May days!

This is a whirlwind month for me. My entire drab routine has gone topsy-turvy. Not a good month by my austere misoneistic standards.

First, there is this whole American dream vacation to plan for. After procrastinations and put-offs, after never-ending debates and discussions, we have finally zeroed in on June to be the month of travel. There are still interminable deliberations on what to take, what not to take, what to do, what not to do, how to do, how not to do, where to go, where not to go, where to stay, where not to stay – the whole nitty-gritty of the trip has left me cursing insomnolence at night as my overworked brain does exorbitant and probably misguided calculations on clothes and gifts to carry. That said, the entire onus of planning rests on the able shoulders of my brother-in-law who not only has to pick his way through the jumble of abbreviations that binds America together – JFK, MCO, EWR, IAD, BWI, LAS, IAH, to state a few – but also decide on hotel reservations and car rentals outside of Orlando (where he thankfully has his home) and then wait for a whimsical sister-in-law to approve or reject. Add to it the whole confusion on the practicality of carrying around car seats and strollers, and this whole dream vacation takes on nightmarish attributes.

A bigger hurdle I face is shopping. Realization dawned on me on a hot and sticky May morning that my three-year-old has somehow outgrown everything she has without growing an inch (!!!). I have never done so much shopping my entire life! It is not helped in the least by the very picky toddler who wants a jacket “with a hood amma,” no long sleeves because “they are so itchy,” and pink in color because “blue is for boys.” She does not want sturdy sneakers but a pink and white Disney contraption with a glass heel with colored beads inside. She does not listen to my futile protests and bravely hobbles the entire breadth of the shop just to show me she can walk in them. I give in as I watch my practically-oriented shopping go berserk. After six hours of intense shopping, I still have over a dozen items in my list to cover. If I haven’t said it before, I say it now – I hate shopping.

My husband dearest was in charge of buying gifts for our relatives and friends in the US. He is the knight-errant in our household and he is the one best suited to collect authentic handicrafts from the heart of our country – or so we thought. When our house started resembling an ill-sorted museum with gift rejects (rejected by me of course because of their broken, soiled, or ugly characteristics), we gave up our idea of being too authentic with the gifts. This issue still remains unresolved.

My three-year-old’s school life has gone into a theatrical overdrive this month. With their annual show approaching, there are innumerable dance practice sessions, dress rehearsals, and stage rehearsals on her calendar. As she has the all-important role of a table napkin in their production of The Beauty and The Beast, she is predictably excited and proud. And I, as a mother, have the dubious honor of assuaging her emotional outbursts when the boy behind her kicks her or when the girl next to her gets the costume and she does not.

Then my husband decides that he has to go to Dubai. “Not Dubai, we are going to the US,” I calmly explain to him. “No, I have a sugar meet in Dubai, don’t worry, I will be back in time for our US trip.” He consoles me. I rave and rant on the shopping to do, the plans to finalize, the presents to buy, the rehearsals I have to take our daughter to, my work that is pending, my dance classes, a grooming day that I had set apart for myself, and I tell him that he is leaving me on the lurch. He tells me that I am overreacting, as I always do.

To cap it all, the cook decides to go off to her village for a few days to tend to her ill mother-in-law.

I rest my case. May is simply not my month.