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Ten years ago my parents bought a house in rural Bogor. For several years we had a tradition; all of us would pack up and spend our weekends there. Back then, my parents found no problem at all to drag their children to come along. All Bogor had to offer us —me, my brother, my sister— to let Jakarta go was a cool climate and a freezing shower; never mind TV and stereo set. Then things started to change. My mom and dad apparently, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, raised three hyperactive geeks. Not long afterwards, cool climate and freezing shower were no longer adequate incentives for us. And they began to spend their weekends in Bogor without us.
Year after year, they would find any mean and way necessary to advertise the house to lure us back. All their efforts were in vain. After a while, their broken hearts began to show on their faces. But by the time we realized that, we were already up to our necks with our own schedules. There was nothing we could do because, greedy as we were (and still are), we didn’t want to give up any of our activities. After some more while our guilt disappeared because our parents seemed to be doing okay spending weekends without us. It has been that way for more than five years now.
Around two months ago, our Jakarta house started to feel a lot emptier. My mom had been missing a lot lately. When asked, she simply said that she was taking care of the Bogor house[1]. For many weeks in a row now, she was never around at all. And on weekends, even my dad disappears. Although mom is known for her invisibility, it is always simple to detect her absence. No matter how busy she is, mom always magically finds the time to cook us something that I would call the extraordinary dining experiences. When the dishes are absent, so was my mom. There has been nothing extraordinary on our dining table for more than a month now.
Apparently, to say that my parents are doing okay in Bogor without us was an understatement. They’re actually doing great. For quite some time they have been indulging themselves renovating the house. Either they never mentioned anything to us their children, or that their three children have become so ignorant of their parents’ pleasure. My sister was the first to know about their secret project. One night she told me giggling that the house is under a severe ongoing cosmetic procedure and that explained why mom is never around. So the news about the house had spread around.
Finally, it was my time to pay the house a visit. I was surprised. That was no cosmetic project. That was a surgery! The house looks like the city of Rome in ruins, but my parents were extremely happy –you can see it in their eyes. They know exactly how the house would finally look like with every single brick laid. I never saw my parents trapped in a long discussion before. They barely speak much with all the private sign language they developed themselves –which looks more like little eyes-and-hand-gestures play. I know they have a habit of collecting books on interior designs: houses in small spaces, gardens and patios, secrets of furniture, etc. But how our house is turning into showed that have been fighting to read all those small texts instead of only drooling over the big beautiful pictures.
They did however, have something to brag about. The second I stepped in the house, the first thing my mom said was, “see the bathroom.” The bathroom was a big surprise. For the first time, I can see where my artistic intuition came from. And also for the first time, I can see clearly where my sense of humor came from! The bathroom was so beautiful it was confusing. It was too comfortable I could have mistaken it for a bedroom. And there were enough plants to have it mistaken for a garden. There were so many wrong things in the wrong places: a vase that was once a teapot and hotel shampoo container that was once an ashtray. Everthing was a representation of genius comedy. I came out laughing, and my dad laughed in return, agreeing.
I spent the whole night listening to their plan –and they have a great architectural plan. I went upstairs to see my parent’s little garden of cabbages, tomatoes, and things that only God and botanists know what. I see that mom didn’t forget to plant something from our homeland: chili. I can only imagine the exploding numbers of pots there will be around within two weeks time.
With all the mess, it was shocking that a house that half-finished was as lethal as a giant sleeping pill. I slept most of that weekend. It was very brave of me to neglect the homeworks I brought along. Nonproductive weekends have been guilty pleasures for me, but I think it was a totally different case when you put your parents in the process.
I don’t know if renovating the house is a part of a bigger plan, say: to lure us back to the house, which I strongly doubt. But if there was a slightest chance that it is true, well it bloody worked. That was all I did this weekend: to find out that my parents are actually disturbingly cool.
Year after year, they would find any mean and way necessary to advertise the house to lure us back. All their efforts were in vain. After a while, their broken hearts began to show on their faces. But by the time we realized that, we were already up to our necks with our own schedules. There was nothing we could do because, greedy as we were (and still are), we didn’t want to give up any of our activities. After some more while our guilt disappeared because our parents seemed to be doing okay spending weekends without us. It has been that way for more than five years now.
Around two months ago, our Jakarta house started to feel a lot emptier. My mom had been missing a lot lately. When asked, she simply said that she was taking care of the Bogor house[1]. For many weeks in a row now, she was never around at all. And on weekends, even my dad disappears. Although mom is known for her invisibility, it is always simple to detect her absence. No matter how busy she is, mom always magically finds the time to cook us something that I would call the extraordinary dining experiences. When the dishes are absent, so was my mom. There has been nothing extraordinary on our dining table for more than a month now.
Apparently, to say that my parents are doing okay in Bogor without us was an understatement. They’re actually doing great. For quite some time they have been indulging themselves renovating the house. Either they never mentioned anything to us their children, or that their three children have become so ignorant of their parents’ pleasure. My sister was the first to know about their secret project. One night she told me giggling that the house is under a severe ongoing cosmetic procedure and that explained why mom is never around. So the news about the house had spread around.
Finally, it was my time to pay the house a visit. I was surprised. That was no cosmetic project. That was a surgery! The house looks like the city of Rome in ruins, but my parents were extremely happy –you can see it in their eyes. They know exactly how the house would finally look like with every single brick laid. I never saw my parents trapped in a long discussion before. They barely speak much with all the private sign language they developed themselves –which looks more like little eyes-and-hand-gestures play. I know they have a habit of collecting books on interior designs: houses in small spaces, gardens and patios, secrets of furniture, etc. But how our house is turning into showed that have been fighting to read all those small texts instead of only drooling over the big beautiful pictures.
They did however, have something to brag about. The second I stepped in the house, the first thing my mom said was, “see the bathroom.” The bathroom was a big surprise. For the first time, I can see where my artistic intuition came from. And also for the first time, I can see clearly where my sense of humor came from! The bathroom was so beautiful it was confusing. It was too comfortable I could have mistaken it for a bedroom. And there were enough plants to have it mistaken for a garden. There were so many wrong things in the wrong places: a vase that was once a teapot and hotel shampoo container that was once an ashtray. Everthing was a representation of genius comedy. I came out laughing, and my dad laughed in return, agreeing.
I spent the whole night listening to their plan –and they have a great architectural plan. I went upstairs to see my parent’s little garden of cabbages, tomatoes, and things that only God and botanists know what. I see that mom didn’t forget to plant something from our homeland: chili. I can only imagine the exploding numbers of pots there will be around within two weeks time.
With all the mess, it was shocking that a house that half-finished was as lethal as a giant sleeping pill. I slept most of that weekend. It was very brave of me to neglect the homeworks I brought along. Nonproductive weekends have been guilty pleasures for me, but I think it was a totally different case when you put your parents in the process.
I don’t know if renovating the house is a part of a bigger plan, say: to lure us back to the house, which I strongly doubt. But if there was a slightest chance that it is true, well it bloody worked. That was all I did this weekend: to find out that my parents are actually disturbingly cool.
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[1] My mom and the house is a lot like me and my laptop. We always make sure everything is clean and tidy and we do it ourselves simply because we hold dear the motto: trust no one.
[1] My mom and the house is a lot like me and my laptop. We always make sure everything is clean and tidy and we do it ourselves simply because we hold dear the motto: trust no one.
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