Shaayari gets stuck to me with velcro on weekends. Friday night to Monday morning, I have many names for her: Clingaroo... Chipku Bandar... you get the idea.
I don't mind it. I am a weekend mom anyway. I am not going to grudge my little urchin her clingy weekend moments. I want to cling too.
I hate mondays. Its like a painful peeling off... the hurried bye and the rush out of the door before she starts to bawl is worse than a punch in the belly. Its like the first time that waxing strip came off your leg. Boy, it hurts.
This weekend we sunned ourselves, played in the dirt, ate cheeseballs, watched mindless bollywood songs on TV and cuddled each other silly.
We gaa-gaa-goo-gooed and sang and danced and romped.
We laughed and tickled and chin chucked.
We oil massaged and rock-a-bye babied and nose rubbed.
We slept. And woke up. And slept. And reached out to keep a little of each other always within arm's distance.
I inhaled baby smell. She sniffaroo-ed mama smell.
And then there was a monday morning, bath, change, ready and run. A huffed out, I-don't-want-to-see-your-face-when-I-do-this rushed 'bye shaayari' and a wail that follows you down the stairs, like a knife thrust.
Sometimes I wonder: which paycheque is worth that?
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