You know you're a NEW MOM when

• you still waddle to the bathroom...8 months AFTER giving birth :)
• the 7 AM grocery shopping becomes a blessing!
• The Mr's offer to load the dishwasher once a week makes him a Superhero in your eyes.
• less baby food and more frizz makes it a 'good hair day'.
• a spontanoeous night about town with your girlfriends needs a 2 week notice.
• a date night is just an excuse to slouch on the couch and snooze before you hit 'Play' button.
• 'Baby is sleeping' replaces 'I love you' as the most romantic 3 words you ever want to hear!

Notes on a Diaper -2

Month Two

By now the Calvins and Harry Potters on your book shelves have sold their prime real estate to pregnancy books written by condescending doctor-moms who just want to bore the living daylights out of you. Every page has an advice specifically written for the mother, so you make it a point to go to the nearest bookstore and buy the lucky husband his own copy of “So you’re going to be a Dad”. Then you spend the rest of the night reading it and laughing your head off while the husband snores till kingdom come.

As for hint #1, it still hasn’t made an appearance. But fret not, there’s always hint #2 to make life sexier than ever before.

Full length mirror - $20
Sexy Black Dress - $35
The Look in the smitten husband’s eyes – Priceless.

Sigh, just when you thought you could actually handle this pregnancy thingy, in walks Ms.Obnoxious Nausea, wearing 5 inch stilettos [the ones that you can’t manage to crawl in much less walk] and with an evil laugh that stays with you throughout the day. Your sense of smell increases exponentially that you can give the bomb squad dogs a run for their money.

And that’s when you realize that making out in the kitchen can no longer be steamy…not when you can smell the coconut oil you poured down the drain a month ago.

Notes on a diaper - 1

First Month

The second you find out there’s a little life growing inside you, you want to get up on the rooftop, do cartwheels and scream at the top of your voice, “I’m pregnant!”. But of course, since such shenanigans aren’t really appreciated by all much less by the belly-resident, you settle for a meek “Yippee!”

The next second you want the baby. I mean, if Kunti can just mumble a few words in sanskrit and have a baby, why shouldn’t you? Apparently, giving birth without blood and pain ended with Karna. So much for miracles of science, bah!

Anyway, common sense and familial pressure insist you wait a minimum of 15 weeks before you paint the neighbourhood with pictures of your growing belly, but seriously who can wait that long? So you spend the rest of the month coming up with creative ideas to break the news to people in as subtle a manner as possible.

No! Wearing a bulky sweater inside a shirt, in mid-May is not entirely a bright idea. Nor is rubbing your flat (well, almost flat) belly in a crowded subway.

P.S: As I found out, writing subtle blogposts on colour Blue also ain't really a hint :p

Writing Workshop - X

I've been fairly regular to the writing workshop since January this year. I guess, I definitely needed the job to channel my ideas :) I have atleast 4 stories to post here but I want to start with the one I wrote tonight. Everyone liked it and also I loved writing this one :)

Prompt: "What's the most you've ever paid for something you didn't want?"

This should be fun, I told myself as I picked up The Pocket Muse. It was a small hard bound book in blue-grey with a black spine. 'Endless Inspiration' , the caption claimed. Considering how little I had written in the past few weeks, I felt I could do with some outside help.

"That will be $30.99, Ma'am," said the cashier. Man! It sucks to be in Canada*. I went home, cleared the coffee table and placed The Muse on it. Now it will beckon me everyday, willing me to write instead of being a couch potato.

Two weeks passed.
"Aren't you going to atleast open the book?" asked The Mr, amusement writ all over his face.
"How do you know I haven't? You're anyway never home in the mornings," I countered, though I knew he was right. I've barely gone past the spine.
"I need a new notebook and a fountain pen. I write better with fountain pens." With that I picked the book and moved it to the study. who ever writes sitting at the coffee table? Plus he rarely walks into the study. I can write undisturbed.

The next evening when The Mr entered the study, I was at my writing desk with a beautiful green fountain pen and brand new Van Gogh leather journal by that famous boutique. He stood over me as I calligraphed(is that a verb?) my name - 'Pon. Chidambarakumari'.

"Looks like your name will need a new book all by itself," he joked.
"Very funny," I smirked.
"So how much did all this cost?"
"$10"
"Really?"
"Plus another 20 odd dollars" I mumbled under my breath and then added, "Creativity is priceless," my voice a tad shrill.

The Mr smiled an all-knowing smile and walked out. I opened The Muse. The 'About The Author' section ran for some 4 pages. What? Who cares about her? Show me The Muse, woman! Realizing this wasn't going to work, I closed the book and re-opened it on a random page.

Page 82: 'Second Follow Up Notice from The Department of Procrastination Prevention'.
I wrote it down neatly in my journal. I shifted myself in the chair, draped my legs over the left arm of the chair, closed my eyes and just sat there. In Anticipation.

The next thing I knew there was a loud noise. I opened my eyes and found the journal on the floor. I must've fallen asleep. I picked up the journal and looked at the prompt. What kind of lame ass prompt is that? And they paid her to publish this? I arranged the journal and The Muse neatly on the desk and walked out. I needed new cushions for the chair.

A pair of silk cushions, a new Feng Shui book, Art for the wall, 2 CDs of inspirational Bach and a box of cookies later, I was back where I started. The Mr greeted me with a raised eyebrow, as I entered the living room. Darn it! How does he do that?
I cleared my throat and announced, "I am going to be a painter."

* Writer's License.
The Missus says: Treat piece as fiction.
The Mr says: Fiction? What about the Muse which is gathering dust since last year :D And the incomplete 'paintings' piling up in the corner of our study?