The “Just Married, Please Excuse” Contest

So, the very funny Yashodhara of Y On Earth Not, has a book out. I expected nothing less from her. Although how she managed three kids, a job and brought out a book, will always be a mystery to me. Titled Just Married, Please Excuse, it is pretty much autobiographical, telling the tale of Yash and Vijay’s courtship, and the early years of their marriage. While I’ve had the pleasure of learning her voice through her blog, nothing prepared me for the book. Kahani mein action hai, emotion hai, aur drama bhi hai. I’ll admit I wasn’t too excited before I picked it up, because hey, I read her blog… I know how this story ends. But it’s a whole different thing to have the gaps filled in and handed to you in the form of a book.

I read it through the night, fully knowing where it was going. And I guess that is the triumph of her writing. It keeps you engaged and amused to the very last page. I’m not going to tell you anymore – so buy the book.  What I will do though, is tell you a story of the OA and I, just after we got married. But before that, some stories from the week just before we got married. This is an entry for a contest she is running and since I love Mamagoto’s food enough to sell my kids and park myself there for a lifetime, I’m participating in the hope of winning a meal. Yes, I’m cheap like that.

Anyone who has read this blog for a while knows that the OA and I had a rather filmy love story. Dashing Hindu boy meets shy Christian girl. Pursues her until she gives in. Suddenly realises he should have been working on his parents instead of her, but it’s too late. Boy’s parents dig their heels in, boy decides to follow his heart and the girl. Boy and girl struggle to put him through post grad college and true love triumphs.

This is where this story begins. Convocation was over and as he tossed his cap into the air, I felt a surge of pride. We’d done this without anyone else. A lot of other students had significant others attending, but they also had parents. We were a lonesome twosome with no adults (I still thought of myself as not-quite-an-adult) there for us. Our wedding was a week later so his parents were at the height of their outrage and mine were busy organising the event.

The next day we had a train to catch back to my hometown. Two heavy suitcases dragged to the gate, friends hugging at every step, congratulations being shouted out (he was the first getting married straight off campus), plans being made… and we were late for the train by, oh.. about an hour already.

As the cab pulled in to the station we heard the train whistle. We had it all planned. He’d rush ahead and pull the chain to stop the train. I’d follow with the coolies and the luggage. He raced off and I started running, urging the coolies to keep up. We jumped down on to the filthy tracks, clambered on to the next platform and repeated the exercise until we reached the correct platform. As I clambered on to the last filthy platform, my hands a mess, my teeshirt filthy, the train jerked to life and phlegmatically began to pull out. I screamed for the OA, frantically looking up and down the platform. He was nowhere to be seen. And then I saw him wave in my face as his coach flashed by me. “Throw me that suitcase,” he yelled. And I made the coolie throw one in. The train chugged on, picking up speed and I made the coolie throw the next one in to another coach. By now the OA was far ahead, while the other coolie was running alongside, collecting his earnings and giving change. I kept running along, realising (to my horror) that the end of the platform was nigh. I might have made a jump for it but the heavy bag on my shoulder would weigh me down. I needed someone to pull me into the train. But the love of my life, soon to be husband, was riding a train and disappearing into the sunset – without me.

And then, DDLJ style, a hand shot out of the coach and a stranger’s voice called my name. It was not the OA’s hand – the OA’s ugly, stubby fingers cannot be mistaken and this was a beautifully made, strong brown, male hand – but I didn’t care. I grabbed hold and the hand pulled me in with little effort, just as the platform came to an end. I gasped in relief and looked up at my rescuer in surprise. Who could he be? He was the OA’s batchmate and had taken the liberty to help when he saw me in need. I thanked him profusely and headed off to find the OA and tell him what I thought of being thrown over for a couple of suitcases of books.

Of course, being the OA and I, we were as disorganised as ever and the reservations had been done too late, with the result that we had only one berth to share all the way back. The last couple of days in college had been stressful and he looked exhausted, so I generously forgave him and obligingly squeezed myself into a corner so that he could get some sleep. The hours flew by and we pulled into another station. He opened one eye and I asked him, solicitiously if he’d like a cup of tea. He nodded, turned over and went back to sleep. Telling myself that the poor man needed some TLC, I headed off to hunt for some tea. I found one chaiwala eventually and he was mobbed. I waited my turn and as he handed me my cups, he said, “Madam, isn’t that the train you were on?”

Were on??

I turned around to see the train was pulling out of the platform and leaving me behind, for the second effing time that day. Flinging down the hard-earned, steaming cups of tea, I ran along the train again, the speed just that bit too much for me to risk my life. I hoped and prayed that the OA had realised I was not on the train and was looking for me. I should have known better.

Once again, a voice called my name and the now familiar hand popped out. I grabbed without a thought and jumped on to the train. The OA’s friend had seen me get off the train and realised I’d not got back on when it started. I pledged my firstborn to him and rushed to wake the OA and tell him of how misfortune was following me. He opened an eye, heard me out and then, disappointment writ large on his face, said, “You mean you didn’t get any chai?”

At that moment I deeply regretted not having managed to get the chai. I could have flung it in his face.

And yes, dear readers, I married him inspite of that. Shoulda married the other guy. He’s married too, now, by the way. Too late.


But picture abhi baaki hai mere dost.

The night before the wedding we were a raucous household. Family from all around the world was staying at our place and of course the OA too. He had to be, considering he had nowhere else to go. He was part of my mehendi, I was part of his cocktail party. As we called it a night, happy and exhausted, my Uncle who was down from Australia after a gazillion years, recklessly volunteered to make breakfast and his desi favourite, mango lassi for everyone. But he needed some help. The distinct lack of enthusiasm from the rest of the family didn’t deter him. Finally, the OA, drunk as a skunk and always up for anything food related, offered to help. Yes, you can always tell which ones are not related to us by blood, because they enjoy cooking. No one in my bloodline is a happy cook! Heck, that’s why we live in India and hire people to do it.

Anyhow, he woke up at the crack of dawn and began to help Uncle. I, naturally, after all that   train-chasing, was getting some much-needed beauty sleep. An old family friend came by to see us in the early hours of the morning. She was too old to attend the wedding and reception at night, and wanted to wish us in advance.

Ma settled her into the living room and said she’d just sent someone to wake me up and I’d be awake and down in a minute.

The lady nodded understandingly and said, ‘What about the groom? Where is he?’

Oh, said Ma, he’s in the kitchen.

Right, said the sweet old lady… ‘having breakfast, I suppose?’

No, said Ma. She is honest to a fault. “He’s cooking it.”

It would not be an exaggeration to say the old lady almost fell off her chair.”Look, I know his parents are against the marriage, but surely you can’t treat him this way because he has no one standing up for him!”

I still split my sides laughing over this one. And yes, of course we cleared that up.


Now while the idea was not to ill treat the OA because no one was standing up for him, we’re not the sort of family to stand on ceremony and give him son-in-law treatment either. And that is how he found himself on the railway station with my brother, at the ungodly hour of 4 am, picking up family coming in on a delayed train. Everyone was pulling their share of weight and I don’t think either we or he, even considered doing it any other way.

My grandmother and her siblings arrived and my brother introduced the OA by name to them. They weren’t particularly enthusiastic in their greeting and the OA and my brother put it down to age and exhaustion on their part. A lazy red glow spread as the sun rose and they drove home in silence until my granduncle asked my monosyllabic brother if he could take him to visit his old college, in our hometown. This is how the conversation went.

Granduncle: I studied in this city, 45 years ago. Do you think you could take me to see my old college?

Tambi: Actually Thatha, we’re pretty busy with the wedding arrangement and your college is on the outskirts of the city. We may not get the time.

Granduncle gesturing towards the OA: What about him? Can he take me?

Tambi: No, Thatha, he doesn’t know his way around the city. He’s not from here.

Granduncle, looking disappointedly at the OA: Oh I see. Is he here to attend the wedding?

Tambi (master of understatement) drawls: I sure hope so.

Yes, yes, granduncle realised his faux pas later, but this story has given us many a merry evening.


And now finally, so that I don’t get disqualified on the technicality that I’m not married during these tales, I’ll share the honeymoon one.

When I met the OA and fell in love, I was rather in awe of him. He was older, wiser… and I thought he’d take care of me. Yeah, Sound of Music hangover. And to his credit, he mostly does. Except for when he doesn’t.

Poor as church mice, we took a bus from Delhi to Manali for our honeymoon. Hopes of a knight in shining armour were dashed to the ground rather rudely as the knight stuck his head out of the bus window and emptied his the contents of his stomach across the hill roads. I watched curiously, wondering how he could throw up more than he’d eaten in the last 6 meals put together. The only explanation was that he’d thrown up his intestines too. But I dutifully got him water, washed his face, begged someone to give us the seat up front and tried to (wo)manfully raise my shoulder as high as I could to give him a head rest. Too drained to care, he slept. Around us other honeymooning couples billed and cooed and necked. I adjusted the smelly puker into a corner and resigned myself to a rather unromantic couple of hours.

Half way through the night the bus stopped. It was eerie. The sounds of the jungle came closer. I woke up and being the nosy person I am, checked out the bus. There was no reason to stop. No roadblock, nothing – and the driver was missing. I waited for someone else to make the first move. Three old ladies, sisters on a holiday together, hobbled off the bus to get an explanation. It turned out that the driver had decided to strike because he was being made to work overtime and not being paid for it. He laid out a blanket off the edge of the road and was snoring before we could say ‘Manali.’

The old ladies realised they needed numbers and came back to recruit from the hordes of youngsters in the bus. Shy young brides looked up at their husbands in awe as the men got up and stretched and swaggered, ready to get down and take on the lone driver. One of them called out to the OA to join them. He opened half a bleary eye and chivalrously volunteered, “Let my wife handle him. You won’t need to send anyone else,” and went back to sleep.

Yes, yes, ladies and gentlemen, I still honeymooned with him. Not just that, procreated and continue to live with him. A silent, suffering woman, that’s me. The only good that came of that night, is that we still dine out on that story.

The filmy post

So I have to ask. Zeenat Aman or Parveen Babi? My vote for Zeenat Aman – more refined features, better body.


Just saw DDLJ being advertised for the nth time on TV and realised I’d happily watch it again. It was our generation’s Sholay. Fans of Sholay, don’t lynch me, I think Sholay is the best too. But it reminded me of a really funny incident.

I had learned about this rather prim British game from my grandmother’s youth and happily shared it with the rest of my social circle. It was called Fish Pond. A bowl would be placed in the centre of the room and we all got paper and pens and could drop in anonymous notes. From the timid confessions of love to the most nasty stinkers (but mostly love notes), everything made it’s way in there – and everyone knew if a note was meant for them or not. Soon it became a staple at every party. We’d walk in, drop our notes in the bowl, party, sing, dance, eat and then one of us would read out the notes while the rest would try to guess who had written them. A fitting end to every party.

And then Raj and Simran took the Euro Rail into our lives and everything changed. That evening we played Fish Pond as usual and note after note was read out – all addressed to Raj from Simran and from Simran to Raj. After the first note, I looked up and grinned at the childhood sweetheart thinking it was from him to me. The blank look on his face alerted me to the fact that it wasn’t. A look around the room showed similar looks. Only the person who wrote it knew who it was for – the intendeds were all confused. And so on it went. Thirty notes from and to Raj and Simran. After the first few minutes the humour of the situation sunk in and we roared with laughter. By the end it didn’t matter if the right person got the message. All that mattered was that we’d all imagined ourselves the love struck lead pair of the hit film.

*wipes tears* What’s your funniest Bolly real life moment? Aneela and Dipta are barred from participating. Oh what the hell, jee lo bachchon. Tell us about it.


I watched Delhi Belly and loved it. I promoted it loud and long on my Facebook page too. The music was fantastic and so was the movie. I know a lot of people took exception to the cursing but I felt right at home! They were talking about a certain section of society and the language was as authentic as it gets. You can’t come from Uttar Pradesh, study in Delhi University and work in media and be a stranger to abuse. I’ve heard the most creative and finally when I realised I wasn’t going to smoke, touch alcohol or play cards in this lifetime, I decided the least I could be an expert on was cuss words. A woman’s got to have some vices!

Two minutes into the movie and that could have been my life 10 years ago. Although a lot of it looked like it had been shot in Bombay or any other part of the country, definitely not Delhi. The bachelors in a filthy flat – check. My brother objects but I have a very clear memory of once walking into his flat and washing a bowl of something indescribable, other than the maggots crawling out of it. After that he and I moved in together because getting his flatmates (lovable though they were) to keep the place clean was a challenge. And we kept the barsati as clean as possible we could with no water -yes, water shortages and Delhi are synonymous. I recall buying 20ltr jars of mineral water to bathe in. I’d go to the parlour down the road and get them to shampoo my hair for Rs 50 once every week or so because I was sure I had layers of shampoo settled in there. Yes, short of washing our arses with OJ we did everything else.

Even if you’re not from Delhi but have watched Dilli 6 you’ll remember the terraces all cheek by jowl. Well, here’s a confession. At night we’d come back from work and prowl the terraces, jumping from one roof to another, hunting for a water tank that was open. And then we’d pass buckets and rob water for our early morning ablutions. The more adventurous would just stand right there and have a quick bath, dressed in shorts and vests as we all used to be. Once I remember the guys getting into the tank to rob the last couple of buckets at the bottom of the syntex tank and eventually just having a nice old tub bath inside it. I am horrified at the thought of anyone doing it to us today, but in those days, we were young and wild and everything was fair. Everything unacceptable was a dare and anyone who didn’t fall in with the plan, fell off the charts.

At night there’d be no electricity and we’d sleep out on the open terrace. Rows of bare mattresses and a guitar strumming softly under the night sky. Yes, the party shifted to our place. People would float in and out and bike and car keys passed around with no fear. One day I recall two guys walk in and sit in a corner, roll a joint and then leave after a while. Later we wondered aloud whose friends of friends they were, only to have everyone shrug. Apparently we’d just been used! This is around the time the whole Kala bandar scare happened and terrified of getting carried off by a monkey man, prone to hallucinating after a couple of bottles of rum, we all shifted back into the barsati, preferring the stifling heat to terror inflicted insomnia.

A few nights ago Dipta and wife, the OA and I and some other friends were lazing around after a potluck dinner. And we began to swap stories of our youthful misdemeanors. I waited for the boys all to hit me with their worst. And I kept waiting.  Suddenly realised that I had the worst stories to tell, sweet innocent that I am, simply by virtue of the company I kept. Very few of the horror stories had me featuring in a starring role. Even so, it’s unnerving to realise that you have the most evil stories to relate compared to the others’ blameless, unblemished lives.

Which is why I watched Delhi Belly with something akin to relief. So we were not the worst. There were people who had obviously done some terrible things in their own time which is where the idea came from. Walk into any media house and the photographers will be rather like Kunaal Roy Kapur. Irreverent (except for the guy who almost dropped his camera when a celeb we were interviewing let her dress slip down to give us an eyeful of err.. you know), wicked sense of humour and always sleepy or hungry! Imran reminds me of my ex, again, a media guy who was freaked out by the thought of me actually being serious enough to want to get hitched! And Vir Das was well… Vir Das.

Some of the humour was slapstick, some of it was totally lost on the junta around us, like the one about the banana looking happy because it was about to be eaten and the earring being an accessory.

I am also amazed by the number of people who actually called/mailed me to ask me what the big deal with the Bhaag DK Bose song was. How many of you really didn’t get it? And no, I am not explaining on the great wide web. I have to draw the line somewhere!

The line is an old schoolboy joke in UP. The original line going Bhaag *beep* ke, aandhi aayi. I recall school friends saying it to this particular friend who was the butt of every joke. Funny, crass, brash, big built, pistol wielding, he was my favourite champion. Once I lost my temper with the boyfriend and this guy looks at me and goes – Want me to throw him in the fish pond?

Yes, I nod, spoilt brat that I am.

He promptly grabs him and throws him into the pool, headfirst. Thankfully Ma walked out right then or the poor boyfriend might not have lived to tell that tale. So our pal stops mid-throw in shock and hangs on to him by the legs. And there is the boyfriend, hanging upside down, head inside the pond, choking and spluttering. Me glaring balefully and believing that he is getting his due. Ma screaming in terror and scared of grabbing in case friend loses balance and lets go. And friend looking at me and saying – I threw him in because you said, I’ll yank him out only if you want, never mind if Aunty kills me after this.

Ma came at me with the fury of a 1000 snakes and I reluctantly told him to pull the boyfriend out. Boyfriend came out soaked from head to chest, spluttering and choking.  And this friend pats him on the back and says genially, in lieu of an apology, “Never mind yaar, you’re a Bengali; you should have just eaten some fish.” And all this while the rest of our gang sitting around watching and splitting their sides laughing. Happy days. And yes, the boyfriend continued to date me inspite of that episode. I’m lovable and forgivable like that.

Anyhow, some years ago that madcap friend of mine fell out of the second floor of a building and is in a wheelchair now. As the hall around me was exploding with laughter when the song started all I could think of, wiping tears away, is how time has passed and how he will never again bhaago, aandhi or no aandhi, wheelchair bound as he is. The song was not so funny anymore.

I also watched Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. Another three young men, except this time so out of my realm. Making big bucks, deep sea diving, buying their wives Hermes bags. The movie had everything it takes to be a hit – decent music, interesting locales, eye candy (I got my money’s worth the moment Hrithik took off his shirt) and emotion, drama and romance. But it didn’t hit home the way Delhi Belly did for me. Gross, scatalogical, crazy, avenging boyfriends, crazy media parties, makes ups and break ups, communication breakdowns, love, fights, misunderstandings, pranks, that was the story of my youth. Not this sanitised, privileged, landscaped, clean story. Our friends were more likely to wash their butts with your orange juice than screw your girlfriend.

Even so, I am currently listening to this song from the movie on repeat. How can you not? The words are beautiful and Mohit, the true love of my life is singing it while Farhan and Hrithik, the other true loves of my life gladden the eye. As for Abhay, he needs to rethink his roles. He came across as annoying, effeminate and witless. Even his hairy chest couldn’t redeem him. His voice was the most annoying aspect and that is saying something when you’re sharing screen time with Farhan.


Anyhow, paisa vasool on both counts. Delhi Belly for taking me down memory lane and ZNMD for letting me aankh seko as the UP term goes. I leave you with my current favourite item number. Ignore the tacky video and just get up, push your chair away from your desk and shake your booty! Goodnight folks.


The plate on the mantelpiece

Placed on the mantelpiece in my parents’ living room is this plate. Unlike other mementos, this one can’t be bought. Like the Cadbury’s Bournville, you have to earn it. In other words, be a sportsperson. And everyone knows I couldn’t catch a ball even if you handed it to me on a silver platter. Clearly, it was not won by me.

It was won by someone who presented it to me in the euphoria of his win. Not with a flourish, neither with a disregard for what it meant. Simply handed to the then love of his life as an offering. A gesture if you will, of what she meant to him.

He wasn’t a jock. The hours others spent tossing a ball were spent strumming a guitar on the college lawns, so this was all the more unexpected and special. He got on the team as a lark and if I close my eyes I can still see the boyish grin, the sweat dripping off his forehead, the sheer exuberance as the team came in from a game jostling each other around, discussing who screwed up and who saved the day. When push comes to shove you’re unlikely to find a boy who doesn’t enjoy throwing a ball around and back thumping with his mates.

There is a special dinner held for the sportspeople at the end of the year and after having spent almost every waking moment with him, I was really upset not to be there with him. He made up for it by rushing back to me the moment it was over with this plate. It should have gone back to his home and adorned his parents’ mantelpiece. One that I am sure is now crowded with many more accolades.  Instead it ended up on my parents’ mantelpiece. Eleven years down, the plate still stands there proud. Guests stop by to admire it. The hands that dust it, do so with care because they’ve been told it is precious. And precious it is.

Because it is a reminder of a time long, long ago. Of sweet nothings whispered. Of words unspoken yet expressed. Of the sheer joy of being in the same room. Of the fact that relationships are never about just the two people in them. They’re about everyone else who ever brushed past that circle of love. Of the parents of the girl who might look at that plate, smile and remember many happy evenings full of music and laughter and good-natured ribbing and a boy they pretty much loved the moment he strummed the first chords of an old favourite song. A reminder to tread with care because you never know how things will go. That nothing is black and white and there is always room for grey and always a welcoming smile should you drop by to say hello.

The plate is safe there, as are the memories. In fact, they belong there. To that time, to the young parents wondering how to deal with their even younger daughter and her love life and to the love that he was… Here’s a song that will take us all back to that living room in a flash.

So now, how many of you are still pals with the ex? And even if you aren’t, what do you still have, other than the memories?


It’s a nice enough home. A 100 years old and declared a heritage home by those who are meant to be bestowing such honours. My parents have struggled to ensure that it stays cosy yet maintains it’s charm and doesn’t slide into decline.  The silver is polished and shines. The crystal sparkles. The old chandeliers light up without a flicker. Rows and rows of books on art and architecture line the walls. The upholstery is spotless. Little knick knacks from travels over the years dot the peg tables. Not just their own travels but also those of family members who are now just a fading memory. Fresh flowers dress up little consoles and the grand piano. Art on the walls, a well stocked bar. Everything says this is the home of an older couple with well, some taste.

A view of their living room


Until you see this little corner. A shrine to Shrek and McDonald’s Happy Meals. And then you realise it’s also the home of grandparents.

And this is how my kids mark their territory

The grand old dining room with the massive dining table is filled with the peals of childish laughter. Sepia toned ancestors look down benignly on yet another generation playing hide and seek behind the antique dresser.

My great-grandparents



Merry Christmas – 25.12.2006

I had planned to go chronologically with the posts from Ye Olde Bloge but it seemed like a good time to pull out this old post – actually I was over enthu and had three posts up on X’mas in 2006. We were in Allahabad and this was Pre-Bean. Do you remember a time before the Bean? I don’t. It seems like I’ve just always been her mother. I present the X’mas season posts that week. Have a great X’mas and a Happy New Year you all. If you don’t hear from me in the next week – it’s because I’m busy travelling. Catch you on the other side.

But where is the X’mas tree?

This year since I am going to my parents’ home I decided not to put up an X’mas tree… it would gather dust while I was away and my son would pull it to pieces when I got back… So I just put up a twig with red and gold baubles and filled the vase that holds it with red and gold star and heart shaped baubles… It’s nice… but oh to have put up my very own tree!
Maybe next year when the Brat is older…. oh damn.. that is when the next one will be swinging on the branches….I think my tree is going to stay wrapped up in bubble wrap and tucked away for a few years yet…

Rocking around the X’mas tree

For those who are wondering why I haven’t blogged in a while… this is the reason why… I am at my parents’ home for X’mas and have just been too lazy to get on to the www…. I have been lying on a rug in front of the fire place, watching the flames for hours on end, sipping hot cups of tea and listening to music while my son sits on his haunches and methodically takes decorations off the X’mas tree and rearranges them… Sorry if I gave you guys a scare…

Last night I was dancing with him in my lap and in the mirror I saw another mother and child…. with almost identical features dancing to the very same X’mas carols, cheek to cheek, around the grand piano almost 25 years ago…Thanks for some beautiful memories, ma…

is what the OA and I have been most of this vacation on a rug in front of the fireplace…

For those who knew we were going away to a wildlife reserve for a few days, well that got cancelled. All that eating rich food and partying late finally got to me and I am laid up with some amoebic infection and surviving on toast and tea… Bah. Merry X’mas indeed!


Compliments of the season from the little drummer boy

…who only opened his gifts on X’mas morning..

began opening gifts at 2 am, when we returned from church after the midnight service…. shall soon show pictures of all my loot!

Father and son

…..have spent plenty of time bonding this vacation and I don’t know how my son will deal with the lack of space and lack of company once we get back to Delhi…playschool, here we come.

Sugar and spice and everything nice…

If you glow it’s a boy they say, some turn the theory around and say you glow if you are carrying a girl. If you carry to the front it’s a boy, but if you gain weight all around, it’s a girl. We even tried my wedding band on a chain and then on a strand of my hair to see what I am carrying. Old wives tales abound and women have for centuries tried every trick in the book to find out whether they are carrying a girl or boy. Friends and older family members want to know why I am so keen to know the gender of the baby.

Well, right from reasons like asking my brother to buy me cute baby stuff from abroad to picking the colour of the bassinet, there are a dozen reasons…. but the biggest reason? Well I don’t know about others, but I am eager to know just like so many women over the last few centuries… There is a life growing inside of me and I am not willing to be just a blank vessel!! I am eating healthy and taking every precaution to make sure that little life is nurtured and cared for. And I would like to know as much about it as possible. I am signed up for four different baby mails a week and I can tell you which body part is developing this week and how big baby is… and after all this surely it comes as no surprise that I am eager to know the gender.

My brother did buy stuff from abroad for baby bean…Baby bean’s first X’mas gifts..even before she has arrived…..Merry X’mas my little angel… Only God and my blogging friends know how badly I want a daughter!!!

My parents who have a vague grasp of blogging were very aprehensive about me posting this entry. What if it turns out to be a boy after all, they ask. Well, I will be disappointed for a while, but I will grow to love the little fellow anyway. And he will have to wear pink for the first few months because that is all the poor Mad Sibling could get, no gender neutral colours available. And as for those who read my blog…. I think they will understand my disapointment more than anyone else and be my greatest strength. For now, thank you all those who prayed for a little girl…Now all we need is a healthy pregnancy or what remains of it… and a healthy baby.