Twelve weeks

– 2:25 pm

Your mother and I went into Kingston Hospital yesterday for your twelve-week scan. I understand this to be a milestone in a child’s development. A point of no return of sorts.

We drove there early so we could figure out the parking situation and get a feel for the place. We were lucky enough to find someone vacating a spot which we tucked into easily enough. The front desk was nice and welcoming. We took seats waiting to be called out. Your mother made a joke about how her name would be pronounced. Sure enough, a nurse blurted out Yeahliza… Not bad, better than most.

The door shut behind us. By virtue of the layout, I sat facing the TV on the wall. Your mother stretched out on the bed beside me with gel squishing out onto her belly.

You appeared on the wall, this time with your back to us, refusing to budge no matter how hard the nurse tried to get you to move. “Cheeky one, your baby” she said. At one point, Liza had to lay on her side, then wiggle her butt, and as a last-ditch attempt to get you to move, the nurse made her jump up and down vigorously… Nothing, nope, not today. All this so she could measure the distance from your head to your bum and the thickness of your neck spine. We got there eventually.

“All is well” she affirmed, “it’s never 100% but everything seems fine, congratulations”. I got a bit emotional looking at you on the screen. So many thoughts speeding through my mind. Your grandmother would be so happy. I wish she was here to witness and share this moment.

On the way back, Liza got a call from Dr – I forget her name – with the Harmony Test results. She also gave the all-clear. You had a clean bill of health with a very low chance of getting any genetic disorders or disabilities. Phew! Relief, major.

We also got to find out your gender as a boy. I was convinced of a girl for some reason, we all were. Your mother and I had a working name and everything. We were going to call you Lola. But I guess you had other ideas haha! The only person who called it was Julia, Liza’s mother. She said, with all the boys in my family, there was a good chance you’d also be a boy. Well done g-mama.


Your mother didn’t seem so nauseated later that evening. Her symptoms subsided for the better. We talked about how we felt about you being a boy, what kind of parents we’d make, and so on.

This morning, on my way to the farmer’s market, I thought if there are two things I’d like you to become, I’d like you to be kind and to always find a way to grow your environment. That includes your fellow humans and everything around you. I am learning the importance of those qualities every day.

The end of carnivore road

– 9:54 pm

It’s official. There will be no more steaks in this house, not for a while. Your mother’s out-of-nowhere meat “allergy” has reached Everest. A descent isn’t imminent either, not any time soon. In addition, she now has the nose of a bloodhound. She can smell a t-bone in Mumbai. And it makes her want to puke. I just found out how bad.

Earlier today, I made sure to warn her I was seasoning a steak so she wouldn’t come downstairs until I was done. Hell, I even hid it in storage (under the stairs) with the hoover, tools and cleaning products so she wouldn’t be triggered by the sight of it. I did everything I could to mentally prepare her for it. But despite all that, she’s just tried to kill me for sizzling 450g of meat. I apparently don’t understand her. Lol!

It’s clearly not what she meant but her rant came across as though I was doing this on purpose, some narcissistic ploy to make her suffer. I didn’t like it. She wanted to know the ingredients I used – “What did you put on it?”, “Are you using butter or olive oil…?” And on and on.

Even though we’d been licking our fingers to salt and peppered steaks for years now, the five-minute process had eluded her and suddenly become a great unsolved mystery. I was bewildered. There are times I wish we had a second home. This was a reminder of that unaccomplished life goal.

I’ve since learned how to prevent a bush from burning. You simply douse the fire while it’s small and not yet out of your control. So I remained calm, understanding and level-toned. It shall be well. It’s just hormones. Just ride with it.

The weigh-in

– 6:59 pm

We’ve had you for a week. It’s gone quick. Blimey! You were 4.025kg when you came out. As expected, you lost a bit of weight in the days that followed, but it was way under the worrying limit, a 6% weight loss to 3.780kg. Today, however, when Cath the nurse came round to scale you, you weighed in at exactly 4.000kg. So your numbers are up in record time, less than the usual two weeks. Her message was, “whatever you guys are doing, keep doing it”.

I must admit, the number is unsurprising. You can currently eat a small elephant in one seating. I knew from day one, 20ml of milk wouldn’t do shit to you but make you mad, which it currently does. You get all “stop fucking around with me”. So you’ve quickly graduated to big boy meals. Enjoy!

PS – Your grandparents will be here tomorrow.

Birth certificate

– 8:06 pm

Your mother is at the other end of the house talking to her parents. She has you in her arms. You were yelling a few minutes ago. She’s not letting you blow off steam as we agreed. But I’m also not contesting.

I had a blocked ear for days. Until yesterday. It’s been ongoing for some time now, on and off. But since having them cleaned, everything (and I really do mean everything) has been way too loud for me. I couldn’t believe how much of a racket your car seat made in the back when I got into the car to drive home from the clinic. All the loose bits rustling around annoyingly. I can now hear every mutter. And it’s giving me a headache. I currently have AirPods on but can hear the running kitchen tap as if I was standing next to it. What a gift and curse.

We were late for our 11:45 am appointment at the Westminster Registration Office this morning. I imagined a long and gruelling interrogation, filling in piles of docs and answering ridiculously tiresome questions. But the entire thing took about fifteen minutes. In hindsight, it could easily have been five. Liza described Neil, the registrar, as way too “theatrical” about every detail, very thorough but unnecessarily extended. I agree. He was a bit dramatic and thespian. There was a joke or sidebar with every request. A touch over the top.

At the same time, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect person for the role given how much he knew and eagerly talked about names, Cyrillic, countries etc. He pronounced ‘Jelizaveta‘ perfectly at the first attempt. When we showed pleasant astonishment, he joked about it being a perfectly normal name. Which it is but let’s face it, it’s a tongue twister.

Also, (and I mean this in the nicest way possible), Neil’s job doesn’t need to exist. It should be digitised and automated. At least the form-filling part. We had to tell him what to type, cross-checking his screen as he went along – as in, he would rotate his monitor and go “like so?” for us to confirm. And in the end, we had to proofread a printout for errors. Could it be as simple as just letting us fill in the form ourselves? I wonder… I mean… Yes, I’m talking from a pigeonhole view of the entire process but so far it sounds inefficient and a waste of brain power to make that someone’s job.

And. And. Why make us come all this way? Why not let us do it locally? Surely the same system can be accessed by an equivalent within Surrey? Strangely enough, we didn’t have to present any form of ID or legal documentation. But hey, it’s all done now. You have a birth certificate (and at least two passports to follow).


We then took an Uber to Japan House where we had “I can’t believe I didn’t know about this place” type of food. It was… that good. I’ll be back for sure, with or without your mother. Liza and I wondered if it was sponsored by the Japanese government or something. Downstairs looked more like a gallery. They had petit soup bowls on sale for £680 and an extensive range of Japanese whiskey I would love to someday try. It was more bits and pieces of random items, a carefully curated ad placement for Japanese culture. It didn’t look like it made any money at all, or planned to for that matter. But the service was faultless. We were very happy customers. I thought about it on the walk back to the car and ever since. It was good shit.

Three weeks later

3 weeks old

– 7:19 am

You’re eating a lot and growing faster than duckweed. I didn’t realise how big you were until I shared this photo in the family group chat and everyone reacted the way they did. It’s easy for us parents to miss. We see you all the time so the change isn’t always so noticeable. But we’re well aware.

Liza and I gave you your second bath last night. You loved it, kicking, stretching and yawning the entire time. You looked so relaxed. That you get from your mother. She can take a bath for days on end. I’m curious to hear from Julia and Valery how well you slept. They had you for the night.

PS – Yesterday made you three weeks old.

Words to live by

– 11:44 pm

Gifts and cards have arrived from far and wide since your birth, from every corner of the earth where we your mother has an acquaintance in. There are two nylon bags of baby clothing upstairs she hasn’t gone through yet. By the time we got to some things, they were too small for you. There are enough stuffed animals under your snuzzpod to open a small fluffy shop.

Another parcel arrived this morning, from Anna. I don’t know her but I’d like to meet her. She’s Liza’s .org colleague. I really liked her elephant. It even had your name on it.

Her second gift was equally modest with subtle undertones and hidden metaphors open to meaning and interpretation. It emphasised the strength in unity and togetherness within a family. The foundation we lay should empower and grow the household. You need harmony to build a unifying bond. At least that’s what I took from the wooden statue. These are solid values to uphold regardless.


But her card is really why I want to meet her. She had one addressed to you. It says everything I could ever want to teach you, everything I would ever want you to be. She gets it.


Your mother was in bed on her iPad when I walked in with you dozing in my arms. I asked if she was reading or writing. “Writing”, she said, “my pregnancy memoirs”.

That took me aback. Not the writing itself, because she does that all the time, but the content of the writing. Now I’m intrigued. I’ve got questions. When did this start? Is it continuous? Does she know about this site? Have we been writing behind each other’s backs?

I’d love to read it in a few years to get her perspective on the same events I documented. I am curiously fascinated about that.