I don’t think Chhoti is going to like cooking. Or maybe she doesn’t want me too cook. Everytime I cook, I get this nasty constant poke in my right side. “Stop that, ammi, just stop it, I hate cooking, stop it, stop it, stop it …” It actually hurts. You know that bumper sticker Practice Random Acts of Senseless Kindness? Well, someone seems to adhere to that principle. The best of his gender, I swear. But I would prefer Practice Pre-set Tasks of Predictable Responsibility. Don’t go crazy one day and bring me a dozen roses and clean the stove and start organizing piles of paperwork. Just cook a small meal on the day you say you will–the day that I haven’t cooked and I get home at 8:30pm with no food, no meat’s been thawed, and now I have to start from scratch. Can’t even rely on my damn OB–who is getting paid to take care of me–to tell me I have GD, I can’t rely on the nurse to call me back about my blood tests (called 3-4 times and left 2 messages). And meantime, I’m feeling this weak since I started the diabetic diet. And she’s kicking and saying I’m coming too and I’ll be relying on you. This is just great. I’m terrified of her now. So I’m cooking, and meantime she’s kicking me from within. The world is kicking me from without. From the sound of it, I’m supposed to be doing the following things:

1. Finish the dissertation revisions within 2 weeks and before baby comes (my advisor)
2. See an endocrinologist
3. See a nutritionist
4. Attend a yoga/exercise class
5. Start cooking extra healthy
6. Switch Ob-Gyns
7. Sue my OB
8. Complain to my practice about my OB and the overaggressive nurse
9. Find another OB and go through the process again

And I do all this with energy levels at an all time low. Riiiight. Okay, no, I’m fine, really. Update: a) Yes, really - I am. I just got my first baby shower gift! Well, I had my wedding in Pakistan, not here, and I had no registry here and no big wedding party. And in Pakistan, gifts are cash (that are immediately channelled into paying for the wedding) or parcha-jaat (fabric for clothes–but don’t use that word in the street, it aint especially colloquial). So forgive me for enjoying my gifts. What is it about presents? You try to pretend they don’t matter but there’s just something about opening a package that’s addressed to you. Okay, it’s for her. Fine. I’m just the vessel. The box. The container. Thank you, my dear Safoi and Mark! And I wish you both and little Malek could make it to the shower but a trip from Michigan for a baby shower might be a bit much. You will be missed! b) Someone is cooking daal and rice today …