The Uprooted Gypsy

I’ve categorized myself as a gypsy since long. Not because I have dark, good looks or lots of jet black flowing hair…no sirree! I’ve moved from one place to another as far back as I can recall.

9 schools. 1 place for graduation and yet another for the Masters. And a job or two along the way.

I wasn’t entirely a tumbleweed but hadn’t developed any roots so going from one place to the other was simple enough and often the only option.

The city I live in now is literally been the first place I call my home. Others have come close but this place is home. Ask anyone who has duct taped packing boxes more times than they care to imagine and they’ll tell you they exactly what I mean!

Been here nearly 9 years. Longest duration anywhere, ever! and this is the first place I had a place of my own as well. Red and I that is. And now we’re moving. It’s just out of the neighborhood and into a place I can see from my roof but it’s still a move.

The place where I’m staying now is the first place we lived in that was our own. It’s cozy. The smells are familiar as are the scattered toys and the scribbles on the wall by an enthusiastic toddler.

The new place is fresh, clean, higher up with a better view of the city and offers more opportunity to interact with like-minded people which has been entirely absent here. But the familiarity of a place, especially one where you’ve put down your roots finally is VERY difficult to leave behind.

There have been special meals, tantrums, birthdays, anniversaries, plans of the future, colors, music and more loads of laundry done than I care of imagine. All here.

And to leave it behind is incomprehensible. Even while I sort through things and make piles of ‘To Give Away’ and ‘To Keep’.

It’s not so much the packing and leaving that I mind. It’s the starting over. It’s often like Sisyphus and his boulder.

But despite all the gloom for leaving behind a home and the what’s clearly the end of an era for me, I’m also (in a non-overt manner) looking forward to the fresh, clean, vibrancy that will come with a new place.

And, in time, it too will become home.

Sunday Morning Shenanigans

While growing up I think the one thing most people on this planet had in common was their Sunday mornings. Even if it came at different times across the world, I firmly believe every damn person with a whit of grey matter WANTED to sleep on Sundays!

As kids we slept pretty much as long as we liked on Sundays and and as adults the sleeping in on Sundays took on a religious zeal almost! It was as if the Galactic Amoeba (am kind of a fence sitting on the existence of the Almighty so I guess HE/SHE could be like a giant amoeba in the cosmos too right?) created you with the inability to get up before 8 am on Sundays.

Enter matrimony and you find a husband who likes to sleep and let sleep. Till date I can’t recall Red (he shall be called Red hereafter) having woken me up because he was hungry or he thought it was too late in the day. He likes to sleep till it leaves him on it’s own and he wishes others around him do the same.

But we people are an odd bunch. Just when things are going well we think to ourselves, “wouldn’t it be fun to have my body stretched beyond normal capacity and give birth in excruciating pain, to a child who will change the course of life forever! Let alone my Sundays.”

And the baby cometh. The baby groweth. From a wailing infant to a chubby toddler who puts his fingers up your nose as a wake-up call. Then when he grows to a preschooler he comes and bounces on your undefended form on the bed and demands for toys and Play Doh and whatnots. And just when you’re growing the slightly bit immune to his tactics and have developed an armor to deflect it, he says those words, in that tone that no mother can ignore. Beyond a point anyway…”am hungryyy”.

You haul yourself out of bed, try to be a good trooper and give the poor starving child with his Oliver Twist eyes something to chow down on. And think it’s just a Sunday…no biggie…I’ll sleep when he becomes a teenager and is surly and non-communicative. But till then your Sundays are toast! And so is your sleep. 

So what’re you gonna do? You are a good mother after all! You wake up the spouse and ruin his Sunday morning because NO good deed goes unpunished!