Good/Bad Riddance

A couple of weekends ago, my host mother approached me with a look of motherly concern. I've learned that in such situations, I'm usually about to be the recipient of a well-intentioned lecture. Sure enough, she proceeded to tell me that when she was in my room the other day watering the plants, she noticed I wasn't being vigilant enough about keeping it clean. She then outlined for me step-by-step what I needed to do in order to meet her expectation of a clean room. Now, I make no claim of having a spotless room. But in my defense, I make my bed every day (which I've done faithfully for the past 2 years--by far my longest consecutive streak in that area), I keep my books and papers fairly organized, and I vacuum on a regular basis. So even though I decided to keep her happy by scouring the corners and crevices of my room (when it comes to my host mother, resistance is futile), my internal self was not so obliging. In my mind I rebelliously waged verbal battle with her, arguing that even if I were living in squalor, it was my right to since it was my room. Furthermore, when I returned home this summer, I planned to start leaving my room in whatever state I wanted to because I am, in fact, an adult. So there.

Fast forward to this week. It was early evening, and since I had gotten most of my lesson planning done for the next day, I decided to take a break by playing with my host nieces, Viviana and Sorina, aged 4 and 3 respectively. Their current favorite pastime with Tanti Katia is to learn English. So upon request, we settled down to learn colors. When our electricity went out a little while later--one of the joys of living in a developing country--we sat in darkness, singing songs in English (another thing they get a kick out of) and waiting for the power to come back on. A little later my host dad wandered in to keep us company, and feeling inspired by the sight of me with the girls, gave me a 10-minute monologue about how it was his sincere wish for me to find a good husband and have well-behaved children. He said that he and my host mother thought of me as their child, and one day, just like them, I would have children of my own to look after. As I sat there smiling at his earnestness and at the "Moldovan-ness" of the whole evening, I realized with a pang of sadness that I wouldn't have too many more days like that one.

I find myself increasingly thinking about the fact that my time in Moldova is almost up. Some days, when I'm sick of being treated like a 13-year-old, that's a comforting fact. Other days, when I'm listening to my host niece Sorina belt out "Heppy Bursday tooo youuuu" at the top of her lungs, I don't want to leave. The question is--am I still going to be so torn 4 months from now? I can't help but think my life would be a lot easier if I could just make up my mind one way or the other. Sigh.