My Heart Over-floweth...

About a month ago, when the MIM I married was away, WW3 was in progress in my bedroom...both boys were fighting for the middle space, so that I could sleep next to one of them. I said I'd sleep in the middle and then they could both get me. Nah, no good. They were not in a mood to share. Of course I had my way. I pushed them apart, put my pillow in the middle, said "Good night, I love you", switched off the lights and left the room. I took a peek some time later...they were fast asleep, the middle had been kept empty for me...save for their clasped hands across the bed, resting peacefully on mamma's space.

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Mornings in our house, are normally filled with music...at least on holidays. A couple of weeks ago, while one boy was listening to music on the iPod & singing along ('Phantom of the Opera', if you please), the other was singing from a book of Disney lyrics. My heart and eyes were ready to burst!

Aaah! The difference a few days can make! Lately, all they're interested in is listening to the theme 'music' of their favourite WWE wrestlers. Sigh! As if there's not enough noise in my life already!

But then of course, the EO's words this morning acted like a balm on my very frazzled nerves..."Mamma, I want to learn the words of 'Purano Sei Diner Kotha'..." (a famous Rabindrasangeet)

Sigh! I guess I can live a little with 'Veil of Fire', 'Booyaka', Andrew Llloyd Webber and Rabindranth Tagore co-existing peacefully, side by side.

Sing a Song of Me

Maybe I'll paint my nails today.

Or go to the salon for some pampering.

Maybe I'll wear a sari today,

with silver jewelry

and line my eyes

with kohl

and laughter.

Or maybe I'll just stay in my pj's

the whole day

with clouds of perfume

dancing above my head.

I'll probably buy some chocolate

just for me

and eat it up whole --

every last smudge of it

and that too

licking off the melty bits from the

shiny foil.

Maybe it'll be Lindt.

Or Guylian.

Whichever one it is,

I'll do it guilt-free.

Perhaps I'll let the whole day slide away,

softly,

seamlessly,

from one frame to the next,

minute by minute,

second by moment,

and I'll just let the ironed clothes be,

leave the books open,

and not care if the wet towel's on the bed.

Again.

As usual.

I won't care.

I won't.

I refuse to.

Maybe I'll write poetry today.

Or read some at least.

Buy a book.

Or three.

I'll stand in front of the mirror,

naked,

and accept myself

and my body.

My body,

with gravity-loving breasts,

dimpled cheeks

(of the derriere),

those blasted hate-handles

and that big mound

of quivering,

dancing,

jelly-like lard

and NOT

mourn the decade past,

when I was younger

and definitely beautiful,

but just didn't have the wisdom to see it,

own it

and know it to be true.