I think this part must have been included in the marriage rites because when someone is sick, even just with a head cold or chest infection, they are so annoying as to inspire total abandonment or at the very least be relegated to their own chamber of coughs, snot, and complaining. When my children are sick, which they have been much this first winter season back from the Caribbean, I nurse them, hold them close, take their temperatures first with my lips to their damp foreheads and then with the ear thermometer that tickles their ears. I snuggle with them and hold them close and wrap us up in soft blankets knowing full well that the pox will soon be mine too. And when it is, I will still care for them and the household, get them ready for school, look at their drawings, and make beaded necklaces, clay projects, and sticker book stories. I will make sure they are fed, tended too, and once they are settled, I will try to take care of myself.
My husband is sick and by his account no one has ever been sicker. Ever. He is whining and bitching, says every fifteen minutes, "I am sick. I am really sick." Followed by a whooping cough, elephant truck splash with water over the back, and a shudder. This too takes place every fifteen minutes. He spits into a napkin and says, "Look at this. Do you see this? I am sick." Sick repeated over and over like "zeek, zeek" with his cute French accent. I stifle the giggle and I do feel quite badly for the poor soul, but the truth is, we have all been sick and we have continued to reinfect each other. We are all nursing something right now, but no one is talking about it or requesting a news brief to be run on the local news channels.
When we were in Barbados, it was evident when high tourist season had come, not only because there were fewer parking spaces at the Holetown Super Centre, but because the cold-weather people of England, Canada, and sometimes the United States, brought their germs and upper respiratory infections through the skies and infected anyone in service to them. Suddenly a wave of sickness hit the local populace, true Bajans and ex-pats who'd come in contact with these people. My husband worked at a hotel and soon everyone there would be coughing and hacking. I remember thinking even then, even when I dreamt of coming back to the States, that I certainly did not miss getting sick all the time.
Two years in the Caribbean weakened our resistance to the viruses that plague during these months and we seem to be spending this mild winter with some respiratory infect or another, passing it back and forth, to and fro with each other. The girls refuse their house slippers, walk outside without coats or hats. We keep the heat at a moderate temp so as not to burn up our bank accounts. We get sick. We get better. And then we do it all again.
God bless my husband and all the others are out there. Good idea about the clause though. He is killing it with the coughing and hacking and shuddering. I will tend to him as I do my other babies. I will put my lips to his damp forehead to take his temperature. I will give him Mucinex, Theraflu, Sudafed, whatever it is he requires. I will give him new boxes of tissues, clean up the old ones, lay blankets on his shivering body while he watches action movies and mutters,"I am zeek, really, really zeek."
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Back on the blog
The thing is, I am not sure what I am doing this time. City Mom in the Jungle, a labor of love, a heart pouring that introduced many to my bleeding heart during a time when I was not only a fish out of water, but a Yankee in Caribbean Court, was meant to share the craziness of the monkeys, lizards, snails, and toads, and the locals and the Brits (God love them, and they know I do too) and my husband's crazy shitty job and to my postpartum child-rearing tales. Nearly six months later we are back in the United States, my true home, the husband's adopted, with two crazy gals and a new life with new friends, plans, activities, and expectations. In that short six months, I have decided to call myself a writer, have procrastinated like never seen before on my return to my job as a voiceover and commercial actress (which I also hope to return to), reassessed my relationships, my needs, my hopes, dreams, fears, desires, all while running on close to six perpetually interrupted hours of sleep a night.
I am, somehow, still married, still with children, and have a relatively good amount of my brain cells in tact. I am no longer tan, though yes, still African-American. If you have seen some of the photos of me from back in the days of Barbados, I look like a chocolate bunny. I love being tan. My skin looks smooth like velvet. I don't need to wear much make up, can't actually lest I want it to melt off, and even when I am wearing some crap outfit, I still look kind of pretty. Now I am back to my tawny brown and can wear make up and do my hair, and wear clothes and shoes that I am not afraid will either combust on my body from the heat or melt into my skin from the same, but I also feel the need to try a little harder, to be more presentable. I got a haircut months after settling in order to "cut Barbados" out of my system. That hair, long, unkempt, or twisted with leave in conditioner for days worked in my island life. In the States just looked frumpy and effort-less. As in refusing to make an effort.
Island living really allowed a laissez-faire attitude, a real relaxed, different pace than suburban New Jersey. I grew up in the suburbs and vowed never to return and I am sure I never would have had we not had children. The suburbs are for children and the competitive parents who come with them. We are closer to the city than I was when I was growing up and the hustle and bustle of one of the world's great islands, Manhattan Island and her surrounding boroughs, has fanned out to New York's largest suburb, New Jersey. I like that to some extent.
There are more activities for children than there are for adults on a two week cruise through the Mediterranean, Costa Concordia notwithstanding. It can be pretty heady trying to determine just how many after school activities a 5 1/2 year old needs in order to get into college or at least into the Fraternal Order of Suburban Overachievers. In fairness, I have met some incredibly wonderful families as diverse and open-minded as any I'd met in New York City and feel truly blessed to have chosen this community and had it welcome me as it has. It could very well be my insecurity, my sense that I am just not enough that makes me feel judged and compared.
I am a joiner here. Signing up to do pretty much anything for the kiddies. Volunteering at Lily's school for her art classes, hosting with a new friend a dinner that will benefit the school's PTA, driving Lily to playdates and dance classes, investigating the next new fun, educational program for Lily and her little sister.
Driving. No, I still don't love it, but I can do it and it feels more comfortable on the other side of the car and the other side of the road. The girls feel safe with me again. No more crazy mommy. They crawl into our bed at night, are not fearful walking about the house. Love walking ahead of us on the sidewalks to and from the playgrounds. They have a greater sense of independence here and certainly more opportunity to express their individuality.
Lily is still shy and sensitive, but there are plenty of little girls like that and they have found each other. She can wear pink every day if she likes and Virginie can walk through the super Target in a princess costume and meet Spiderman, Batman, or a butterfly with no one batting an eye. Lily is a beautiful dancer, a talented athlete, and a bit of a crybaby, but I can handle it better on my home turf. Virginie is the chattiest thing in the Northeast, smart as a whip, and truly bullheaded as one would expect a Taurus to be. And the husband and I, well that is still a work in progress. We love each other and the family we have made, but sometimes the cultural differences, age discrepancy, and my OCD like tendencies coupled with his ADHD leanings make life...interesting.
And so I find myself back here. Reaching out. Writing. Shouting out. I may not make it on as frequently as I did when I was writing City Mom because City Mom was my life line and right now anyway, I am not drowning. But I will stop in and write about making choices, finding my way, navigating the super-French know-it-all traditional sex roles path with the African-American, Southern infused bossiness and insecurity that I bring. I am trying to reconcile my pre-baby/pre-marriage,creative, artistic, high flying freakflag waving self with the married, mother of two, wife, mother, wife, mother self. Life in Barbados made a lot of things clear for me. I've got to handle my business myself. But I have lots of people all over the world who have and continue to offer support just when I think I can't do it.
It's all relative, you know, what you can and can't handle, of just what God sees that you are capable. A new friend made here in New Jersey who promptly moved away to Nigeria with her husband and three children said to me, "The Caribbean? You could not live in the Caribbean?" I get it. I hear it. Especially from her! Things are not always what they seem is all I can say. When I read her blog about her experiences, eye opening, life changing moments that include the possibility of as civil war breaking out I think, Wow. She is really brave and really strong. What the heck would I have done? Perhaps she is much braver than I, has a greater sense of security, feels better supported, fits better in her skin. She went "home" in a sense, because her husband is Nigerian, but it's not her home, not yet. I think she is brave but I still felt brave too.
Even in my easy peasy holiday tourist resort relocation, I challenged myself daily to do things I thought impossible. Each time I said, "I definitely cannot do that," I would do it. No matter how comfortable the situation in Barbados appeared, I was out of my element and tried diligently to make peace with that discomfort. It wasn't exactly Outward Bound or the Peace Corp, not with that really nice house with a pool and a huge garden, but being abroad, being in Barbados, offered a greater perspective than the one I'd developed living in my home country, speaking the language, understanding the customs, traditions, and idioms.
And so as I wind my way back into life in the United States, back home, as I struggle to make a happy home for my family, a safe haven for myself, and to express myself creatively, refusing to ever stifle it again, I am back on the blog. Hope to see you here.
(c) Back to the Suburban Grind. Copyright 2012.
For whatever reason I am unable to change the ABOUT ME section from the City Mom in the Jungle title. There may very well be a way, but not one that I can figure out right now. It's me. Still.
I am, somehow, still married, still with children, and have a relatively good amount of my brain cells in tact. I am no longer tan, though yes, still African-American. If you have seen some of the photos of me from back in the days of Barbados, I look like a chocolate bunny. I love being tan. My skin looks smooth like velvet. I don't need to wear much make up, can't actually lest I want it to melt off, and even when I am wearing some crap outfit, I still look kind of pretty. Now I am back to my tawny brown and can wear make up and do my hair, and wear clothes and shoes that I am not afraid will either combust on my body from the heat or melt into my skin from the same, but I also feel the need to try a little harder, to be more presentable. I got a haircut months after settling in order to "cut Barbados" out of my system. That hair, long, unkempt, or twisted with leave in conditioner for days worked in my island life. In the States just looked frumpy and effort-less. As in refusing to make an effort.
Island living really allowed a laissez-faire attitude, a real relaxed, different pace than suburban New Jersey. I grew up in the suburbs and vowed never to return and I am sure I never would have had we not had children. The suburbs are for children and the competitive parents who come with them. We are closer to the city than I was when I was growing up and the hustle and bustle of one of the world's great islands, Manhattan Island and her surrounding boroughs, has fanned out to New York's largest suburb, New Jersey. I like that to some extent.
There are more activities for children than there are for adults on a two week cruise through the Mediterranean, Costa Concordia notwithstanding. It can be pretty heady trying to determine just how many after school activities a 5 1/2 year old needs in order to get into college or at least into the Fraternal Order of Suburban Overachievers. In fairness, I have met some incredibly wonderful families as diverse and open-minded as any I'd met in New York City and feel truly blessed to have chosen this community and had it welcome me as it has. It could very well be my insecurity, my sense that I am just not enough that makes me feel judged and compared.
I am a joiner here. Signing up to do pretty much anything for the kiddies. Volunteering at Lily's school for her art classes, hosting with a new friend a dinner that will benefit the school's PTA, driving Lily to playdates and dance classes, investigating the next new fun, educational program for Lily and her little sister.
Driving. No, I still don't love it, but I can do it and it feels more comfortable on the other side of the car and the other side of the road. The girls feel safe with me again. No more crazy mommy. They crawl into our bed at night, are not fearful walking about the house. Love walking ahead of us on the sidewalks to and from the playgrounds. They have a greater sense of independence here and certainly more opportunity to express their individuality.
Lily is still shy and sensitive, but there are plenty of little girls like that and they have found each other. She can wear pink every day if she likes and Virginie can walk through the super Target in a princess costume and meet Spiderman, Batman, or a butterfly with no one batting an eye. Lily is a beautiful dancer, a talented athlete, and a bit of a crybaby, but I can handle it better on my home turf. Virginie is the chattiest thing in the Northeast, smart as a whip, and truly bullheaded as one would expect a Taurus to be. And the husband and I, well that is still a work in progress. We love each other and the family we have made, but sometimes the cultural differences, age discrepancy, and my OCD like tendencies coupled with his ADHD leanings make life...interesting.
And so I find myself back here. Reaching out. Writing. Shouting out. I may not make it on as frequently as I did when I was writing City Mom because City Mom was my life line and right now anyway, I am not drowning. But I will stop in and write about making choices, finding my way, navigating the super-French know-it-all traditional sex roles path with the African-American, Southern infused bossiness and insecurity that I bring. I am trying to reconcile my pre-baby/pre-marriage,creative, artistic, high flying freakflag waving self with the married, mother of two, wife, mother, wife, mother self. Life in Barbados made a lot of things clear for me. I've got to handle my business myself. But I have lots of people all over the world who have and continue to offer support just when I think I can't do it.
It's all relative, you know, what you can and can't handle, of just what God sees that you are capable. A new friend made here in New Jersey who promptly moved away to Nigeria with her husband and three children said to me, "The Caribbean? You could not live in the Caribbean?" I get it. I hear it. Especially from her! Things are not always what they seem is all I can say. When I read her blog about her experiences, eye opening, life changing moments that include the possibility of as civil war breaking out I think, Wow. She is really brave and really strong. What the heck would I have done? Perhaps she is much braver than I, has a greater sense of security, feels better supported, fits better in her skin. She went "home" in a sense, because her husband is Nigerian, but it's not her home, not yet. I think she is brave but I still felt brave too.
Even in my easy peasy holiday tourist resort relocation, I challenged myself daily to do things I thought impossible. Each time I said, "I definitely cannot do that," I would do it. No matter how comfortable the situation in Barbados appeared, I was out of my element and tried diligently to make peace with that discomfort. It wasn't exactly Outward Bound or the Peace Corp, not with that really nice house with a pool and a huge garden, but being abroad, being in Barbados, offered a greater perspective than the one I'd developed living in my home country, speaking the language, understanding the customs, traditions, and idioms.
And so as I wind my way back into life in the United States, back home, as I struggle to make a happy home for my family, a safe haven for myself, and to express myself creatively, refusing to ever stifle it again, I am back on the blog. Hope to see you here.
(c) Back to the Suburban Grind. Copyright 2012.
For whatever reason I am unable to change the ABOUT ME section from the City Mom in the Jungle title. There may very well be a way, but not one that I can figure out right now. It's me. Still.
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