I know that one day, when my little monsters are big hulking teenage boys, I'm going to pine and yearn for the days when they both crawled in bed with 'Dada' and I, snuggling up close (Egg throwing an arm around one of our necks, and Dumps burrowing in to my chest like a persistent little tapeworm).
However, the husband and I both agree, sitting here on our porch and surveying the hazy humid day laid out before us, that last night we had one of the worst sleeps ever. It didn't help that we both sustained minor accidental injuries during the night. First, I was abruptly woken by a hard kick to my right calf that left me moaning in pain. Later, Jay screamed out in agony when I accidentally cracked him in his sore and worryingly fractured elbow.
It didn't help that we were sleeping on a too-small sandy bed sheet which barely covered the dank, bright green and inch thick mattress that has goodness knows what types of life forms currently inhabiting it's rectangular domain (the unfortunate result of Dumpie wetting our brand new bedsheets brought from Canada by the in-laws and newly laid out the night before).
I realise that Paradise has many levels. We are living in a Twilight Zone version at present. We're neither stuck back in the humdrum mediocrity of modern urban life, but nor are we thriving free as 'artistes' - churning out beautiful music and excellent prose (like we thought we decidedly would when given the chance to opt out of everyday life). For you see, India has its own little set of everyday annoyances which must be overcome (the monsters must be fed, watered, scrubbed up, amused, rubbed down, and bedded nightly) and we also must be spurred on to discipline ourselves to do more than sip milk coffees and Kingfishers on the beach, entertaining a seemingly unending supply of friends and family, whilst visiting local beaches and making like permanent tourists.
Aside from the sub-standard tupperware which lines our homemade shelf above the fridge (full of semi-stale cornflakes, less than crunchy almonds and handfuls of savoury Indian 'snacks'), there is really very little distinction between us and mere holiday-makers.
My bikini's are getting worn and stretched out of shape from everyday use (they now double as undergarments during periods of laundry crisis). The husband's few shorts are so 'worn' that they are currently rebelling and on the verge of threatening to walk off his body themselves and off to the nearest town - never to be seen or heard from again.
And the monsters are now sporting shaggy surfer boy hairdo's and are perfectly content to wear dirty soiled clothing more than one day in a row (hey, if it doesn't smell....)
What is becoming of us? How did we get trapped in this unending circle of package holiday hell, no end in sight, despite things winding down for the season and people clearing out of here daily?
Why are we negotiating another month of rent with our bemused landlady? Where are we going to eat daily when all beach shacks and local restaurants are closed down for the season?
How will I refresh my depleted stores of dvds?