Tag: parenting

What’s the Point of Buying a House?

house.jpg

For people in my parents’ age, buying a house — or building one — is the ultimate goal. Life had a basic structure: education, job, house, EMI, marriage, EMI, kids, EMI, kids’ education, and (phew) retiring into the house they built all those EMIs ago.

By the time they move into their home, they’d have grown too old to climb the spiral stairs they’d so wanted. Sure, it would’ve looked sexy in movies or when Holmes darted up a stairwell with Watson at his heels, but the knee ache would be just too real.

It’s funny how my parents still think that that’s the way to go. Build a house, they say, and you’re set for life. It’s a good investment, a future-proof solution for when you’re much too old to work any longer. According to them, we need something we could fall back to when things get rough and soreness starts to show.

With the way my generation lives, with all the soda, the extra-cheesy burgers, and sitting on our asses, I doubt we’ll even live long enough to hit retirement. Besides, what’s the fun in spending all your youthful vigour saving for an unforeseeable future?

I’d rather spend my money and time on a road trip I’d enjoy now than agonise over interest for the next 5 years. I’d rather spend my money on a good bottle of wine than go over patterned tiles for the bathroom of a house I can’t afford.

And I’d choose Netflix today than fretting over a 27-inch television that would’ve gone off-style by the time I’m ready to kick back, debt-free.

Even though I explain all this to my parents as I’d explain the art of cereal-eating to a toddler, they still fall back to, “Buying a house will free up your future.” Our society has hammered the idea into their skulls for far too long.

And as I look into the eyes that plead me to save more and buy a house, I end up smiling, “Sure, mom.”

In my heart, though, I know buying a house is the last thing I’d do.

I’ve been living in my current rented house for almost a year and I’m itching to move already. If I’d have to spend hoards on a single house and live in it forever, that’d be punishment and not freedom.

The Expected

expected-change

They were forewarned.

They had known a change was inevitable. They had heard about it from all, and knew it all, all too well.

Their sleeping patterns altered, they lost interest in food parties, their expenses doubled, and responsibilities quadrupled.

They thought twice before flicking out fresh bills from their pocket, considered the additions, consulted the elders, and they even set up a fool-proof fire alarm.

She craved less of gingersnaps, and baked chocolate chip cookies instead; he gave up the jet ski idea for a more practical convertible.

Their life centred around one, and social was a thing of the past. Wine bottles held cough syrup and beer cans gave way to canned milk.

Personal care got a new definition; manicure wasn’t about herself anymore. A couple of nails has lost their gloss, and a few greys started showing without her consent.

His tools went into the attic, film roles over the shelf. The tripod they saved up to own lay unknown, and the sofa doubled as a bed because there never were enough laundered bedsheets.

They had known a child would change everything. They hadn’t known how radical it’d be.

Choices

Graceful, slender, tall, and blonde –
in fancy clothes she was donned
enrolled in a pricey school
off to be a dancer as planned.
Twinkletoes chose tennis instead,
proved passion meant more than all.

The Birthday Gift

I regretted my decision on the same day. It was David’s birthday and got him a motorcycle.

I had my reservations, but my husband cajoled me into gifting him the cycle.

After all, David had been asking for a long time. Perhaps he had matured enough by now. Perhaps he could handle himself. Turns out I was wrong. He was much too reckless.

He’s had it for just three days, and he had already crashed into a wall twice. He likes racing with his friends in the neighbourhood, and the poor handlebar was scarred beyond repair.

Mrs. Longstem next door had seen David with his motorcycle and had invited me to tea yesterday just to warn me. He was rash and snapped at anyone who touched his cycle. He had become too possessive, she complained. It was unhealthy, she continued as I tried to pretend the cat litter scattered around her living room didn’t bother me.

I hated that woman. And David! How could he be so irresponsible? If he continued this way, someone might end up hurt.

Just as I sat thinking about him, a biscuit in my hand and tea in front of me, David walked into the living room, his fists clenched, his knuckles white.

He stopped in front of me, “We had a fight. Bill took my motorcycle.”

My four year old looked into my eyes, tears in his.