My Baby Just Turned 3 Months, I Resumed Work… And A Pregnancy Scare!

Phew! It’s been two months since I delivered that I wanted ‘Aunt Flo’ to greet me again. Last night I had my first sex post the delivery of my daughter.

“Don’t worry you won’t get pregnant”, my husband tired of abstinence finally pleaded.

I was already a mess. First, I lactated too much. Second, the stitches were still raw. Third, my baby wouldn’t allow me to sleep peacefully. Fourth, I had been working from home as my maternity leaves were over. Fifth… I don’t remember.

The baby just turned three months and I resumed my work.

The very first day I was a puddle of tears. I just wanted to hold my baby and sing a lullaby, completely forgetting the fact that I hadn’t slept uninterrupted since last few months. I felt the milk gushing out from my nipples, penetrating the breast pads and finally attacking my kurta. I finally boarded the train.

“Use a cover lady”, a woman in her late fifties advised politely (my foot) the moment she spotted the spillover. I wanted to cry. I wanted to smash her head. I was furious. Can’t people be little empathetic?

Again, first I missed my baby. Second, ‘Aunt Flo’ wouldn’t even bother to reveal her existence. Third, I was shit scared to be a mother again.

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“Hello, I am there”, I heard the spermatozoa speaking to me instead. “Don’t you dare touch my ovaries”, my head screamed. The train halted with a jolt waking me up. Ah! What a relief, I had been sleeping. No I am wrong, it’s a power nap. It was a bad dream. The station read BANDRA. I had to get down at the next stop. I moved a little and finally rose from my seat. Not forgetting to eye my seat carefully. Did I see a brown stain? Did I see?

“Aunt Flo, you there?”

The stunned silence of my ovaries infuriated me. Please God, no. My baby is too young. I had a C Section. My stitches hurt. I cannot afford mothering another one. Only if that insensible husband of mine would realize.

At work I was greeted with a bouquet of flowers and chocolates. “Welcome new mum”, my colleagues sang when I heard that spermatozoa speaking again, “hello I am here. You will listen to the same song again the next year”.

“Shove that in your arse”, I reiterated. My junior holding the bouquet stepped back stupefied. I was as loud as a lion and the poor chap had to bear the brunt of my mood swing.

“Ma’am, you okay?” He asked in a caring tone. Oh how much I wished to tell him I needed my ‘Aunt Flo’. The bouquet was kept aside and I sat weeping in the reception unable to explain myself.

“Please take control of yourself, we are on guard” this time the ovaries spoke. I wanted to kiss it. I kissed my colleague instead. “You know I am being guarded”, I told exuberantly. The celebrations went on for a toss. My teammates thought I have lost it.

I hurried to the washroom and was greeted by a white froth in my underwear. My karma, I am going to have another baby soon. If only I had my mother alive. If only I had my grandmother alive. If only I had my great grandmother alive and so on. I took a look in the mirror. Nah! I am attractive, just that I am little chubby now with stain marks near my breasts. I took out the breast pump.

The week followed by another one was tumultuous. Sleepless nights, workload and on top of that I had to handle the battle of the hormones and the continuous fight between my ovary and that sperm. Sometimes I puked. Sometimes I would cry for no reason. Sometimes I would yell at the baby. My husband made a suggestion, “It seems you have borderline personality disorder. See a psychiatrist, love”. I wanted to bash his head. It was him and that is that BPD but I did not have the guts. Men should be satisfied, shouldn’t they?

One Wednesday inside my office lavatory I took the test myself. I was unable to understand the result. Wrapping the indicator in a bubble pack I got back to work. Maybe I am pregnant again, and I will have no face to show and I will be fired from this high paying job. A sad end to my career.

“Why don’t you trust us?” it were the eggs who spoke. By now each and every body part of mine spoke to me. I rushed to the lavatory again. This time I could see some brown patches on my squeaky clean underwear. “Aunt Flo, it that you?” “Don’t you have patience, lady?” the progesterone busy with its work reverted. “Have you resumed your services?” I pleaded it. I was welcomed with a deafening silence.

“Oho, the results are negative”, the pathologist told me the next morning.

“THEN CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHY AM I SO MISERABLE?” I wanted to scream when the Estradiol asked me to calm down.

Blop. Blop. Pree. Peech. Blop.

I was tending to some tender quotation when I heard progesterone speaking to my eggs, “Get out of her womb”.

Keeping the task aside I ran to my toilet.

All red. I could see the red line trickling down my thighs. I could also see a red blotch on my kurta. I sat down on the marble floor. Tears of happiness streamed down my cheeks. I sang a song:

“Oh, I come from Alabam
With my banjo on my knee
I’m going to Louisian
My true love for to see
It rained all night the day I left
The weather it was dry
The sun so hot, I froze to death
Susann’, don’t you cry”

I slowly opened the door. I was as calm as the Arabian Sea.

“Lady trust the process. You had just delivered and raw new mum. We were playing havoc. Now go chill”, Aunt Flo finally spoke.

Aunt Flo stayed with me continuously for next four months. On the fifth month my husband wanted to be intimate again. This time I was Goddess Durga – “Get lost, you heard me. No sex for another year. Help me heal instead”.

Image source: pixabay

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