Poo...

What is it about simple daily rituals that are so comforting in their predictability?? Why is it that the things that we secretly thrive on are the ones that are most neglected in our consciousness?? The answers to these questions lay steeped within them of course, though the questions do not seek.

For the past 3 days now, a new colour has sprung up in our routine, and it is only worthy to show its sparkle. It happens at that magical time of the day when the day's official work is done, time sheets filled in, and my little Thambi awaits me at the door, his bag in his hands. Its a new thing that his babysitter does, to motivate him to come home...by turning him into a man of purpose with a bag to carry! :)

He strides purposefully to the car and I breathe a sigh of relief that so much of the distance has already been bridged so peacefully, when suddenly, he drops his load to cry out....poo...poo! That first day, I stare at him, blinking in non-comprehension. By the second day, I know the drill. On the third day, I stifle a yawn, as I wait for this last bit of farewell drama to play out.

But for now...back to that first day, when I have no clue what he is talking about, but she does, and she comes running out, and he goes running in, and both of them meet halfway, and she scoops him up, walks to the tree in her yard and plucks out the smallest twig full of pretty white flowers to give to him. And there he holds his beloved poo, smiling contentedly. She asks him to give it to me, so there will be yet another burst of motivation to come to Amma, but he keeps it for himself, still blissfully unaware of the power he wields over a girl, with a bunch of flowers in his hands. This time, I scoop him up and belt him in, facing no resistance, as he admires his last minute loot. And we drive home.

The first day, he falls asleep, holding it tight in his hands.

The second day, he falls asleep, holding it tight in his hands.

The third day, he falls asleep, holding it tight in his hands.

Back home, his sleep continues, undisturbed on the bed, while the poo remains in the car. It is found again the next day, dried and wilted, brittle to the touch and ready to be tossed into the trashcan. For a fleeting moment, I remember the story of its journey, feeling the twinge of sadness, that it could have continued on its lush, breezy perch, for awhile longer, before this premature end, and I make up my mind to do what I can to ensure it in the day ahead.

And thus it came to Day 4. And it was as different from days 3, 2 and 1 as I had hoped it to be...where the poo...poo...still remained the same, but t.h.a.t was the end of that game!