Ritu Lalit's Blog, page 5

And the fun begins

The DIL 2 has been learning how to drive.  I am all for women empowerment and independence so I have been her chief cheer-leader.  Kidding.

Her husband has been the driving force behind her zeal at driving lessons.  I have a strong suspicion that he fantasizes about the day when he can get drunk and sleep on the back seat while she drives them home from a happening party. Just your routine take-care-of-your-husband duties a good wife must undertake.

*Ducking the shoe aimed at my head*

So day before yesterday the second born tells his wife, “Baby, today you take the car to work.”

She tried to wiggle out of it.  He insisted.  She desisted.  He persisted.  She went all puppy eyed.  Long story short, when he went to bathe and get dressed for work, she called a cab, climbed into it and left.  He walked out of home, stared at the car parked in the driveway, muttered inaudible sweet nothings under his breath.

Ah, the love of dewy eyed newly-weds. *Goes all misty eyed*

So yesterday she actually left home at 7 a.m. and drove to office.  She reached without incident and was so proud of herself.

You know what they say about pride that cometh before a fall? In this case it cameth before a broken tail end bumper.  Yes, this happened when she was returning home.  The entire family decided to cheer her up by relating the various times we got our vehicles dented.

There are times when I am quite happy there is no one older than me in the house who can spill the beans on the dumbass driving I’ve done while still in the learner’s phase.  The sons have no such break, and I do have an excellent memory for road mishaps they’ve been involved in.  Suffice to say I had fun.  I had so much fun that I even treated them to Chinese take away, her favourite food.

While shovelling noodles into her mouth, her good humour restored, she said “You know, it wasn’t so bad.  And I’ve rung up my boss and taken a half day to recover from my accident.”

Yes, my darling girl.  You fit right in with us all.  I foresee interesting times ahead.  The first born was busy kissing his fiance (now wife) and drove the car onto the dividing verge.  The second born has actually totaled a car.

We are a family that likes to achieve in spite of odds stacked against us.  We therefore follow the saying showcased below and bang into them obstacles :

 

Do not see anything as an obstacle; instead treat it as an opportunity.

The Robin Hood of Punjab : Dulla Bhati

Every Lohri, I remember one of the good sons of Punjab, Dulla Bhati or Abdullah Bhati.  We light a bonfire and sing a var (medieval verse put to music) about the exploits of this original Robin Hood of Punjab.

Sunder mundriye ho!

Tera kaun vicharaa ho!

Dullah Bhatti walla ho!

Dullhe di dhee vyayae ho!

Ser shakkar payee ho!

Kudi da laal pathaka ho!

Kudi da saalu paata ho!

Salu kaun samete!

Chache choori kutti! zamidara lutti!

Zamindaar sudhaye!

Bade bhole aaye!

Ek bhola reh gaya!

Sipahee far ke lai gaya!

Sipahee ne mari itt!

Sanoo de de Lohri, te teri jeeve jodi!

(Cry or howl!)

Bhaanvey ro te bhaanvey pitt!

He was born four months after Akbar executed his father and grandfather.  He returned the favour by opposing opposing the land revenue collection scheme imposed by the emperor and also by social banditry.  Yes, he robbed the rich and gave to the poor.

He’s actually immortalized in the var fragment I posted above.  Young peasant girls were kidnapped by bandits and sold into slavery.  He rescued many of those girls and married them off with “ser shakkar” as dowry.

A translation of the var :

Beautiful girl

Who will think about you

Dulla of the Bhatti clan will

Dulla’s daughter got married

He gave one ser of sugar!

The girl is wearing a red suit!

But her shawl is torn!

Who will stitch her shawl?!

The uncle made choori!

The landlords looted it!

Landlords are beaten up!

Lots of simple-headed boys came!

One simpleton got left behind!

The soldier arrested him!

The soldier hit him with a brick!

(Cry or howl)!

Give us Lohri, long live your pair (to a married couple)!

Whether you cry, or bang your head later!

Frankly my dear, I could not give a damn/fuck

After battling the worst case of writer’s block known to mankind (hyperbole much!) I finally had two chapters of my latest work ready to be revealed to eyes other than mine.  So I approached my best friend and worst critic, a person who knows so many of my secrets that if he opened his mouth I’d land in jail for murder (his) and asked him to give me his opinion.  Hmm, he could blackmail me with impunity come to think of it.

Note : This happened a couple of months ago.

Note 2 : This is what happens when you try to get free critiques done.

His opinion: (given yesterday) You use too much profanity

I sulked for one whole minute.  I kid you not; I spent one whole minute that I will never get again sulking because I asked for an opinion and got it.  All I could think of the work I’d done on areas like subtle characterization, the tension created, the events which must happen at breakneck speed to keep a reader hooked and he could not overlook a couple of “fuck this” and “oh shit” in my first draft?

And then I laughed.  “Coming from a man who has mastered the art of using bhenchod at just the proper place to give emphasis, that’s rich,” I told him.

“I give zero fucks, damn you,” he said irritably.

Well, neither do I.  In my life I’ve tried to be a people pleaser and it’s made me very unhappy.

It’s also significantly impacted my growth as a person, and that’s very important to me.  More important that a slice of cheese cake or my annual increment, and that is saying something!  So, now I give zero fucks.  But giving zero fucks (hereintofore referred to as ZFs) is an art.

To give ZFs about something, you have to give many fucks about something better, more important to you. It’s easy to hide behind a wall of indifference, but that’s so cowardly.  And it impacts growth.  So I give ZFs about the opinion of my awful aunt, but instead I give plenty of fucks about significant things like friends, family, purpose.  They’re very important to me.  Strangely, it makes me different.  But then I’m very comfortable with being different.
Disregard the demon called Opinions-Of-People. What people think about you is their business, not yours.  I give ZFs about that unimportant shit.  Eric Hoffer once wrote: “A man is likely to mind his own business when it is worth minding. When it is not, he takes his mind off his own meaningless affairs by minding other people’s business.”  In short, their opinion is not fuckworthy at all.
True wisdom is in knowing that fucks don’t grow on trees. So we’ve got to be careful about issues to give fucks about.  And it differs from person to person.  I give a whole lot of fucks on stuff like Liberty, Equality, Right to Dissent and such like.  I give ZFs about the number of likes on a pouty profile picture of a nubile young lovely girl with an enviable cleavage.  I also give ZFs about the dance off between an Entrepreneur-cum-Yoga Master and a Movie Star.
Statutory warning: Be careful where and how you allot your fucks.  Giving fucks about anything requires a whole lot of time and energy.  An aging hippie and writer like me has to be careful about where to give a fuck and where not to.  And that my friend is where maturity comes in.
Dear friend, I give plenty of fucks about you.  You said I could not write something profound and mature with a lot of profanities.  I was laughing too hard to reply, but I felt challenged.  When you said I could not write a whole book peppered with fucks and I asked, “Wanna bet on it?” I bet you did not expect a whole blog post.  The book follows.

Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost

 

 

Happiness and the Titu Syndrome

Bear with me dear reader as I take a trip down memory lane and explain the Titu Syndrome.  My brothers were more concerned with living life to the fullest and not sitting with nose buried in syllabus books.  The grown ups would thrash them regularly in an effort to make them academically inclined but to no avail.  Volley ball and football were more attractive than Maths and the exploits of Alexander.  So result day brought about another round of thrashing.  C’est la vie

My older brother (cousin) was soundly thrashed for failing the third time.  When my uncle asked, “So what do you have to say in your defence?” Bhaiyya replied in between sobs, “Titu vi fail ho gaya.”

Uncle could not hold back a snort of amusement.  Titu was the son of the halwai who had a shop two lanes from our home and I don’t think he ever passed.  Never Ever.

Everyone is standing in queue to get new currency.  Homes are being run on disaster management style.  We only shell out our precious new notes when we have no option but to spend.  News reporters interview people in ATM and bank queues and report that everyone is happy.

You know why?  Because it does not matter if they are inconvenienced.  It does not matter if they had to take leave from work and stand in line.  Because Titu also failed.

I can see the look on the faces of the construction workers building that tower of flats in front of my home.  They have grins and even sing songs in the bitterly cold evenings by their fires.  Yeah, the builder has given each of them 10K in old notes in place of their regular 5K salaries (in old notes of course.)  But that is not all.  They are rejoicing because they think the builder’s suffering more than them.

Similarly, the factory worker is happy because he thinks the industrialist is destroyed.  The seth must of lost a lot, tsk tsk (sly grin on face.)

The Babu is sure that the bureaucrat now has more financial worries than him.

The bureaucrat is happy because he thinks the neta has lost more.

The netas are happy too.  The ones in power think the opposition is finished.  The ones in the opposition are already polishing their election speeches sniffing a win because they think the ruling party has destroyed itself.

My maid thinks I have lost more than her.  No she hasn’t said it, the spring in her step and her smile says it all.  She even peeled 250 grams of garlic for my pickles with a smile.  I must get her to grate half kg dry coconut while her happiness lasts, but I digress.

 

In short everyone is happy because everyone thinks the other is destroyed.

In short,

Titu Vi Fail Ho Gaya

I won’t attend my own wedding

How can we have weddings without drama?  Weddings are big projects.  We have to debate whether Auntyee’s sister’s brother-in-law who’s recently come back from Vilayat is to be invited (with family) or not, we also have budgets to work with and desires unlimited.

Stage 1 : Stage Fright.

Me : I have to first get the gold for the new daughter in law

Son 1 : You can’t have a wedding without getting the house painted.

Me : The house is just fine.  It keeps out the wind and rain.  Ignore house, budget other expenses.

DIL 1 (Eye roll)  How can we call people into the house when it is in this state?

Me : Its fine.  Guests will come regardless of the state of paint in the house.

Me (silent protest in the head) I mean I don’t go to people’s homes and judge them on how old the paint job is Humph!  I have a nasty feeling that this is going freakingly expensive and I haven’t budgeted it.

Son 2 : Eh, the house is fine.

DIL 1 : You just concentrate on getting married.

Son 1 : Yeah.  And Mom, just wash your specs once in a while.  And then you will (pause, inhale, widen eyes) see dust.

Such over-the-top drama.

Son 2 & I sulk and painters enter the house.

Stage 2 Paaltiks

Definition of Paaltiks : This is the poorer cousin of the highly dangerous game of politics, which makes orators and celebrities out of certain news anchors and writers and can involve blackmail, murders, sting operations and such like. No animals and humans are killed in the game of paaltiks.   No blood is shed.  It is very environment friendly too.  However feelings are wounded and old scores settled in paaltiks.  And paan parag is eaten and tea drunk. (I was drinking tea when this happened.  And I wanted to use paan parag because – well – Ad companies assure us that its the fashionable thing to welcome baraatis with)

Son 2 : Guest list?

Me : Yeah guest list, good!

Son 1 : I’ve made mine.

I take the slip of paper on which he has  written the names of his in-laws and 2 childhood friends with wives and kids.

Me : Is that all?

Son 2 : Dude think harder.  Mom have you made yours?

Me : Office colleagues for the reception.  Close relatives (numbering barely 15) for the baraat.

Son 2 : What about your aunt XXX and aunt YYY?

Me : They did not even accompany me home with DIL 1 for the kangana ceremony.  I’ll call them for a function or two, that’s it.

Son 2 hands me a list containing names of said aunts, their offsprings et all, along with 100 more names.

Me : But they treated us shabbily by pushing off when the pheras were going on.

Son 2 : So let me understand this.  You waited 10 years to settle scores.

Me : Nodding smugly : Hell Yeah!

Son 2 : Bhaiyya!

Son 1 : I’m out of this.

Son 2 : You’re not going to do this on my wedding.

Me : Sulking and throwing a minor tantrum:  Nobody lets me have any fun.

Stage 3 : Shopping

Dragging both sons to get their clothes, and having a flashback.  Haven’t I done this all my life?  Hmm!  Not recently after they’ve grown up though.

Me : 3 functions 3 outfits okay?

Son 1 : Why?  I already have one.

Me : Is it stitched?  Show me.

Son 1 : I’ve got to get it stitched.

Son 2 : I’ve already got the reception thingy stitched.  I’ve to go for trial.

So we proceed to the tailor.  Son 2 wears the suit and emerges.  Son 1 and I exchange horrified looks.

Son 1 : This is not bridegroom material.  What’s he thinking?  I’ll end up looking like the bridegroom instead.

I nod.  I mean it’s decent but sober.

Me : Tell him he needs another outfit.

Son 1 : You tell him.

Me : Umm, Err, ummm

Son 2 : How is it?

Me : Nice, very decent.  Let’s look at more suits.

Son 2 : For Bhaiyya?  Let’s.

Son 1 : I’m not shopping here.

Son 2 : Sensing our lukewarm response : For me?  You did not like my clothes?

Me : Doggedly : Its 3 functions.  We need more stuff.

Son 2 : Buy for Bhaiyya.  You did not like my suit.

Me : Sherwani for the wedding?

Son 1 : Dude, lets look at other options.

Son 2 : Did you or did you not like my suit?

Me : This place does not do sherwanis.

Son 2 : Did you or did you not?

Me : Biting the bullet : Its very office party sorts.

Son 2 : Defensively : I think its really good.

Son 1 : Dude its your wedding.  All you got to do is look pretty and go with the flow.

Me in my mind:  (He’s making me out to be the bad guy.  He was the first to pan that suit.  I hate being a parent.)

Son 2 : Sulking : I hate buying clothes.

Sigh … and we still had 6 outfits to get.

Stage 4 : Deciding functions and catering.

Note to self : Never finalize stuff like this while sitting at Yo China with all dude shopping bags around you.  Everyone’s tired.  Everyone’s thirsty.  Everyone’s starving.  And of course everyone behaves like an absolute jerk, self included.

Me : Havan in the morning followed by lunch.  Minor drinks party in the evening.

Son 2 : Why on the same day?  Why can’t we have it on 2 different days?

Me : (Opening my mouth to explain and being cut off. P.S. The third time in the course of the day)

His argument, too tiring and will be crazy as heck.

Son 2 : Bhaiyya what do you think?

Son 1 : Wisely : I’ll just be back.  I need to buy something.

Both Bridegroom and I glare at each other.  He rants.  I simmer.  Our order does not come.

He rants, I glower.  Our food still does not come.

He turns calm and patronizing.  I grit my teeth.  Where’s the damn food?

Son 2 : This is why we will have havan on one day and drinks party on the other.

Me : Losing it : STFU.  We won’t

Son 2 : Standing up : I am leaving.  Count me out of all discussions.  I am going and I will not attend my own wedding.  So there!

I sit on the table surrounded by achkans, sherwanis, jootis and sigh.  Then I giggle.

I mean, c’mon.  Don’t tell me the image of a family decked up in wedding finery accompanied by dhol, lights and band baaja did not pop up in your mind, with a ghori minus dulha.

It did not?

You’re weird.

While I ate my spring rolls the DIL 2 rang up.  I related the entire episode.  She said, “Ah.  So he threw 3 tantrums?  I only throw one per day.

I rest my case.

P.S. : By popular consensus Auntyji’s sister’s brother-in-law who’s recently come back from Vilayat and his four married offsprings have been dropped from the list of invitees.

Characters and a Story

 

It is a chicken and egg puzzle, what comes first?  Story or Character?  To write a truly deep story that evokes emotion and empathy a well rounded character is essential.

For instance, in this excerpt we have an awkward fat teenager foraging in the dark and he meets/stumbles upon a mad man, what will ensue?

“What’s your name?” the color wight asked.

Kip swallowed, thinking he should probably run away.

“Oh, for Orholam’s sake, you think I’m going to hex you with your name? How ignorant is this backwater? That isn’t how chromaturgy works—”

“Kip.”

The color wight grinned. “Kip. Well, Kip, have you ever wondered why you were stuck in such a small life? Have you ever gotten the feeling, Kip, that you’re special?”

Kip said nothing. Yes, and yes.

“Do you know why you feel destined for something greater?”

“Why?” Kip asked, quiet, hopeful.

“Because you’re an arrogant little shit.” The color wight laughed.

This excerpt is from The Black Prism by Brent Week.  It does not matter that the mad man or color wight as he is called does not reappear in the book.  It does not matter that this encounter is from the first chapter of the series of books.  It just grabs you and you’re hooked.

It had me stop reading and nod appreciatively.  What a beginning, I thought.  Can’t wait to read how this story goes!

Fat awkward wise ass boy meets mad man.  And then he (the teenager)  lives!  He even gets to flee and warn the town.  Fat awkward teenage wiseass transitions into a hero!  End of Chapter 1.

Who will put the book down?  No one who has ever been an awkward teenager with a smart mouth can.   Sadly not many books have characters that leap out of the pages and into the mind of the reader.  I recently read one such a book.  It is The Black Company by Glen Cook.

Here’s our review of it

Book Chat

Parents often put children to sleep singing them lullabies.  Parents who’re busy switch on the children’s channel on TV and sit their kids down in front of it, basically outsourcing the sleep ritual.  Others load kids, stuffed toys and favorite dolls into a crib and let them play until they run out of steam and sleep.

Even as a kid I had to be different.  I was a pretentious girl with an attitude problem.  I despised dolls, hated being read to (this was pre TV era) and loved the sound of my own voice.  So I read myself to sleep.  Yes that’s the way I was and that’s the way I still am.  Bed time reading is essential for me.

I consider myself a good parent because I managed to inculcate the love of books into my children.  I did not do this consciously mind you.  They imbibed it, sort of by osmosis since books littered the house and their mother always had her face buried in a tome.

Ishaan my first born has a You Tube channel called Sixth World Radio. he normally uses it to comment about what the world is up to.  Yeah I know.   This world is fucked up and he is sarcastic, so its a marriage made in heaven.  He and I were arguing about a book.  Yeah, it was the latest Harry Potter which I had mixed feelings about.  I got a bit emotional and he said, “You know, we should podcast this.”

Well, what can I say?  I love the sound of my own voice.  “Sure!” I said.

Here goes …

Of course we went ahead and reviewed Brandon Sanderson’s The Way of Kings.  I love Brandon Sanderson and think he is one of the best authors of modern day.

 

And then the entire Pillars of Reality series by Jack Campbell.

Hope you like our reviews.

And shameless plug … Please hit the subscribe button

The Grocery List

It is a dreaded event that hits the house every four weeks or so.  It is a tiny creature on ten legs that sneaks up your spine while you are rummaging the fridge looking for the fruit preserve or when you are hunting the pantry shelf searching for a particular spice that you were sure you still had stocks of.  Once it gets to the back of your head, it balances, draws out an outsized hammer and whacks you on the head.

The time to make a grocery list

It is a balancing act, resources being finite, choices multiple and desires infinite.

Get champagne, the heart says.  Also some avocados, chia seeds, brie and piles of dark chocolate.  And that diamond ring?  Just go for it.

We need more clothes hangars, my prosaic brain says.

Live a little, the giddy heart urges.  Silk and lace drapes will make the windows look grand. We can get new sofas too.

Pay day does fatten the bank account and give one the feeling of being rich.

So I sit down with a piece of paper and begin writing down the things our home needs.  Things we really need.  Pink champagne tops the list.  Can’t help it, I’m out of wine.  Life without Belini with one of those imported grapes floating on the top is just what we need.  And it has to be in the lovely flute glasses I saw the other day at the mall.  The’re divine, long stems that end up in delicate bases with a touch of pink in them – just at the base, nowhere else …

#Son1 : Peering over my shoulder : Oh good!  Is that the grocery list?”

Me : Yep ( Trying to cover the page with my hand )

#Son1 : Looks more like a every-thing-other-than-groceries-list.

Me : Flipping the page and writing down Toor dal : 1 kg, Coriander powder : 1 pkt

I continue in the same vein for some time to complete silence.  I raise my head to note that #Son2 has joined #Son1 and they’re both standing watching the list solemnly.

Once I am done, they take the list and go off to get the groceries.

How unfair!  I can remember a time when they rode the carts at the supermarket and I spent more time unloading goods we did not want or could not afford.  It wasn’t so long ago.

When I grow old, I’ll climb into a supermarket cart and ride it to forbidden sections like the wine section and the cheese and chocolate freezer and load the cart.

Yes I will!

 

JUNIOR SON’S WEDDING EPISODE 2

We have a system in our country developed in medieval times called a Hundi.  It is nothing but a bill of exchange.  Whenever the seller sells the goods on credit under bill of exchange (Hundi), he will send hundi to his buyer for its acceptance.

Once the goods are dispatched and all the conditions are under Hundi are fullfilled, the required documents alongwith Hundi is submitted to the bank for its discounting. Banker after deducting his discounting charges will credit the account of seller.

Don’t they look like Clark Kent and Lois Lane gearing up for a flight? 

Enough of commerce, let’s talk about marriage.  In a Hindu marriage, the first ritual is the “Meet the Parents”.  That went off smoothly.  Her parents came to our place for a visit.  We went to theirs.  Three hours drive both ways.  I loved it.  I felt very adventurous and called it a Road Trip.  The sons were quick to point out that some people travel this distance for work every week or so.  Hmm

Oh!  And #DIL2’s family calls my baby son Kartik-ji.  The first time they did that, I broke into uncontrollable giggles. I had to rush to the bathroom to suppress them.  Seriously we need to enact a law that such suffixes are only bestowed to venerable scholars and not to younger sons of a family in front of the mother.  Not without warning.  Especially when the said mother is still struggling with the concept that her baby boy is getting married.

The next ritual is the Roka (as we Punjabis call it) and Tilak (as #DIL2’s family calls it).  They are from Uttar Pradesh.  It is the Bill of Exchange aka Hundi.  The parents perform certain rituals (conditions) and her family gets another son and I get another daughter.

The conditions theoretically are

Inviting friends and relatives
Prayers and putting vermillion tilaks on the foreheads of the girl and boy.
Exchange of rings
Wearing and gifting shiny glittery stuff
Eating rich foods
Lots of sweet foods
Umm did I mention puddings and desserts? Well, that.

This is an inter-state, inter-caste, inter-whatever-the-pure-blood-nobility-frown-at union.  Not that it matters to me; I’m mud-blood to the core, product of a Jain-Arya Samaji union.  I further compounded it by marrying a part Bengali part Punjabi man.  My parameters for anyone wanting to join my clan is not caste, creed, yada yada.  It is

Deep and abiding love for my sons
Education
Gainful employment
Sense of humour
A deep and abiding commitment to having fun in life.
Appreciation for good food, good music, good books and movies

I think these things are invaluable.  Oh, but I forgot the most important one

NUMBER 7 : FISCAL RESPONSIBLITY

Yeah let’s put number 7 in bold and underline it in red.  Nothing kills peace, sanity and love as financial reverses.

I ought to know, my money sense is horrible.

#DIL2 has an awesome sense of money; I think it has to do with being the daughter of a banker.  The girl told me firmly that she thinks that buying glittery shiny clothes for her that she will never wear is a waste of money.  I meekly agreed and proceeded to buy shiny glittery stuff.  Isn’t this red and gold lehenga awesome?

 

I’d rather have tickets to Los Angeles and back than get gold, she told me.

I meekly agreed and then went and bought the gold set I’d seen for her.

A couple of days before the ROKA she dropped in for a visit and found me sitting on my bed with stuff strewn all around me, neck deep in ribbons, wrapping paper etc.

This is rubbish.  Why did you spend so much money?  It is completely unnecessary.  #Son2 why did you let her?

I opened my mouth to protest.  She glared.  I snapped my mouth shut.

“Well?” she said, hands on hips, expression stern.

I grinned, slid off the bed, broke into a bhangra and yelled happily

BALLE BALLE

PUNJABI !!!

 

 

 

Chronicles of Junior Son’s wedding

Yes, how can I not do this?  The older son’s marriage was chronicled so the younger one also has to endure what I have to say.  His wife (to-be as yet) too has to do so.  I will not play favorites, not my style.

The senior son is the kind who keeps to himself, intimacy shy.  He married the first girl he fell truly in love with.  All through the extremely short dating career, which he kept secret from me until his announcement that he’d proposed.  Junior son had no such qualms.  He comes from the school of thought that secrets are hard work.  So ever since he got into the dating game, we’ve had young girls becoming part of the family for the period he dated them and have had to endure the stormy aftermath of relationships nose-diving.  So we were not surprised when #DIL2 became a part of our family. In fact, I was a tad bit surprised when the relationship lasted more than the normal 6 month period that his relationships normally lasted.  When I asked him about it, he waved his hand in the air grandly and said, “Well, she’s different.” It reminded me of Javed Jaffrey and the Maggi Sauce ads.  Yes, I do have a corny sense of humor.

So the ketchup, oops sorry darling girl, the young lady, became a part of our lives.  It was a gradual process, lasting three years.  And then one day the baby, my baby boy, came and said “We wanna get married.”

I wept.

It’s completely illogical and I have never been prone to faltu ka emossan, but I wept.

#Kid2 : Why’re you crying.  Don’t you like her?

#Me : Grabbing a box of tissues : Don’t be daft.  Of course I do.

#Kid2 : Is it the expense?  We won’t let you spend.  We don’t need anything from you.

#Me : One can manage the expense.  I’m quite used to being broke.  But …

#Kid2 : (In tones of deep confusion)  Then why are you crying?

#Me : I dunno.  I’m just being stupid.

#Kid2 : (Deeply upset) She’s standing outside your room.  She’ll think you don’t like her.  Why are you crying?

I rush into the bathroom and wash my face.  I fix a smile on my face and welcome this beautiful hot and sweet (Sorry darling girl, but ever since he said you’re different, that is my mental nickname for you) young woman into my life and home.

So I’ve done what I swore to myself a long time ago when I stared at two little boys asleep on a single bed one summer night.  I swore that I would nurture you both, educate you, and then hand you both over to your partners without a qualm.

The time is come.  I do not feel empty.  I do not feel resentful.  Instead I feel confused.  For so long its been all about you both, my sons.

But then …

What do I do with myself now?  I’m out of a job.