Mondays always seem a very lousy day to begin with. Fridays are never better. Saturday ends with a loud and manner-less knocks on my door, to say nothing of the Sundays spent guiltily of having wasted the only day of the week which could have been a cheerful, relaxing one.
Do I regret for having lived this routine for the past 76 weeks ? Of course not. There are joys words can’t express, feelings that gets misplaced every time I pen it down, laughter echoes only in my ears, honesty engraved in the eyes that meets with mine and the innocence that radiates dreamily with a quiet snore in the dead of the night.
It’s still a miracle that despite the daily rebuke and an endless chastisement, they emanate with ceaseless affection. My children teaches me way more than life ever could. There is forgiveness after every outburst of emotion, smiles after a mini tearful drama, fuss about misplaced pencils, broken heart over a broken tooth, heart attack over a tiny cut, fainting at the sight of a needle and frowning at amoxicillin pouch.
It takes patience to keep up with their ever growing mind and a little more to listen to their nagging and complains and fault findings, yet some other days they become some grown up you might have never met before.
While Mondays torture me and Fridays make my heart leap a beat and Saturdays get too noisy, I sit at the end of their bed on a fine Sunday morning and stare into those enigmatic eyes wondering which girl I would be meeting up with this time. The one who is always insecure about losing her friends or the one who points out that I have failed to keep my promise twice in a row.