I feel really silly thinking back on all the bitching I did when I was packing stuff to take along to Qatar. Because now, with a child in tow, it’s much, much harder. So much harder that I’ve had a headache for the past couple of days.

Again, the malle, our big blue trunk, is sitting in our living room waiting to be filled. Am I filling it with stuff? No. I’m slumped against comfy pillows, blogging while watching tv shows I don’t really want to watch (I’m watching MacGyver reruns; my procrastination has reached epic proportions).

Before you judge me, let me defend myself: it’s really hard to pack when you don’t know how long you’ll be staying in another country. Here is a transcript of a conversation several months ago:

Jul: Hey. We’re moving to Rome.
Me: Rome! How exciting! When?
Jul: I dunno… in a month maybe. Not sure.
Me: How long are we staying?
Jul: I dunno… still have to figure that out.
Me: (to test his reflexes) Are we taking Lila?
Jul: Are we tak… OF COURSE WE ARE! She’s our child!
Me: Where are we going to live? In a flat? In a flat in the city? Or near your office?
Jul: I have no idea actually.
*moment of silence*
Me: So what do you know?
Jul: That we’re moving to Rome.

This is the longest I’ve been alone with the kid, and it’s driving me up the wall. The flat seems so empty, especially in the evenings. I miss Juju. Lila on the other hand simply seems puzzled as to why her other slave is missing.

Currently listening to:
Gulag Orkestar

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