidental Homebirth

My little bitty baby will be four weeks old tomorrow. I thought I'd commemorate that by documenting her birth story before sleepless nights erase my memory completely. And also, focusing on that day might help to distract me from the less happy experience of my in-laws' stay here (13 days down, 18 to go!). 

So here it is, in all its nitty gritty detail. Typed with one hand while holding and feeding the baby with the other. Because this is apparently the only way to get anything done. Enjoy!

In the early morning hours of May 6, I was woken up a few times by contractions. It had happened before, it was uncomfortable but went away if I got up and walked around. Braxton-Hicks, no worries. They continued throughout the day, more than I had experienced in the past, but sporadic. No pattern, not intensifying, that's not true labor! My pregnancy book and the internet all agreed that practice contractions can increase in the weeks leading up to delivery. So ok, it could still be weeks away. Let's not waste all my worrying energy in one day.

Later that morning, I went to the bathroom and found a sizable glob of discharge. Mucous plug? A quick Google Images search told me yes, probably. And also, ewww. But again, the book and internet agreed this can occur anywhere from hours to weeks before labor. So basically, it's anybody's guess. Science, you guys.

So I did what any reasonable person would do -- I went to my prenatal pilates class. 

What? I was already registered, and if you cancel less than 24 hours in advance you lose the session. If I wasn't going into labor, I was going to want that session. And if I was, well, it'd be my last opportunity to exercise for a long while. The contractions were still sporadic and rare, so I wasn't even all that uncomfortable. So off I went for my hour workout. I had a contraction while in class and freaked everyone out, but still thought it was nothing. I mean, I just straightened up and took a deep breath. And done. That can't be labor, right?

So I headed home at 5pm and hubby was already there. "So I've had some contractions today and passed my mucous plug, but it could still be weeks. I'm gonna go shower." La di da.

Hubby cooked dinner while I hung out on my exercise ball. Around 7pm, I realized the contractions were more frequent and seemed to have developed a pattern, so I turned toward the clock. Well, look at that! Lasting about 45 seconds and coming every 5 minutes. 

I still wasn't convinced it was definitely labor. We ate dinner and watched tv. By the end of the 90 minute show, I was pretty uncomfortable and changing positions with every contraction. Ok, this is probably it. 

But the contractions had not become any longer or any closer together even after three hours, so it was probably going to be long and slow, right? I called the doula to let her know, and decided I'd try to get some rest. I washed up for bed, did my usual stretches to prevent the middle of the night achiness I'd been fighting the last few months, and climbed into bed. Approximately 30 seconds later, I had a contraction accompanied by what felt like a balloon popping. I was saying the words "my water just broke" before I even felt the gush of fluid. Hubby helped me to the bathroom with one hand while dialing the doula with the other. 

From there it went fast. Once on the toilet, I couldn't get back up. The contractions came fast and hard. Hubby later told me they were lasting about 90 seconds and 2 minutes apart, timed from the beginning of one to the beginning of the next, so basically 30 seconds of down time. Sitting was about the last position I wanted to be in, so hubby finally succeeded in dragging me to a standing position. I clung to the bathroom counter, dripping blood on the floor and beginning to sound like a banshee with each contraction, while hubby ran around the house grabbing the last few items for the hospital bag. 

At some point I felt like I needed to have a bowel movement. I managed to get myself back onto the toilet and back off again when I realized that wasn't happening. That pressure was the baby! I then realized that with each contraction my muscles were pushing down, hard. Ohmagawd I'm pushing! I can't stop it! This baby is coming get me to the hospital right now! I did not want to give birth on my bathroom floor.

Hubby attempted to pull a shirt over my head, as I was only wearing a skimpy nightgown, but I was not having any of it. Stop touching me! Can't you see I'm hot here? I started walking to the car, which involved clinging to a wall outside our door through another contraction, and again hanging from the car door. Hubby was yelling to get in the car and I was yelling back that I couldn't move. Finally, between contractions, I got my butt in the seat and the door shut. I was holding myself up off the seat with my hands as we drove to ease the pressure. Luckily, at just after midnight on a Wednesday morning, there was relatively little traffic and we were at the hospital in about ten minutes. Our doula, coming from the other side of town, met us there. 

We pulled into the parking garage and stopped as close to the hospital entrance as possible. I climbed out and started waddling towards the door. The courtyard was deserted except for a lone security guard. I was pretty grateful for that as a contraction caused me to grab a hold of a sign displaying a map of the facility, hanging from the top in just my nightie. 

Hubs ran up behind me with a wheelchair and whisked me the rest of the way to the maternity ward. Into triage we went, where they pulled my nightgown off over my head and shoved my arms into a hospital gown before helping me onto the table. Now I've been told that having the dilation of your cervix checked is uncomfortable at best. Personally, I did not even notice anyone doing anything. But the nurse apparently did check, as she looked at the other nurse and exclaimed "She's fully open!" Then to me: "Don't push! DON'T push!" To which I silently responded with "yeah right" and kept on going.

Off to the delivery room we went, with the doctor in gown and mask between my knees before I even realized what was happening. You know how on tv women are always yelling or groaning as they push? Yeah, no. I was told to hold my breath, not let a sound escape my lips, and focus all of my energy out my bottom. The expression "blow it out your ass" takes on new meaning. Hubby by my head, cheering me on; the doula holding one leg, the nurse on the other side. The doctor telling me to grab my thighs and curl up to push.

The thing about crunching for all your worth is that you can suddenly see past the giant belly to the poorly maintained nether regions you haven't seen in months. The key is to ignore that, and focus on what's happening in the middle of it. That head poking out. Ohmagawd the head. Even having watched it all happen, I can't for the life of me figure out how that big ol' head gets through that itty bitty hole. I was pushing for about an hour, and for most of that time her head was poking out. Just a tiny, not even fist sized, hair covered bulge. That caused unbelievable pain. 

I thought going in that I didn't want to be coached on when and how long to push. I thought I'd push however my body told me to. Well, when that head had been poking out for a while and was making no more progress and it became impossible to relax between contractions and there was so much burning and hurting I was like just get this baby out already! I will do whatever you want, just make the baby come out. So there were a few final intense pushes for as long as I could hold it, and on the last one I could literally feel myself tear. You would think that would hurt, but frankly there was already so much pain it wasn't so much awareness of the pain of tearing as just awareness of tearing, period.

But then. THEN. The head suddenly popped out. "Popped" is the only way I can describe it. One second it was just a bulge, and the next it was an entire head. "Oh my God!" were the first words to escape my lips. I stared in awe as the doctor removed the umbilical cord from around her neck and cleared her nose and mouth. Then it was time to push again. 

I thought the body would be the easy part and just sort of slide out. Not so much. But it did only take one push, and the pain was mediated by the fact that I was staring at my daughter's face. And then she was on my chest. My daughter. The nurse was wiping her off and covering us with blankets. I was completely naked at this point, having stripped off my gown while pushing because it felt like it was a million degrees in that room. It was hanging off my right arm, blocked from falling to the floor by the blood pressure cuff they had slapped on me at some point. The doctor was talking about the placenta and making sure everything was out and giving me a shot of Pitocin so I didn't bleed out and stitching me up and blah blah blah. 

I did not care what was happening. There was a baby covered in blood and vernix and screaming bloody murder on my chest and it was my child. I had done that. I had made that baby and felt her growing inside of me and brought her into this world with my very own body. I had never felt so strong and amazed and instantly in love. Any fear I had about bonding with the baby while she was still inside me was immediately laid to rest. She may have no longer been connected to my body through the umbilical cord, but it had already been replaced by the connection to my heart.

I arrived at the hospital at 12:43. My daughter was born at 1:42. I had only begun having regular contractions less than 7 hours before. This is where I say "results not typical." But should I have a second child, I sure hope it's typical for me!

The least documented pregnancy of the digital age

My bellybutton is freaking me out.

People generally spend most of their lives paying no attention to their bellybutton. There was that very brief period freshman year when I rocked a bellybutton ring, and a few years after that where I only noticed it when I caught said ring on the laundry basket. Then the ring came out, and I promptly went back to forgetting I have a bellybutton.

That is, until now. You see, now my bellybutton is doing all kinds of weird things. It's flattening out. It's widening in all directions. I imagine it won't be long now before it is almost nonexistent before becoming a freakish looking outie. Because BABY. Baby is pushing out my stomach and that includes that little innocuous indentation in the middle.

But it's not just the appearance that's getting to me. My daily examination of the area (because though the changes are weird, I like to know they're happening) has made me...just very aware. Here is the spot where I was directly physically connected to my own mother for so many months, just as my child is now connected to me via his or her own bellybutton. And that leads into the whole "I'm actually pregnant and going to be a MOM responsible for an actual CHILD for LIFE" train of thought that every (I'm assuming...hoping) new mom experiences. And it's freaky.

I'm not scared of pregnancy or even childbirth or the initial period of having a newborn baby dependent on me. It's everything that comes after that. I'm scared of f'ng this kid up. What about when they're no longer cute and cuddly? When they're all awkward? Or when they're teenagers? Teenagers are horrible! I know, I was one, as were my two sisters. And we sucked.

Obviously, my rational brain knows that this is a long time off (though not as far off as it was when kids were still hypothetical) and there's no point worrying about it now. But my rational brain seems to be shrinking in inverse proportion to the growth of my belly.

Speaking of the growth of my belly.

The internet is rife with ideas of how to document your pregnancy. Take a photo every week standing in a doorframe to showcase your changing belly! Keep a journal! And on and on. My brain can't even process the amount of stuff there is out there.

I'm pretty sure my kid would not want to one day read all the thoughts I had while pregnant (Dear Baby, Today you kicked me in what I'm pretty sure was my cervix and I gave you a lengthy speech about what is and isn't acceptable behavior...after cursing a blue streak). And photos! So far a measly two photos exist in which I'm sporting any kind of preggo belly, both of which were taken by my webcam in different parts of the house, one featuring the kitchen trashcan and the other the cat's litter box. It's high quality stuff. One doesn't even show my head.

The countdown on my weekly Babycenter emails (which are becoming a lot less "look what awesome things your baby is doing" and a lot more "look what horrible stuff your body is in for before this is all over") has become noticeably lopsided. The weeks that have passed are suddenly much larger than the number of weeks remaining to go. Before I know it, baby will be here and there will be almost no proof that it actually came from my body (except for the aforementioned "horrible things" that will have happened to my body).

Sure, even in our parents' generation this was normal. There might be photos from family gatherings or holidays or vacations where the mom happened to be looking pregnant. But apart from that, whatever. She had things to do! But in this day and age when every meal is photographed and shared on Facebook, every movement is documented on Twitter, and ultrasound photos find their way into the inbox of people you've never even met in person, it seems that not having a thoroughly photographed and documented pregnancy is viewed as already neglecting your child. But hubby and I talk to the belly, we spend an inordinate amount of time looking at the belly, and when we talk to family long distance we tell them all about the belly. It is anything but unnoticed and neglected.

But just maybe we should get a few more of those photos in before it's all over. So when this child is a rebellious teenager, we'll have something to look at and remember the good times when our child was sweet and lovely. You know, still in utero.

Those First Three Months

When you find out you're pregnant, a lot of stuff goes through your mind. And when you're not telling people you're pregnant, well, all that stuff has no where to go. And so I bring you the random ramblings of my first trimester. Not necessarily in order, and definitely some gaps while the moving process was happening, but still probably some interesting bits in here somewhere.
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I thought it would be difficult to not tell people I'm pregnant. Especially since the day we found out, we spent the entire afternoon and evening with close friends who have known us since we first began dating. Surely we'd be eager to share our excitement?

Instead, it's been like our awesome little secret. Exchanging knowing glances and whispers. We know something no one else in the whole world knows. And we're not telling.

There's also something to be said for it not really sinking in yet. I peed on a stick and a line showed up! Woohoo! My life has changed in no real perceptible way!
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I can sum up my early pregnancy obsession in one word: BOOBIES!!!

While it makes me feel like something of a pre-teen boy, I can't get enough of the boobies. They fascinate me. I long ago came to terms with the fact that I would always have small breasts, and even think I have quite nice ones. But they've never been anything anyone would notice. Bras were basically expensive nipple covers for me. They didn't lift, they didn't create cleavage, there wasn't anything for the bra to work with. They just prevented me from blinding people when the A/C was too high. 

Before I even suspected I was pregnant, my breasts started announcing themselves. Sure, they were sore and felt...fuller, somehow. But no big deal, I'd had that before and still got my period. But then, my period didn't come. And I started to wonder if just maybe... Almost instantly The Boobies jumped in with a chorus of "yes, you're pregnant!" Suddenly they were bouncing around like water balloons. Bouncing! Previously, I could have done jumping jacks topless and had no response. But now simply walking down stairs generated a jiggle I could feel without even touching them, mostly in the tissue bulging out of the top of my bra. Bulging? ABOVE my bra cups? I do not know these words! Me, the girl who has to special order bras small enough to fit, has cleavage! 

Now, I am aware that the whole pregnancy/breastfeeding experience will change my breasts irrevocably, leaving me with a whole new set to learn to live with all over again. But for now...oh, for now I'm going to revel in the fact that my low-cut tops show off more than just my breastbone.
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Holy nausea, Batman!

On TV and in the movies, morning sickness comes in the form of one quick vomit that clues the starlet into the fact that she's pregnant. And it's over.

Not so much in real life. To date, I have not yet vomited or even felt like it was a likely possibility (knock on wood). I have, however, been queasy like I'm on a roller coaster and can't get off. Eating makes me queasy; NOT eating makes me queasy. Lying down makes me queasy; sitting up makes me queasy. Moving, not moving, someone else moving or not moving, all roads lead to Queasy.

Now I know that sitting at home staring off into space gently rubbing my stomach while munching on crackers is not a long-term solution. That's ok for your 24 hour stomach bug, not so much for what will likely be a daily, six week minimum ordeal. Queasiness is a lifestyle when you're pregnant. Yay.
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I never realized cocoa butter smells like...well...cocoa. I don't know what I expected it to smell like, but it definitely took me by surprise. A cup of hot chocolate is exactly what I want my own body to smell like when all food smells are making me nauseous. You can't get away from your own skin. Also, at the risk of sounding horribly racist, didn't I go to a black school? Shouldn't I know what cocoa butter smells like? Oh my education has failed me.
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That first week, it was easy to completely forget that I was pregnant. Especially when I came down with the mother of all colds and it was all I could do to breathe for two seconds without coughing. Not much energy to think about anything other than my certain impending death by suffocation.

Even now, two weeks later, with the first doctor's appointment under our belts, it still seems like something we're merely discussing the possibility of. "Hey, you think we're ready for kids?" "Yeah, maybe." Except now it's more like "ready or not, here it comes."

We saw the doctor. We saw the little tiny baby-to-be on the monitor. We saw the heartbeat (that really just resembles bad reception more than anything). Hubby had his first "your feet are in stirrups and did the doctor just call that thing a probe?" experience. Our jaws dropped and we giggled uncontrollably (or maybe "nervously" is a better description) as we looked at our first baby photo. And yet...

I'm nauseous all the time and having to completely revamp the way I eat (literally, like an eighth to a quarter of a meal every hour or two...that seems perfectly sustainable right?). And yet...

When does it start to feel real? When my clothes don't fit anymore (cuz that's already happening, though I know it's from my newfound bloat rather than from the baby itself, like a perpetual post-Thanksgiving dinner feeling)? When I start "showing"? When I can feel the baby move? When its feet are poking out through my stomach Alien style? When I'm pushing the kid out cursing my husband in multiple languages (bet he'll regret teaching me those words in Hindi then)? I guess I'll find out.
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For the love of GOD the nausea! When we were teenagers, sitting in sex ed in school, they should have just told us "Remember the worst stomach bug you've ever had. The inability to eat, the hugging the toilet, the crying in agony. Now imagine it goes on and on for two whole months. That's what happens when you have sex." Bam! The most chaste bunch of teenagers the world has ever seen.
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You usually hear a lot of positive terms surrounding pregnancy: "miracle," "glowing," etc. People talk about how beautiful pregnant women are. You find out you're pregnant and think "I'm going to look friggin radiant with my cute little bump."

It's all a marketing ploy to propagate the species.

I couldn't feel less radiant, or even less human, right now. It's like my body has been taken over by an alien. An alien that's super powerful even though it's only the size of a kidney bean.

The hollows under my eyes show the lack of sleep, and the drawn look of my face shows the lack of nourishment actually getting into my body. The only thing glowing about me is the sweat on my face after a trip to the bathroom.

And yet, no one knows. No one knows that I'm pregnant except my doctor, and there is no cute bump to give away my condition to strangers. The "miracle of life" looks a lot like the flu.
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Tonight I pulled my hair back to wash my face and noticed a little something strange. A lot of little strange somethings, actually. My hairline has been taken over by quarter inch long hairs. I'm sprouting fuzz. I'm sprouting fuzz on my hairline and shedding clumps of hair in the shower. And apparently this is all perfectly normal. What the what?
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Today we had our second ultrasound. A mere FOUR WEEKS after our baby appeared as a fuzzy blob in the first ultrasound, there was suddenly a full on baby-looking thing on the screen with arms and legs flying about like it was at a rave.

It never occurred to me we could see the baby move during ultrasound. I saw the pictures online and in books of what the baby is supposed to look like at each stage, and I guess I just assumed that's what you actually see during an ultrasound: the baby just sitting there like it's posing for a photo. Oh but no, our bebe had other ideas. It was so beautiful and...human! Later, when we were given a photo from the ultrasound where the baby just resembled a blob with maybe a head, it seemed way less exciting. But during those few minutes where we could see our baby moving and hear the heartbeat...I may have cried like I was in a movie. Don't judge.
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Miss me?

I originally wrote this post in July. And never posted it. I even failed at my comeback. Anywho...enjoy, and be sure to catch the update at the end so you can revel in the irony!
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"There's no good way to write the 'I'm back!' post after being away for too long, but sometimes you have to take a break, and then when you return it has to be awkward and uncomfortable. It's a rule." -- the wise wise words of Alice Bradley over at Finslippy.

Hello, world! The favorite blogger you didn't know was your favorite is back!

I realize it's been...oh, nine months or so since my last post. (Make that over a year now...) And it had been three months before that one. And before that my posts were spotty at best. If this were my job, I would be fired, I know. Actually, I probably wouldn't know, because it's kind of hard to fire someone you can't find.

My reasons for being away so long are two-fold. Actually, they're probably 500-fold, but I'm not so great at sorting out the causes of things, so I only came up with two.

1) Winter sucks. As in, sucks the life right out of me. From about the time I have to start wearing a jacket in the fall up until the time I can start wearing shorts in the summer, I am in an annual funk. I'm not interested in doing anything or talking to anyone. I just want to hibernate and hide from the cold. Someone wake me when I can feel the warmth of the sun on my bare skin. This is part of the reason I have spent the past year advocating moving to a sunnier, warmer place (and by "advocating" I mean "insisting at the top of my voice every day that we move right this instant"). Turns out, sunny warm places that still have the city life we're used to and a big tech scene so hubby can find a job he wants are hard to come by. Apparently every company worth working for is in San Francisco, where it is neither sunny nor warm at any point in the year, and that big ol' ocean right there is just taunting you because you'll never ever be able to swim in it unless you're a seal. So ditching winter may take a little more time. Just hopefully not another winter.

2) This blog is mostly about my life...and my life is B-O-R-I-N-G. I've lived in the same place for over 7 years. It's lost its charm. There hasn't been much in the way of fascinating travel in the past year and a half to tell you about. I have no earth shatteringly interesting job to keep ME interesting (a point that is like social suicide in a career-centric city like DC). And my Point #1 winter-time slump kept me from being all that interested in reading other blogs or non-mainstream news and sharing my views. And what news has elicited strong reactions from me have mostly been angry rants that you don't want to read anyway. So when your day-to-day life is reeeaaallly not blog worthy, what do you write about? You wait for inspiration to strike. And you wait and you wait and you wait. And nine months later you finally write a post, but it's just an apology for having nothing to write. And then the waiting recommences.

But apparently some of you out there don't mind that I haven't been writing! In June, I had 269 pageviews. On a blog with no new material for nine months. And that's the month with the lowest number to date. (Which is now surpassed by October. But still.) I'm not quite sure what this says about me (I'm not necessary for the success of my blog?), but I don't particularly care, either.
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Update:

So....all of this post is completely irrelevant now. Well, not ALL of it I guess. Winter does suck, I have not changed my stance on that. But it no longer matters! Because all my kvetching about moving somewhere warmer paid off, and we have now moved somewhere warmer! Huzzah!

We are now residents of sunny Los Angeles, California. It has not yet fully registered. Our things finally arrived after weeks, but it still feels like I'm staying in someone else's house. BUT, it's going to be fantabulous, I can already tell.

Most of the time so far has been spent furniture shopping or trying to make our belongings fit into a space clearly not designed for our stuff (who decides how kitchen shelves should be spaced? Because really? That person needs a new job). But we have some nice neighbors, we've already found some great reliable restaurants (the tally is already higher than in nearly 8 years in DC), and every weekend we walk to the beach in Santa Monica. And contrary to everyone's warnings about the people here being "rude" and "fake" I have had more awesome conversations with strangers in checkout lines and on the street in a few weeks here than in all my time in DC. (Not to make this sound like DC bashing, I still love that place, but the food is crazy overpriced for the quality and strangers are just not friendly. It's a fact.)

Oh! And oh...there is no tax on groceries! Like, none of it! Do you have any idea how much money that saves? Not to mention I can go to the regular ol' non-Whole Foods grocery store and find fresher organic produce for cheaper. So let's see, bigger apartment for less rent, better groceries for lower prices and no tax...cha-ching! Restaurants seem to be priced about the same, but as long as the food is delish I don't care. Not to mention there are still farmers' markets happening in November because the weather is so awesome things are still growing! (I have not yet checked out said farmers' markets, but it's on the to-do list.)

There are definitely some weird things about LA. Like apartments don't usually come with a refrigerator. Yeah. You have to buy your own or rent one. Luckily our place did come with a refrigerator, but our neighbor's didn't. So weird. That to me is like an apartment not coming with a ceiling. Kinda important.

So I imagine being in a fabulous new city whose weather doesn't trap me inside for six months out of the year will bring a lot more interesting days to my life.

But the MOST interesting part of this ride is going to be the BABY that's on the way. Yep, in addition to moving cross country, we're about six months from welcoming our first little Indian American (not to be confused with American Indian...we're not Columbus here folks) child into the world, which is going to bring a whole new perspective on everything. Life in general, this city, travel, this delicate cultural balance we have going in our household, all of it. So hang on to your boot straps people. It's about to get crazy up in here.

Birthdays and Babies

First off, let me apologize for not blogging in...forever.

My life has been decidedly boring, with not much to share. I work, I eat, I sleep.

I occasionally have time to read the news or actually do something interesting, and about half of that time I get a chance to have an opinion about it, but I never ever have the time to express that opinion. Especially not in the form of a well thought-out blog post.

My husband can attest to this, as I have been known to make a vain attempt to get my opinion out there into the universe by muttering incoherently about it to him as I drift off to sleep at night. He is not a fan of this approach.

Today, though, I have the day off work and am actually managing to refrain from checking my email and getting sucked in. I'm sitting in a cafe with my laptop watching through the window as the rain pours harder than the Indian monsoon. I'm not going outside in that mess. And so I find myself with time on my hands, and I think I will spend it writing nonsense.

This weekend included a very impromptu trip to NC to visit family. Saturday was hubby's grandfather's 89th birthday, and since he is actually in the U.S. for the occasion this year, we decided to celebrate with him.

Dadaji is a man you cannot help but adore and respect. He's tiny and cute and smiles and laughs all of the time and does yoga every morning despite being old as Methuselah and gives big bear hugs with a strength you wouldn't expect from his scrawny frame. My husband tells me that he really isn't as sweet as I believe, it's just that I'm his favorite. Jealousy is ugly, my friends.

Dadaji was a Freedom Fighter. He spent time in prison. He also apparently voluntarily let someone break a concrete slab on his chest with a sledgehammer for the entertainment of his fellow prisoners. New story he just shared last night. Who cares if it's true, it's awesome. I refuse to fact check an 89 year old.

With all of this age and experience comes a certain "I don't give a damn" attitude. He will say whatever he wants and you will sit there and take it. Ok, ok, all of my in-laws seem to have this attitude. But I can rationalize it from him, so it's alright. There's also the aforementioned cuteness on his side.

It's been no secret from the beginning that my in-laws expect me to have babies and soon. Right after our wedding, my mother-in-law gave me a deadline of two years. Actually, she gave me two years to have a kid and get him into college so I can take over her "NC State Mom" coffee mug, but that's neither here nor there.

More and more people in India are waiting longer to get married, waiting longer to have children, even deciding not to have children (or get married, for that matter) at all. But this is a very new development, beginning really with my generation and primarily in urban areas. Traditionally, marriage is not so much about the two people getting married as it is about popping out kids.

My husband was born so close to the nine-month mark after his parents wedding that the situation just begs for jokes. That is how the family expects it to be.

Every once in a while, hubby's parents ask "When are you going to have a baby?" I ignore it, no big deal. Such blatant tactics have no effect on me.

Lately, though, Dadaji has gotten into the mix. He also doesn't mince words, but he manages to catch me completely off guard and blindside me. A much more successful approach.

Last summer when I was leaving India, in the midst of a very benign conversation about the bus schedule, he threw in the very matter-of-fact statement that the next time I came to India I better bring a baby. Since I was returning in six months, and was not already pregnant, it was literally impossible for me to do, so I laughed it off. But I will admit I considered borrowing someone else's child for the trip so as to technically avoid letting him down. Apparently he gets to me.

He has now started asking about my reproductive plans in the midst of random phone conversations. How is your family, how is your job, how is your uterus?

This weekend, though, the old coot took the cake. "You've been married three years. You should have a baby. If you need to, see a doctor."

Well, ok then.

Nothing at all intrusive about that.

Then he moved in for the heartstrings.

"I don't have many birthdays left. I want there to be a child while I'm still alive."

For the love of God, man! I very nearly promised him a baby right then and there.

My husband saw me breaking.

He pushed me off the couch.

While we may have gotten through this trip without agreeing to rent out my womb, the time is coming when we won't be able to dodge the subject anymore. Hubby and I will either have to 'fess up to the apathy we feel about the situation, or get on board with the baby business. Neither option sounds particularly easy.

My Big Fat Indian Wedding Part 2 (and 3)

Hubby's best friend (finally!) got married on Saturday. We were unable to be there (it was short notice and tickets to India are hella expensive), but she promised photos and details.

I'm still waiting for the details, but man did she deliver on the photos! They greeted me this morning in my Facebook newsfeed (hey FB you finally served a purpose! good job!).

While I'm seriously enjoying the photos and the promptness with which they were sent, it's left me feeling quite guilty about my failure to ever share photos of my own Indian wedding with you. She managed it in 3 days, it's taken me nearly 3 years...same same.

And so I have finally dug up the insane number of photo cds provided to us by the "professional" photographer (I use that term lightly). Selecting and uploading photos was no small feat, as there are literally thousands of photos. And my computer sounded like the cd drive might just explode right off it at any moment. The cat was terrified.

Now, the thing about our wedding is that I had no idea at any point what was going on. Hubby didn't know the meaning behind any of it either, and his attempt to translate everything the priest said lasted about 30 seconds before we both agreed it would take all day. We never got back to that discussion.

So I can tell you (vaguely) what happened, but not what any of it means. I've tried looking it up online, which only taught me that what I was told was a traditional Gujarati ceremony(ies?) was not according to the letter of the internet law. So there are pieces I can explain and pieces I can't. So much for your education.

(By the way, if anyone actually does know what these things properly mean, please share in the comments. I for one would love to know.
The day began bright bright bright bright early, as my ladies in waiting descended upon my mother's hotel room to get me ready for the big day.

In the meantime, hubby's family was already at the wedding site, engaging in some sort of preceremony ceremony. This is one of those parts that I have no idea about. All I know is there was a breakfast buffet that my brother-in-law raided and brought to our hotel room. Because he's awesome.

Hubby, family and pundits sitting beneath the 'mandap,' the stage where the ceremony takes place.

I love this photo for the facial expressions. I don't know what's happening with the coconut.

One part I did know to expect (thank you, cinema!) was what is apparently known as 'pithi.' The bride and groom (separately, in their own houses) are have their skin covered in turmeric paste to give it a healthy glow and look more fair.

They are just having too much fun with this. Love it.

Thankfully, since my side of the party consisted solely of me, my mother and my two sisters, we didn't have to do any of these traditional ceremonies that we were supposed to be doing on our own.

This didn't stop hubby's aunts from spreading the fun though!

After these ceremonies, hubby's family all trouped back to their house...to take showers and begin getting ready for the wedding. My family and I already looked like this:

That's my sister, already draped in her sari, and me heavily made up and decorated. I don't know why I'm looking at her like that but I love this pic.

And the sari draping begins!

Check out that gear! These days I can wrap a sari myself (shameless bragging), but THIS. This was the very first time I'd ever worn a sari. Or even seen one wrapped. Wearing a sari is awkward enough even with practice, but the very first time? With easily 50 pounds of bling embroidery? It's a wonder I was able to stand, and I was most definitely not able to keep it all in place properly. 

Once everyone was ready for the wedding, the professional photo shoot began.

Check OUT those turbans

Dadaji, the coolest man ever, even while sporting a million yards of cloth on his head

The bro-in-law

Spreading the embarrassing photo pose love. Because no one should be subjected to it alone.

Then it was time for the procession (actually my pro photos were much later, after all the fun stuff happened, but you get the drift).

Traditionally, the groom's family processes from their house to the bride's house, accompanied by a lively band. In this case, the processed up the hill to the hotel. They love them some dancing, so it took about an hour I think. 

While I, of course, was not allowed to participate (huge huge bummer), I was allowed to watch from a car parked on the side of the street. It looked like loads of fun.

We actually went to a friend's wedding in Delhi the week after this, and I was insanely excited to get to dance in the procession this time. Alas, his family is not nearly as much fun and there were about three people dancing. Let. Down.

My knight in shining (embroidered) armor on his white steed

Let the party begin!

The man of the hour

My mom (doesn't she look awesome in this sari!?) welcomed hubby to the wedding site and did some sort of traditional nonsense as she was instructed. This photo is awesome because she had just grabbed him by the nose. Go Mom!

This one is also awesome, because she's leading him by a string around his neck, like a leash. Again, go Mom.

Because the ceremony was so insanely late starting, lunch had been laid out and all of the guests were eating. They all paused to welcome the insanity that was the procession, but when I entered...not so much. Sure, none of them knew me, but you would still expect us to draw a little attention on skin color alone.

Cutting a look to the guy eating lunch in the middle of my red carpet walkway. Sometimes my sisters and I actually do look alike...

Once I entered the mandap, hubby and I placed garlands of flowers around each other's neck. Hubby's friends and family picked him up to make it difficult for me to reach (I think that's normal and not an attempt to prevent the wedding...it's in a movie). Jumping in a heavy sari is no easy task, but you better believe I did it!

There was lots of stuff put in our hands and poured over our hands. I don't know why.

At some point a scarf was put around hubby's neck and tied to the hem of my sari. I don't know where that photo went but damned if I'm uploading any more. It apparently symbolizes the joining together of the bride and groom. A symbolic ball and chain, if you will.

Adding lots of random (to me) things to the sacred fire. Part of all Hindu wedding ceremonies as far as I can tell, but all the explanation I can find is that it's to evoke the God of Fire to witness the ceremony.

Adding more fuel to the fire because it isn't hot enough in India in the middle of the day with a giant heat lamp shining on you the whole time.

A quick search of Google will tell you the bride and groom circle the holy fire seven times, each representing a different aspect and promise of marriage.

Apparently Gujaratis cheat.

In a Gujarati ceremony, the couple only makes four circles. 

The internet tells me they represent "kama" (sensual pleasure), "artha" (worldly gain), "dharma" (virtue, righteousness, duty, cosmic order, etc. depending on where you look) and "mosksha" (freedom from reincarnation).

They were explained to me as having to do with bringin' home the bacon, maintaining the household, raising good children and...something else I believe religion related.

A lot gets lost in translation.

Even more gets lost when the person doing the translating doesn't know any more than you do.

In India (or the part of it that contains my mother-in-law) there are several signs of marriage a woman wears. A necklace made of gold and black beads, called a mangalsutra. A gold bangle on each wrist. And a stripe of red powder (that I don't know what is) down the center part of her hair.

There are probably more, but these are the ones I've been told about. It's a piecemeal education.

The super sexy stripe

The mangalsutra

The ring, for shits and giggles

There is always food involved in everything. And it almost always involves feeding it to someone else and them in turn feeding it to you. (You should see birthdays. It's a hot mess.)

This red cloth is another thing I know nothing about. All I know is that between the heaviness of the sari and the garland keeping it smushed against the back of my neck, the last thing I wanted in all that heat was a blanket. Luckily it didn't have to stay on long. It vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, and I've never seen it again.

After the ceremony, we got into a car that was then for some reason driven over a coconut to much celebration.

Then we went to hubby's family house, where there was more to do before I could enter. There was the dabbing of various powders onto the forehead that seems to go with pretty much every activity.

And then I got to kick the rice. A cup of rice was put on the floor in front of me, and hubby said I had to kick it over and be sure to get all the rice out. I kicked that sucker clear across the room.

The internet tells me the bride represents Laxmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, and spilling the rice represents the bride bringing that wealth into the household (in the form of good luck, I guess, since traditionally the women don't work outside of the home).

Then I stepped into a pan of red liquid and tracked footprints across the floor. No idea on that one.

After that I was immediately whisked up stairs so that an army of cousins could get me out of all my gorgeousness. And after I laid down the law that the beautician ladies would do the family first so I could take a shower, I was promptly done up all over again for the reception.

Like a lot of weddings in the U.S., the reception involved a receiving line. Unlike most weddings in the U.S., there were 700 people to greet. While standing on a stage. Need I say more?

The reception venue

I totally want this for my living room...

My ears still hurt looking at those earrings!

For each group of ten or so people that crossed the stage to greet us, we paused for a photo. I'll just give you one example, because why would you need to see nearly 100 photos of people you don't know? I certainly don't.

This was how the reception progressed. There were no ceremonies, no little cultural eccentricities. It was comparatively a simple night (if you don't count having to greet 700 wedding guests).

Afterwards we were even allowed to eat! And talk to hubby's friends! And then I was deposited back in my mother's hotel room to await the next morning's final ceremony.

My Big Fat Indian Wedding

Here it is! Two and a half years later, the story of the circus that was my Indian wedding.

I started this blog last year to share my two month stay in India with friends and family back home. I thought of this primarily because when I got home from my first trip in 2009, so much had happened I couldn't remember everything I wanted to share.

It's all well and good to just cover topics from last summer forward, but let's just admit it...what people are really interested in is the wedding.

It's not something that can be summed up all neatly and tied with a bow. The wedding itself went on for three days and that isn't including the maddening days leading up to it.

Keep in mind that this was my first time not only in India, but in any non-Western country. So I was essentially overwhelmed 24 hours a day. Add to that meeting extended extended family and taking part in activities where I didn't know my ass from my elbow, and you can imagine the insanity of those few days.

So I won't go into any detail about that. (Also, I was so sleep deprived I'm not sure I remember any details anyway.)

So I will start with the first big wedding event: Mehndi (or henna as I knew it before that moment).

This was a bit of an ambush. It was supposed to take place the next day, all traditional style, but the family decided it would take too long so we'd just go ahead and get it over with. And thus I ended up with many many photos of me in hubby's aunt's pajamas. I don't remember now why they put me in her pajamas. But nevertheless, there I was.

Look at me, completely unsuspecting of how lengthy the process would really be

Hey one arm! On one side!

And five hours later. I have no idea where photos of my legs are. Perhaps every one was too tired to care by that point. Note the towels under my arms so I could relax without actually touching anything.

I thought this was the world's longest process. I was so incredibly wrong. The events just got longer from here.

After sleeping for a mere few hours (I must say, hubby had been napping all the while) trying to not move (such a restful sleep), guests began arriving (5am) and I was woken up, mendhi scraped off, plastic bags shoved on my hands and feet and told to shower. Oh the fun. Hubby whisked me off to the hotel where my family was staying, where I managed to steal a few more blissful hours of sleep before beginning the process of scrubbing all the ink and oils off my skin to leave just the stain.

A few hours later, preparations began for that evening's activity: the Sangeet.

A team of women had been hired to do my hair and makeup as well as that of most women in the family. By reason of insanity, they always started with me, then left me to sit for hours until everyone else was ready to go. I also learned on the very last day that none of these women had even seen a white woman before, much less done their makeup. Which explains why I had more bright makeup plastered onto my face than Barbie. (Did I mention they also didn't speak English and no one was around to translate?)

That outfit weighed about 20lbs. It turned out to be the lightest one I would wear.

My impression of the Sangeet was that it would be a lot of singing and dancing performed in our honor. That may have been the case but if so they really shouldn't have bothered.

My mother-in-law's singing group performed for several hours. And when I say "several" I only wish I were exaggerating. 

They don't sing all that well, and even hubby didn't understand most of the lyrics.

At one point, they attempted to sing Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline." They were at the chorus before my family and I realized what it was supposed to be.

Later came the story of how we met. As told by the leader of the singing group. I don't know where she got her facts from. Neither of us were asked, that's for sure. 

In case you're wondering, we apparently met at a nightclub. 

Yeah I didn't know that either.

The thing about something being done in your honor is that you're not allowed to stop paying attention. When it gets boring, you can't wander off to the side and talk to people (as 90% of the guests were doing). You can't even stare off into space because your photo is being taken constantly and you must be smiling happily in each and every one.

It was a night that semi-prepared me for what was to come. The next day would be the wedding and reception, and it was definitely a doozy.