Being a Mother

Huda was discharged on 30 April with an impressive 2020g of body weight.Whoooooo!

The lovely little girl has been with her mommy and daddy, popularly known as Mak and Ayah ever since.

How has motherhood been?

Where shall I begin?

Let's start with a typical weekday.

6.30am - Wake up. Pray. Breakfast. Huda wakes up. Feed Huda. See The Husband off to work.

7.30am - Continue feeding Huda. Burp Huda. Huda naps. Mak surf the Net: checks emails, writes emails, visit motherhood-related forums.

9am - Huda stirs. Prepare her bathing paraphernalia.

9.30am - Bathe Huda. Feed Huda. Burp Huda.

11am - Nap for both Mak and Huda.

12.30pm - Eat yesterday's dinner for lunch. Sorry, no time to cook lunch. Always cook extra during dinner and save some for lunch the next day. Pray.

2pm - Feed Huda. Burp Huda. Change diapers. Start preparing dinner.

5pm - Feed Huda. Burp Huda. Pray. Continue preparing dinner.

7pm - Husband comes home! Yay! Official handover of nappy-changing and burping duties! Have dinner. Pray. Read Quran.

8pm - Feed Huda. Watch TV. Use the computer.

10pm - Feed Huda.

12mn - Feed Huda. Sleep.

1am - Feed Huda. Sleep.

2am - Scold Huda for either waking up so frequently or for not sleeping at all. Feed Huda.

4am - Feed Huda.

6.30am - Wake up.

Now, writing this entry has bored me to tears and I'm going to take my well-deserved nap now.

Sniffs

I miss my Huda Wuda.

I want to hold her in my arms. I wanna cuddle her. I wanna tell her stories. I wanna sing to her. I wanna kiss her little cheeks. I wanna smell her smelly poo. I wanna see The Husband change her poo-laden diaper. I wanna swaddle her. Then I wanna hold her tight and cuddle her and sing her songs and tell her stories and kiss her cheeks and her forehead and her nose and her cute little cheeks...

I want my baybeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Hello Dianah

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!

So much for keeping this blog hidden from view (except from The Husband who has to be reminded to look at these pages).

I was doing some, umm, expression, and updating this blog at the same time when Dianah walked into the room and realised that I was on blogger.

So, hello Dianah.

You'll realise that this place is desperately boring and you'll regret spending so much time looking for this. Hahaa!

Thank You

Thank you, Allah.

Thank you, family, for all the solat hajat, special prayers, do'a, words of encouragement and support, advice, drawings, calls, visits.

Thank you, friends, for the do'a, for keeping us in your thoughts and prayers, words of encouragement and support, calls and visits, the lovely bouquets and baskets of fruit and flowers.

Thank you, doctors and nurses of KK's Delivery Suite and NICU for the excellent care provided.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Huda, Ayah and Mak

Right Guidance

Huda was born on March 16, at 34 weeks.

The following is the story of her birth.

March 10. I went for another scan and check-up.

The scan showed that Huda's estimated weight was still the same as March 1's which meant that there was no growth between both scans.

After the scan, I was to have her heartbeat monitored on the CTG. I took a nap while Huda's heartbeat was being monitored and at the end of the 30 minutes, the nurse took a look at the reading and asked whether I moved at any point in time. I didn't. I asked if everything was okay and she told me she'd get Dr Wong to talk to me.

Dr A Wong came into the room and told me that the reading wasn't good - there was a dip in her heartbeat for a sustained period of time. She'd have to get me admitted to the labour ward (or the cool and funky name - Delivery Suite) immediately.

I was still calm and composed. Maybe the realisation hadn't sunk in yet. I called my husband, calmed him down and told him that I was admitted to be monitored only, or so it seemed at that time. I was quite sure I would be discharged, still pregnant. The nurse also said that Dr A Wong would arrange for my next appointment. Well, that convinced me that I would leave the hospital in a pregnant state. Besides, I still have 2 more maternity tops that have yet to be worn!

I told my husband to inform my parents because I knew I couldn't keep myself composed for long. I didn't want them to hear me cry and get all worried.

As I was being wheeled to the Delivery Suite, I started crying. Finally the enormity of the situation dawned upon me.

My poor little baby in my womb, in distress.

Two nurses came and wheeled me into Room 9. I changed into the standard labour ward outfit - a white gown tied at the back with absolutely nothing else, not even your wedding ring - and was strapped to the CTG for continuous, around-the-clock monitoring.

The labour ward nurse came and she knew I had been crying. The nice old lady toldthat my baby would be all right. If I cried, she said, the baby would feel it and my CTG reading would be bad.

I'm normally very optimistic, ridiculously so at times. But, if the situation is grave enough for me to worry, I will need some time to cry over it.

My husband rushed into the room minutes later. I really didn't know how he managed to get there so fast.

We had to decide, very quickly, which class ward to put me in. We've had this discussion before. If it were a normal, complication-free delivery, it would be a single-bedder ward. But if Huda had to be admitted to the ICU, it would have to be a C-class ward. Still, we deliberated over it. An MO who happened to be in the room recommended the C ward having looked at Huda's case. Yati, whose son, Dzafir, had to stay at the ICU for 38 days, also recommended the C ward. She said the bill, without subsidies, would have come up to close to $40, 000. I think, I'd rather spend that money on a long holiday. Besides, I had mentally prepared myself for a hospital stay minus all the luxuries, such as my own personal bathroom - which, if you know what a fusspot I can be, is of utmost importance to me. Moreover, in ICU and Special Care, there's no class distinction. Huda'll still receive first-rate care from the doctors and nurses there. Thankfully, there's no class distinction at the labour ward either! I got first class care from the nurses and doctors there!

So, a C-ward it is.

Dr A Wong came in a while later to check on me. The plan was, she told me, to get Huda's heartbeat monitored until Monday when they'd arrange for another scan. After that, they'd send me up to the ward. On Tuesday, my case would be mentioned at a meeting called High Risk Consult - where all the big shot gynaes and paeds will be - and they would decide what's the best course of action to take.

Labour Ward. I have nothing but praises for the nurses and doctors at the Delivery Suite.

Service was excellent. The nurses were very attentive and in between deliveries, they'd pop into my room to make sure I was okay. Doctors do their rounds every 4 hours and they'd answer my questions as best as they could.

A doctor who came in during the 4-hourly rounds said that they would most probably do a C-section once I hit Week 34, which would be the following Thursday. Babies born between Week 34 and Week 36 are considered acceptably premature as their organs are developed. That would be a good 1 and half months before my EDD.

Being a premature baby myself, I was not afraid of having a premie. I simply do not subscribe to the belief that premies will be slower in their development. What I was afraid of was having a baby stuck in the NICU.

Those first few days at the labour ward saw me alternating between tears and motivating myself to be stronger. There were lots of phonecalls to my family (only husbands are allowed to stay at the Labour Ward) and I miss my family soooo much!! It also didn't help that I was worried about Huda. Almost every phonecall ended up with me being in tears. My poor mother was literally sick with worry.

Monday came and I had my scan done. The sonographer told me that it was pointless to estimate the baby's weight as I just had her weight estimated 3 days earlier. She scanned the veins carrying the blood to the placenta and told me to ask my doctor about the results.

I was sent back to the labour ward and a doctor came and told me that the problem was in my veins that supply blood to the placenta. There was a high resistance in the veins that resulted in lower blood supply and less nutrients for Huda. Or something along that line.

The possibility of me being warded in the normal ward was slim. The doctors told me, with the CTG reading being what they were, the moment they monitored Huda's heartbeat, I'd find myself at the labour ward again.

So, the next thing to look forward to was Tuesday's meeting. I still harboured hopes of leaving the hospital still pregnant.

Tuesday came but somehow they missed my case! The nurses were apologetic and I milked it for all it was worth! I got THREE toilet breaks that day. Oh, I forgot to mention that because they wanted me strapped to the CTG all the time, I had to use the bedpan for all my erm, liquid output. I refused to get rid of solid wastes in the bedpan so, normally, they'd allow me one toilet break after many hours of consistent heartbeat.

The doctors were just as apologetic, apologising for their lapse saying that they'd gather the High Risk Consult people on Wednesday to discuss my case. So, Wednesday was the day to look out for.

Somehow, while I was half-asleep on that Tuesday afternoon, a familiar figure stood at the door. It was Farha! She intended to just pass some stuff to me through the nurse but the nurse allowed her in! It was almost surreal. I just could not believe that she was there. She brought lots of books, a Sudoku game, dates, air zamzam and a couple of other stuff.

Wednesday. That was my sixth day in the labour ward. People don't normally stay in the labour ward that long. They stay for 6 hours or 12 hours thereabout. Me? I was a permanent resident of the labour ward.

The HRC people met that day.

The decision was to cut me up the following day, exactly at Week 34, at 8am. Natural delivery - which I was looking forward to - was out of the question as it could be too stressful for Huda.

Doctors came in and out of the room, explaining the procedures to me and getting my signature on various forms.

My mother wanted to see me before I went into the operating theatre. I hoped she could! Rashida dropped a whole lot of magazines and chocolates, a nice balloon and a lovely card at the nurses' station. It was such a sweet gesture!

In the evening, my mother managed to come in with the scrambled egg sandwich that I had been craving for. Dianah made the sandwich. Very sweet, that girl. Both of us cried when we met. Long time no see each other, mah.. But, it was a short visit. Couldn't stay long at the labour ward.

I was allowed a long shower that evening. I cleaned myself thoroughly, knowing full well that after the C-section, I would most probably not shower for a couple of days. I tried hard to conserve my wudhu after the shower and I read the Quran in between prayer times.

Who would have thought that I would see a familiar face among the nurses. Nurli Fadhillah, my Pergas classmate! Miracles of miracles, she's a nurse at the NICU! She saw my name in the list of would-be mothers of ICU babes, or something like that, and came by my room. We had a fun time chatting before she had to go off to start work.

Thursday morning. It was still the wee hours of Thursday morning. When I say wee hours, I really mean small, tiny hours. It was just past midnight. I heard the nurse saying, "It's already Week 34. It's midnight already." I was too groggy to make sense of what she's saying.

At 2am, I was awoken when the room lights were switched on. A doctor was looking at the readings. I asked, "Anything wrong?"

A lot of things wrong, it seemed. Huda's heartbeat kept on dipping and was taking longer and longer to reach the normal rate.

The doctor said I had to have an emergency C-section done right then. I woke my husband who had been spending many restless nights on the sofa beside my bed. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to call my parents and his.

The good thing about an emergency C-section is, you don't have much time to worry.

I was wheeled, on a bed, to the operating theatre. The anaesthetist explained that general anaesthesia carries more risks than a local one. I opted for a local anaesthesia having done a bit of a research (err.. talking to my sister about her experience counts as research, no?) on the matter.

The C-section. The injection on the spine was administered. It was not as painful as I thought it would be. I was told to crouch on my right in a foetal position. The midwife held me to ensure that I did not thrash about. There were 4 jabs, I think. After the jabs, I felt a series of twinkling sensation running through my legs and they promptly went to sleep.

The surgeons then pressed my stomach and asked if I felt any pain. Nope, not at all.

There was a curtain, of sorts, blocking my view of the entire operation. Without the curtain, there would have been no need for anaesthesia; I would have been knocked out the moment I saw them holding a knife over my tummy.

I did not like being there. I knew I was in good hands but I simply did not like the helplessness I felt throughout the entire operation.

Soon I heard a few short cries. Huda was born! And she cried!! Which means, she has good lungs. Alhamdulillah!

But I did not get to see her. I was already informed about that. She was bundled up and whisked away to the NICU where they would be setting her up with drips and various monitors.

Operation over. I was moved to a resting area for 30 minutes or so. I asked for my husband but was told that the area I was in was part of the Operating Theatre so he wasn't allowed there.

Then, I was moved to the Post-Operative Ward or something like that. Along the way, my husband showed me pictures of Huda which he took. All I could remember was how happy my husband looked. Alhamdulillah.

I was tired and groggy and even if they had brought me to Afghanistan and back, nothing much would have registered in my mind. I could barely talk. Having been used to using my stomach muscles to project my voice, I found that I could only whisper after the operation. It was too much of a strain to talk.

The nurses at the ward were wonderful. Without batting an eyelid, they cleaned me up thoroughly. They did everything for me. I think giving birth by C-section makes you lose all sense of privacy.

About 9am, Thursday. It was time for me to be moved to the *sound effect: cackles of thunder* C ward. By then, I had already gained some sensation and I could feel the sharp pain where the cut was made. I had to move to the bed on wheels. My left leg refused to cooperate and I had to ask the nurses to lift it up to the other bed while I slowly moved the other parts of my body. It wasn't an easy task at all.

I was wheeled to the ward and had to make yet another move from the bed-with-wheels to the hospital bed. Torture, that was.

And thus began my stay at the ward. The nurse, very subtly, shooed my husband away and told him to come back at noon.

Still tired, I slept and slept. I was on liquid diet that first day. Not that it mattered because I had no appetite anyway.

Road to Recovery. It's a slow process, the recovery from a C-section. I was afraid of moving. I fear (silly as it may seem) that the stitches would rupture and I'd see my intestines hanging out. I still have that fear to this day, actually; I have neither coughed nor sneezed since.

On that Thursday, all I did was lie down in bed. The only time the bed was raised to prop me up was when my sister, Jiji - to whom I'm deeply indebted for all that she had done for me throughout my pregnancy and my long stay at the labour ward and the early days of my motherhood - told me that I had to start expressing my milk and that it could only be done if I sat up. That was a great motivation in making me take my first few moves after the operation.

Friday. That day, the catheter was removed which meant that I had no choice but to go to the washroom should the urge arose.

A lactation consultant also came by and told me that I had to sit up if I were to breastfeed. I knew then that the time had come for me to sit up and get moving. With great difficulty, I raised the hospital bed. Ouh. The pain I felt around the incision area! I thought my stomach would be split into two. The lactation consultant helped to prop me up using pillows. Like I said earlier, giving birth takes away all sense of privacy. So does seeing a lactation consultant. She massaged my, erm, tiny little bumps this way and that, very much like how my favourite Roti Prata Mama kneads his dough.

Alhamdulillah. All praises be to Allah. Like what Marion told me before, God somehow compensates us who have small babies with a good milk supply. Amin.

My first step. When my husband came, I told him I needed to start walking. Well, it wasn't really walking. More like standing, taking one tiny step and sitting on the chair beside the bed. Alhamdulillah. I managed it without much difficulty.

I expressed some more milk but all I got was just 3 - 4 ml. I was a bit disappointed but as I managed to express almost 30ml the first time round, I figured that my milk just needed a bit more time getting made.

My first real test was coming soon. I needed to pee. The husband was away, performing his Friday prayers and the nurses did not respond to me pressing the button. The urgency was great and there was no more catheter. So, I stood up, gained my balance, clutched my stomach and hobbled and shuffled all the way to the common toilet.

Aiyoh! I felt so relieved and it was such a great achievement on my part. I was so darn proud of myself. (Not just for being able to walk that 10 metres or so to the toilet on my own, but also because I could use the common loo without hovering.)

I wanna see my Huda. The husband came back a while later and as I could already move about, I requested to see Huda at the NICU. It was about 3pm. He got a wheelchair for me and wheeled me to the NICU. Unfortunately, they have strict visiting hours and I wasn't allowed to see Huda. We begged with the nurses. We told the nurse that I had not seen my baby at all. To no avail. She did suggest that we come back at about 10 to 6. I was sobbing away as we left the NICU.

At 5.45pm, 15 minutes before visiting hours, we were already there but once again, we were denied entry. 6pm, they said. I really could not handle it! I was sobbing non-stop. I felt like they had robbed me of a chance to see my baby! How could they? The baby's mine. I wanna see her!

My husband tried to comfort me but well, there was no comforting me. I felt so rejected!

The hands of the clock slowed to a crawl and it eventually reached 12 and 6. It's time to see my baby!

When I saw her, the floodgates opened. I just could not stop crying. Tears of joy, relief, a tinge of sadness and all emotions rolled into one.

My baby Huda.

My Dear Huda

Dear Huda,

Mak and Ayah are worried about you, you know? At 32 weeks, you are only 1.03kg! According to the sonographer, you are supposed to be about 1.8kg now. Dr Adelina Wong said that the problem could be due to my placenta not providing enough nutrients for you. After I've done a bit of research on the good ol Internet, that is also the only possibility that I can come up with. They call it 'placental insufficiency'.

This bit worries me because, well, because.

I have lots of pessimistic thoughts on this but I'd rather not articulate them.

Dr Wong told me that if you are not too active, ie you don't kick much, I must go straight to the Delivery Suite. But, Huda, you are too small to see the world now! On the other hand, I must also realise that if you don't get much nutrition in my womb, it's better for you to come out now.
*sigh* I don't know what I should do, Huda.

Dr Wong has forced a 1-week medical leave on me. Ayah also forced me to take it. I guess, the rest during this one week should do me and you a lot of good. Maybe, you are too small because your Mak does not know how to rest? So, this one week, I'm going to take morning and afternoon naps. That's what some mommies in one of the forums I visit told me. They said that as long as I'm eating well, it is rest that I need to take more of.

A few other mommies also told me that durians will help in your growth spurt, Huda. Unfortunately, there were no durians at Shing Shong just now. I'll get Ayah to buy me some tonight.

Meanwhile, Mak and Ayah have been praying to Allah to keep you healthy and safe in my womb. Amin.

Be good, Huda darling. Try to eat all the nutritious stuff you can, okay, sweetie?

We love you more than you can ever imagine!

Mak and Ayah

My Home

My lovely little nest is a corner unit 4-room HDB flat which we got for a song. What's a song? In the context of Singapore, sub-$100,000 is a song, isn't it?

Let me tell you how we got this flat.

We've been looking for a flat for a few months but nothing we saw caught our fancy. We don't have such stringent requirements. My specifications were:

• The rubbish chute must be in the unit.
• It must be within walking distance to the MRT station as we don't intend to be car-owners.
• I should not feel claustrophobic in the flat.

The husband's specifications were:

• It must be cheap so that we won't be in debt for too long.
• The living room must be of the right layout so that placement of his toys will not be compromised.

So, we went a-hunting but we could not find anything that really suit our fancy. There was a unit with an unoccupied room and a surah Yasin stuck on the window grilles. There was another unit whose owners looked so glum. And there was that other unit with hints of red paint splashed on the floor just under the main door and a freshly painted square on a wall beside the unit.

Finally I gave up. I'd have to give up my criterion number one. Rubbish chute outside the house lor. No choice lor.

So, there was a walk-in-selection for flats in Woodlands and we went for it. The then-fiance took 2 days off. First day, he went to HDB to take the brochure and queue number. Our queue number was for the next day. So, the then-fiance, at the urgings of the then-fiancee, went around Woodlands to shortlist the flats. The flats were so far away from the nearest MRT station. And the then-fiance almost collapsed due to exhaustion at the end of the shortlisting process.

Then, he flipped to the pages at the back of the brochure/booklet. There they were. A list of repossessed flats - flats HDB took back from the owners for whatever reasons. And, some of the flats were darn cheap! So much cheaper than if they were purchased in the resale market! We jumped for joy. The only catch was, we could not view the flat before purchase. And should we change our minds after we'd signed on the dotted lines, we'd lose our $2,000 deposit (or something like that).

We pored through the list and settled on one flat. Only one flat. We had absolutely no back-up plans should that one flat be taken. So, that evening, we looked at the surrounding area of the flat and we liked it. It was quiet. Neighbours were friendly but not nosey. One of the would-be neighbours even allowed us into his unit so that we could have a feel of what our future-home would be.

The entire night, I kept on checking HDB's website to make sure that the unit we were eying was still available. Yes, it was.

The next day, the husband went to HDB early in the morning while I went to work. At 1.30pm, I flew from my workplace to HDB hub after performing my zuhur prayers.

3pm. 4pm. 5pm. Our number had yet to be called. Our unit was still available. 6pm. It was time for us to do our asar prayers.

I went to the mosque to do my prayers as I didn't bring my prayer garb. At the mosque, my then-fiance called and told me that he overheard two men, whose queue numbers were ahead of ours, expressing interest in our unit.

'Noooooooooooooooo!!!!' I screamed! I prayed fervently that the unit would be ours. I begged and begged and begged for the unit to be ours.

Then, I rushed back to HDB. Husband told me that the 2 men had struck a deal. One of them would go for our unit if the other one was not interested in it. And, one of their numbers had been called.

The man went in, and came out a few minutes later, shaking his head. Then the other man's number was called.

Our eyes were glued on the screen. Our unit was still blue. Blue meant it's available, red meant it's taken. I didn't understand. Didn't the earlier man shake his head? That meant the unit wasn't available, was it?

In the meantime, my younger sister had come with some snacks for us and a prayer mat for the then-fiance.

It was almost seven and the then-fiance was about to pray at some stairwells or whichever corner there was at HDB Hub. He told me to just go in and ask for the unit when our number was called. He was about to walk away and pray when our number was called. I called out for him and we ran into the offices. Even before we reached the counter, we both shouted to the lady, "103! Woodlands! 103! 103!"

The lady asked us whether we were sure. I think it's the standard operating procedure for them but I don't think we answered her question. We just told her to press the enter key. "Just press enter! Just press enter! Just press enter!"

We only sat down when she confirmed that the unit was ours.

As we sat down, we thanked Allah repeatedly for the unit and I immediately called my mother who was at tenterhooks due to the very frequent updates I gave her.

Alhamdulillah.

Lessons from a Trip to KL

KL is our favourite short-getaway destination.

It is about 5 hours away on a bus (unless you get the slow coach that we had or have to suffer 2.5 hours of jam at the Causeway which we did).

What do we like most about KL? The eating. It's such a joy to find such a wide variety of food which are halal. Yum yum.

I'm glad it's not my first trimester. I ate and I ate and I ate. And because I cut down my intake of water so that I wouldn't need to visit the loo too often, I was never quite full. Ouh. That meant, I ate and I ate and I ate even more!

But, of course, the moment I got home, I downed three full cups of water. I was that thirsty, especially because I only took little sips during the 2.5 hours in the jam as I didn't know when it would all end.

Now that we're home, I told Huda that she can body-slam herself against my bladder as often as she wants. She did that a lot on the slow coach to KL. It didn't help that the coach was just a rickety old bus given a facelift.

Every time after a trip, we'd have a post-mortem of sorts but we'd forget all about it by the time we go on our next KL trip because we are forgetful. So, here are our thoughts, just so that we'll have something to refer to next time.

1. Find out which bus company uses that bus station behind Concorde.

2. Never stay at Federal Hotel.

3. With Huda around, we cannot afford to go by Causeway on the way back. We can only take the train or the plane. For planes, it cannot be from KUL-JHB. It has to be from KUL-SIN. Cost is not an issue when sanity is at stake.

4. We shall never visit Berjaya Times Square. The places to go are Mid Valley Megamall, KLCC, Jalan Masjid India, Victoria Station, Bukit Bintang.

5. Bring a map and study the map on the way there. Not, when we are already there.

6. Speak Malay like Malaysians! Even to the Starbucks-Cafe-dude-who-called-himself-Fido-whose-real-name-is-most-probably-Apid-Bin-Leman who insisted on English. Never fall back to English. Where else can we use Malay to speak to people in the service industry. And, where else can I practise my poor command of the language?

Okay. That should be all. Unless I can think of a few more.

For Whom the Bell Tolls

What is the last step in process writing?

Publishing.

For this blog, I take publishing to mean announcing to one and all that I have a blog and asking, begging, cajoling, forcing at gunpoint everyone and anyone to read all the sordid details of my life here.

But, I dunno leh.

I still very much prefer for this to be a quiet and private place for me to rant and rave about everything and nothing.

Other than The Husband and a few spammers, no one else knows about this page. And I think I shall keep it that way for now.

I suppose, for now, I write for me.

Random Thoughts

1. I absolutely hate the people who do not line up at the bus interchange and board the bus before those who queue up do so. It's fine if you don't want to queue, but you cannot expect to be the first to board if you don't queue. They don't put those railings for decorative purposes, y'know?

2. The word 'stanchion' actually has a meaning. The Husband and I saw the word in a bus one day and were stumped by it.

3. I don't like using my Clarins stretchmark oil. It's supposed to help in reducing stretchmarks. Alhamdulillah, so far, there's none. But, it also has a firming effect on the skin. This can be very uncomfortable when I'm feeling bloated and my skin just can't stretch anymore.

4. I'm feeling so bloated but my throat feels parched and dry. I take sips of water which worsens the bloated feeling but doesn't help the parched and dry throat one bit. What am I to do?

5. My nice neighbour, Irene, who has given me a lot of baby stuff just came over to give me two bags of baby clothes. Huda, you'll have plenty to wear! However, this means that I have no excuse to go shopping for baby clothes. Then again, I'm bad at it. I might as well depend on hand-me-downs and wait for Huda to grow up and shop for herself.

6. At 6 months, some of my colleagues just noticed that I'm pregnant. The most classic response was from a male colleague whom-I-shall-not-name-for-fear-of-embarrassing-him. We were having lunch and another colleague asked when I was due. The male colleague almost choked on his meal and this conversation ensued:

AB: You're due when?
Me: April
AB: You mean you're pregnant?
Me: (laughing) Yes, AB, I have to be pregnant to give birth!
AB: (eyes wide open, seemingly unable to comprehend all the facts of the matter) You're married?
Me: (laughing hysterically) Yes! Since 2003!

Somehow, it's very difficult for me to get offended by what people say. I'm saying this because another colleague who was around at that time was trying to soothe me. But, no feathers were ruffled. No soothing was needed.

7. At times, especially when I put on my glasses and am dressed in my loose-fitting long-sleeved T-shirts and trackpants and my no-ironing-needed tudungs, I'll look like a cross between a secondary school student and a maid.

With my bulging tummy, I look no more than a teenager in trouble.

So, when I got pregnant, I'm quite sure that I'm going to get THAT look from strangers.

True enough, a few days ago, a guy at a hawker centre gave me a certain look after staring at my bulging tummy.