The Lazy Desi’s 25-year archive of chaos, dreams, kids, ADHD, gaming, and everything life swallowed too early.
Motherhood didn’t dull me.
It sharpened me.
Something about balancing feeding schedules with endocrine research papers while navigating predatory medical norms gives you a particular kind of wit —
the type that could cut diamonds if pointed correctly.
I learned to laugh at absurdity.
I learned to decode systems.
I learned to survive and intellectualize simultaneously.
(Still can’t make dinner and fold laundry simultaneously though…lemons)
June 2019 gave me my only daughter —
born in a renowned birth center housed inside the region’s most elite hospital system.
They blended luxury, evidence-based care, and autonomy so flawlessly it felt like the childbirth equivalent of checking into a spa.
She was overdue by two weeks,
labor spanned two days,
pushing lasted twelve hours,
and yet —
it was transcendent.
Quiet.
Held.
Empowered.
She slid into the world in warm water, peacefully asleep and undisturbed,
the culmination of a decade-long arc of learning, reclaiming, and commanding my own body’s narrative.
Some people learn to be assertive in career boardrooms.
I learned in labor rooms.
By now, I was:
▫️ a veteran researcher
▫️ a child birth expert
▫️ an emotionally bulletproof mother
▫️ someone who could decode medical language quicker than residents
I realized something profound:
When you combine scientific literacy with unshakeable statistical data,
you become a force that even the hospital staff hesitates to challenge.
It’s 2017 and I am no longer playing defense.
I wrote 348-page laminated birth plans signed by me and the doctor.
Categorized. Indexed. Color-coded.
Bindered for each staff member like a conference packet.
I was gestational-diabetic this time (a condition that never left afterward),
(though diet-controlled and unmedicated of my own volition, thank you very much)
but even so — the new hospital treated me with respect.
Let me labor naturally.
Honored every line of my birth plan.
My fourth son arrived full-term, wonderfully overdue, and beautifully ready at over 7 lbs.
It was the most collaborative medical experience of my life.
That hot-tub birth was not just a medical choice.
It was a reclamation.
A re-authoring.
It was poetry disguised as physiology.
A birth written in the handwriting of a woman who had spent years being underestimated and finally decided to let no one else touch her steering wheel again.
By 2015, I’ve gotten fully fluent in the language of female anatomy.
I’m also done with institutions trying to write my story for me.
So when I became pregnant again this time, I built my own birth universe:
hypnobabies tracks, midwifery care, a sacred quiet space, and the deep immersive calm only a woman who knows her physiology can summon.
My third son was born only 22 minutes ago —
at home, in warm water, in my own bedroom, surrounded by serenity.
No fluorescent lights.
No ticking clocks.
No coercion disguised as “protocol.”
He was full-term, overdue by two weeks, peaceful and perfect —
and weighed nearly 6 lbs, twice the weight of my earlier babies, proving what I always knew:
A womens’ body works best when left alone.
(Hint: Women work best this way in general)
Walking out of that hospital with my healthy preemie in my arms, I knew two things:
My instincts were right. I would never step foot in that hospital again.
It wasn’t defiance.
It was clarity.
A kind of internal lock-in where all maternal, intellectual, and scientific circuits fused together.
Birth wasn’t something happening to me anymore.
It was something happening through me — and I was the navigator.
At 32 weeks they floated the phrase “possible placental calcification,”
a term physicians sometimes use the way lawyers use “allegedly.”
It wasn’t presenting clinically.
It wasn’t supported by my labs.
It wasn’t behaving like a legitimate complication.
But it was extremely convenient for their scheduling matrix.
Still — I agreed to induction only because I assessed every factor myself.
And my son arrived completely healthy, small but mighty, a perfect little 4-pound miracle who held onto my finger like he’d been waiting centuries to meet me.
This moment crystallized something:
they don’t always know more — sometimes they simply talk louder.
The place I delivered my first was… let’s be polite and call it “procedure-happy.”
The kind of hospital that treated inductions like a lunch special and C-sections like a preferred seating upgrade.
And here I was in 2012, returning during a pregnancy they were very eager to “manage.”
Per their protocol, “management” meant:
▫️ artificially create concern
▫️ threaten the clock
▫️ funnel patients toward their favorite revenue streams
Fortunately for me, I had a doula certification.
Unfortunately for them… I had a doula certification.
By this point, I’m not just a mother.
I’m a mother who has spent years dissecting obstetric literature the way other people dissect celebrity gossip.
This time, I could feel every layer of physiology.
I could sense the placental function like a second language.
I could tell what was normal, what was noise, and what was a physician fishing for control.
I had become dangerous in the best way:
an informed patient with a spine.
UnderTheRock Diaries 