Let me preface this by saying that although I was quite the little conformist as a young child, molding myself to the needs, desires, and expectations of my parents, I have no attachment to what my children wear. none whatsoever, and while I think I choose pretty cool outfits for them, if they don't want to wear them I am cool. Princess costume to the grocery store? Fine. It's more than just picking my battles. I truly believe that what children, and adults for that matter, choose to wear is a reflection of who they are or who they want to be, and I do not see it as my place to hound them into a style that not only does not reflect their own personalities, but forces them into a box not of their choosing. I have experience with that.
I believe my father spent a good five to ten years shaking his head at me, my hairstyles, and my outfits, and only because my will is stronger than he probably ever suspected, I did not capitulate. His judgment and cruel comments did nothing for our relationship, and in the end, I became the picture of all American, albeit African-American, good looks, comportment, and presentation. I guess kind of a fraud. Only the hidden tattoos and occasional rip, tear, or mismatched pattern reveals my subversive style.
It's just not worth it. Not worth our relationship, their blooming independence, my peace of mind and remaining sliver of sanity to fight them, so today my nearly three year old is wearing for the fifth or sixth time this week, her lavender colored leotard with attached ballet skirt and butterfly sequined decolletage. She has worn it to the grocery store, library, school drop off, and her big sister's ballet class. She also wears it as a pajama and a dress up costume. Today she is wearing it with tights, grey with lavender bows on them, and nothing underneath. Sleeveless.
It is drizzling and cold. I saw my breath this morning as I packed the girls into the car for school drop off. Because she would like everyone in the entire universe to see what a beautiful princess-ballerina-queen-Barbie she is, I was unable to get a coat over her look. And this, Houston, is where we have a problem.
I have gotten input from mommies across the spectrum who have endured all sorts of costume changes throughout their children's lifetimes. We are pretty much a flexible lot. But the lack of jacket or other proper outerwear sets us on edge. It's for their health that we have such a concern. How could a mother allow her baby outside in the rain or snow in a sleeveless leotard? I will tell you how. When she has another child who has to get to school or practice or a playdate on time and that child has been behaving nicely all morning or afternoon or night, and is waiting calmly to get into the car while her little sister parades her tiny behind up and down the driveway, shivering but not daring to give in and put on a coat. When five, ten, fifteen, then twenty minutes go by and said ballerina is standing with arms folded and giving her look that says, "I have all day." When it really, truly is time to go or the older child is going to be late for school or practice or that playdate. That's how Momma let's that chil' outside without her coat.
This morning I wrapped the little one in a sweatshirt that she refused to put her arms into and pushed her in the stroller across the school blacktop for morning line up. I don't really care what other people out there think of me. Two years in Barbados with a level of nosiness so stealth and intense it seems like a job for the perpetrators, have given me not only a thick skin in regards to how my kids or I look in public but a "bring it on" attitude. In my first days in Barbados, carrying the then four month old baby in the hot blazing heat, parasol over her head, 70+ sunscreen on her skin, onesie on her little chubby body, going from the car to the unair-conditioned store, I was approached by three separate individuals who told me that my sweaty baby needed socks, a hat, some pants. Yeah right. Thanks for your help, Buttinsky.
Anyone who has ever raised a child knows that negotiating with a nearly three year old is one of the craziest tortures known to man and that winning will cost and will cost big. A dedicated parent can probably tell that I did make the effort. The sweat on the brow, strain on my face, clenched teeth, and pursed lips are usually dead giveaways. While I looked like a crazy person, the little one was all smiles and crossed arms. My oldest too was tough at this age, choosing only jeans and a dress and sneakers every day, and would not allow a comb or brush anywhere near her curly, knotty locks. By the time we were in Barbados there were just three real choices --school uniform, bathing suit, or sun dress. Oh, and naked. Though the four seasons do allow more options for the kiddies, it seems that the only things that appeal to the little one are costumes, crowns,magic wands, and sparkles.
Tonight while eating in her lavender leotard, baby girl spilled yogurt and then spaghetti sauce down her front. I thought I would faint as I anticipated the battle that was sure to ensue when I had to tell her that we would not be wearing that dirty, stinky costume to bed. As expected,that suggestion was not working for her. She put up a hell of a fight. I thought I just might give up and let her wear the damned dirty rag when her big sister stepped in holding a white leotard with turquoise skirt, printed with HELLO KITTY and the face of that mouthless kitten on the chest. Have mercy!
I just peeked in on the sleeping angels and both are snuggled up in their beds. One in her princess pajamas. The other in a soon to be familiar at grocery stores, school drop off, playdates, and nap times outfit that is too cute to even be covered by a coat.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Your own personal demon, hearts and stars
Working on a drawing, a little girl meticulously drew hearts all around her picture's heroine. She then put stars in the sky shining down on the scene, tens of stars. The hearts swirled around the girl and the stars twinkled in the sky. When asked why the hearts and the stars didn't overlap or touch, the little girl replied, "Because the hearts keep you right here where you are and the stars take you to your dreams."
Another show business death has the media asking questions and the world in mourning. Whitney Houston was, no question, an international star, a voice, a presence, an icon. She was also a mirage. We saw in her what we wanted and in all the smoke and haze, we'd convinced ourselves (collectively speaking, of course) that she was indeed all that we projected onto her, rather than a mortal like the rest of us. Yes, she was beautiful and alluring. Yes, she had talent beyond measure. Yes, she appeared to have grace and poise and everything else. This was how it all seemed. What we hoped and what we dreamed. Already her physical presence is dissolving from this world, but the haunting sound of her pitch perfect voice, of her mesmerizing beauty, and of her all too common human experience lingers, and has clouded my thinking for days.
It has clouded my thinking because on some level, I identified with the girl that was Whitney Houston, fantasized about what it was like to be the woman, cannot even get my head around what it was to be the superstar. A star so incredible, so bright as to outshine all other stars, which are already pretty bright given that when we finally see them, many in the sky are already dead. The light we see is the flash of light it left behind before fading. There is endless talk that Whitney's star was either fading or had long gone out. And here is where I ache, not just for her, but for all people who have dreamed of stardom, fame, accolades, attention, accomplishment at any cost, destroying themselves to achieve stardom. Stars fade. But in a human life, we have many phases, more like those of the moon. In our lives, we wax and wane, have lean and fat times, and can often see ourselves after long suffering or famine, rejoicing in abundance and joy.
People talk about a meteoric rise as though all of this can be discussed in terms of not just external drives and forces, but outer space, intergalactic travel, otherworldliness. I do believe that artists tap into something, the collective unconscious, the God source, the Divine. And that the energy can be so strong, so intense, so overwhelming, that it can knock even the strongest to their asses if they have not centered or grounded themselves. How do we ground ourselves if the earth under our feet is always moving? If long before we become adults something knocks us off kilter, changes our perfect nature, torments and eats away at us?
When I was a young girl I had fantasies of breaking into show business. I was a dancer, creative type, cocoa-skinned, bright eyed, and eager to please. I didn't talk much, but I often envisioned myself in the chorus of a Broadway show, doing commercials, or even peering from the pages of a magazine or newspaper, local or national. Both my sister and I were egged on by our babysitter whose children, all gorgeous Afro-Cuban talents in dance, music, and acting had each found some success in the big city. We were convinced that on the other side of that bus ride into New York was our future and in it we were celebrated on Broadway, dancing with prominent ballet companies, modeling for Macy's or Abraham and Strauss, or tossing that Nerf football, or helping Barbies peach and tan slide down that windy blue slide into her fabulous pool.
Just one thing stood in our way. My mother was not as interested in our professional pursuits and as she was to be the chauffeur and handler, this was a real obstacle. No stage mother here. Though I believe that her main concern was the long drive and tedium of castings and auditions, there was probably some fear of the entertainment industry. She, like so many others, just did not trust the industry, hangers on, emphasis on appearances, total disconnect from feelings, seemingly unflinchingly involved with making money or selling something, anything, that lesser souls can get crushed.
We weren't buying it and I will confess to being quite upset with her for years after. I was upset because I believed, truly, that she was pulling the plug on my destiny, that she was disallowing me the opportunity to leave my regular, difficult, trying sub-suburban experience and be propelled into the stratosphere. In hindsight, I can see that my desperate, lonely, emotionally challenging life up to that moment would have provided no grounding for me. Completely untethered, I would have failed miserably in protecting myself in a new and alien landscape.
Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction brings us awfully close to the ground. Often lying on the ground and I say that actually and metaphorically. What gets us there are a myriad of circumstances and situations and reaching, climbing, even soaring towards the stars cannot prevent us from hitting the floor on our faces. There has been so much said about who is at fault, what coulda/shoulda/woulda been done, not only in the case of Whitney Houston, but with Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, the folks regularly paraded on Intervention, and in the millions of nameless others around the world who suffer, have suffered, continue to suffer or who have died from this terrible disease.
I was never an addict but have seen too many others close to me torn to pieces, ripped from the inside so that all they had left was the hole from which their own light would have to guide them, a light that was with them all the time, one for which they did not need to climb or launch themselves into oblivion. I have been the friend partying alongside the addict, knowing full well that there was no reason that person needed to be in that situation but having too much of a good time myself to stop them. I have sworn to withdraw contact, if not love, if he/she did not seek help and stop, and then returned. I have had a glass of wine, done a host of other illicit drugs in the presence of an addict who told me that it was cool, knowing full well that it wasn't. I am not proud of that and certainly wouldn't do anything like that now. Thinking about the utter ruthlessness of it fills me with shame and embarassment. In truth, I was a young, naive, dangerously depressed young woman who but by the grace of God really, did not find myself addicted, just attracted to the dark side.
We all carry our own personal demons and some of them are deadset on killing us if we let them. We walk hand in hand with them, believe what we know is crap, think we have any control of the substances that we unleash into our bodies, into our hearts, our families, our lives. Or we look at those who have let those demons in and are unable to kick them out on their own as less than ourselves. We elevate ourselves because reminders of falling on our own faces, the struggle, the climb to salvation and a life worth living break off arrows in our hearts, remind us of how hard and painful it really is to find love and serenity in our own lives.
I am searching for the compassion, in myself and in others. We are all fallable and if we think we have it all figured out, have our demons in check, we are fooling ourselves. Whitney Houston was a star who reached unfathomable heights and I suppose watching her twinkling up there, we believed we could see the flaws, the second chances, the denials more clearly. Because we wanted so badly for her to use her fame, her money, her resources to save herself. Because we saw her demons take her by the hand and crush it in a vice grip, we hoped she realized how serious it all was too and tried to break out.
I have heard it said and believe it to be true that one has to want sobriety, freedom from addiction, a change in their life and lifestyle in order for it to really happen. I have cried for those who could not want it enough for themselves, could not allow it, and have been blessed to rediscover some who found themselves anew. The demons are still there with them as are the stars for which they reached. They are held at bay with the desire to love, to share a life with family and friends, to soar with hearts wide open, to live in light rather than dark.
I am most hurt by the passing of this bright star not so much because I know she could have saved herself and should have abandoned the hangers-on that enabled her destruction, but because she leaves in her comet trail a daughter. A girl who has seen in her short lifetime addiction up close and extremely personal. A girl who no matter how many times was told she was loved, no matter how much she was given, no matter the comfort the spoils of success provided, has earned a demon or two of her own. And without support, guidance, love, and compassion, a burden as big as the falling of a star could very well crush her.
I know that I have harbored secret pains, hurts lesser than those she must feel right now, that nearly killed me. I continue to fight them off for the sake of my girls, for my family, for myself. As the girls get older, I will share and reveal more of my life, of the real me, so that when they walk their own paths, they know that I have been there before they and can walk with them. So that when the demons come close, we can look at them, acknowledge them, and keep it moving while still reaching for the stars.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Another show business death has the media asking questions and the world in mourning. Whitney Houston was, no question, an international star, a voice, a presence, an icon. She was also a mirage. We saw in her what we wanted and in all the smoke and haze, we'd convinced ourselves (collectively speaking, of course) that she was indeed all that we projected onto her, rather than a mortal like the rest of us. Yes, she was beautiful and alluring. Yes, she had talent beyond measure. Yes, she appeared to have grace and poise and everything else. This was how it all seemed. What we hoped and what we dreamed. Already her physical presence is dissolving from this world, but the haunting sound of her pitch perfect voice, of her mesmerizing beauty, and of her all too common human experience lingers, and has clouded my thinking for days.
It has clouded my thinking because on some level, I identified with the girl that was Whitney Houston, fantasized about what it was like to be the woman, cannot even get my head around what it was to be the superstar. A star so incredible, so bright as to outshine all other stars, which are already pretty bright given that when we finally see them, many in the sky are already dead. The light we see is the flash of light it left behind before fading. There is endless talk that Whitney's star was either fading or had long gone out. And here is where I ache, not just for her, but for all people who have dreamed of stardom, fame, accolades, attention, accomplishment at any cost, destroying themselves to achieve stardom. Stars fade. But in a human life, we have many phases, more like those of the moon. In our lives, we wax and wane, have lean and fat times, and can often see ourselves after long suffering or famine, rejoicing in abundance and joy.
People talk about a meteoric rise as though all of this can be discussed in terms of not just external drives and forces, but outer space, intergalactic travel, otherworldliness. I do believe that artists tap into something, the collective unconscious, the God source, the Divine. And that the energy can be so strong, so intense, so overwhelming, that it can knock even the strongest to their asses if they have not centered or grounded themselves. How do we ground ourselves if the earth under our feet is always moving? If long before we become adults something knocks us off kilter, changes our perfect nature, torments and eats away at us?
When I was a young girl I had fantasies of breaking into show business. I was a dancer, creative type, cocoa-skinned, bright eyed, and eager to please. I didn't talk much, but I often envisioned myself in the chorus of a Broadway show, doing commercials, or even peering from the pages of a magazine or newspaper, local or national. Both my sister and I were egged on by our babysitter whose children, all gorgeous Afro-Cuban talents in dance, music, and acting had each found some success in the big city. We were convinced that on the other side of that bus ride into New York was our future and in it we were celebrated on Broadway, dancing with prominent ballet companies, modeling for Macy's or Abraham and Strauss, or tossing that Nerf football, or helping Barbies peach and tan slide down that windy blue slide into her fabulous pool.
Just one thing stood in our way. My mother was not as interested in our professional pursuits and as she was to be the chauffeur and handler, this was a real obstacle. No stage mother here. Though I believe that her main concern was the long drive and tedium of castings and auditions, there was probably some fear of the entertainment industry. She, like so many others, just did not trust the industry, hangers on, emphasis on appearances, total disconnect from feelings, seemingly unflinchingly involved with making money or selling something, anything, that lesser souls can get crushed.
We weren't buying it and I will confess to being quite upset with her for years after. I was upset because I believed, truly, that she was pulling the plug on my destiny, that she was disallowing me the opportunity to leave my regular, difficult, trying sub-suburban experience and be propelled into the stratosphere. In hindsight, I can see that my desperate, lonely, emotionally challenging life up to that moment would have provided no grounding for me. Completely untethered, I would have failed miserably in protecting myself in a new and alien landscape.
Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction brings us awfully close to the ground. Often lying on the ground and I say that actually and metaphorically. What gets us there are a myriad of circumstances and situations and reaching, climbing, even soaring towards the stars cannot prevent us from hitting the floor on our faces. There has been so much said about who is at fault, what coulda/shoulda/woulda been done, not only in the case of Whitney Houston, but with Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, the folks regularly paraded on Intervention, and in the millions of nameless others around the world who suffer, have suffered, continue to suffer or who have died from this terrible disease.
I was never an addict but have seen too many others close to me torn to pieces, ripped from the inside so that all they had left was the hole from which their own light would have to guide them, a light that was with them all the time, one for which they did not need to climb or launch themselves into oblivion. I have been the friend partying alongside the addict, knowing full well that there was no reason that person needed to be in that situation but having too much of a good time myself to stop them. I have sworn to withdraw contact, if not love, if he/she did not seek help and stop, and then returned. I have had a glass of wine, done a host of other illicit drugs in the presence of an addict who told me that it was cool, knowing full well that it wasn't. I am not proud of that and certainly wouldn't do anything like that now. Thinking about the utter ruthlessness of it fills me with shame and embarassment. In truth, I was a young, naive, dangerously depressed young woman who but by the grace of God really, did not find myself addicted, just attracted to the dark side.
We all carry our own personal demons and some of them are deadset on killing us if we let them. We walk hand in hand with them, believe what we know is crap, think we have any control of the substances that we unleash into our bodies, into our hearts, our families, our lives. Or we look at those who have let those demons in and are unable to kick them out on their own as less than ourselves. We elevate ourselves because reminders of falling on our own faces, the struggle, the climb to salvation and a life worth living break off arrows in our hearts, remind us of how hard and painful it really is to find love and serenity in our own lives.
I am searching for the compassion, in myself and in others. We are all fallable and if we think we have it all figured out, have our demons in check, we are fooling ourselves. Whitney Houston was a star who reached unfathomable heights and I suppose watching her twinkling up there, we believed we could see the flaws, the second chances, the denials more clearly. Because we wanted so badly for her to use her fame, her money, her resources to save herself. Because we saw her demons take her by the hand and crush it in a vice grip, we hoped she realized how serious it all was too and tried to break out.
I have heard it said and believe it to be true that one has to want sobriety, freedom from addiction, a change in their life and lifestyle in order for it to really happen. I have cried for those who could not want it enough for themselves, could not allow it, and have been blessed to rediscover some who found themselves anew. The demons are still there with them as are the stars for which they reached. They are held at bay with the desire to love, to share a life with family and friends, to soar with hearts wide open, to live in light rather than dark.
I am most hurt by the passing of this bright star not so much because I know she could have saved herself and should have abandoned the hangers-on that enabled her destruction, but because she leaves in her comet trail a daughter. A girl who has seen in her short lifetime addiction up close and extremely personal. A girl who no matter how many times was told she was loved, no matter how much she was given, no matter the comfort the spoils of success provided, has earned a demon or two of her own. And without support, guidance, love, and compassion, a burden as big as the falling of a star could very well crush her.
I know that I have harbored secret pains, hurts lesser than those she must feel right now, that nearly killed me. I continue to fight them off for the sake of my girls, for my family, for myself. As the girls get older, I will share and reveal more of my life, of the real me, so that when they walk their own paths, they know that I have been there before they and can walk with them. So that when the demons come close, we can look at them, acknowledge them, and keep it moving while still reaching for the stars.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Parting the waters/Cultural divide
My oldest daughter Lily has been invited to a swim party this weekend and in discussing who would be going with her, the conversation about swimsuits came up. You see, I don't want to parade myself around new people in a bathing suit and, should everyone in our family be included in this invite, our youngest is going to want to swim too. She is able (years in Barbados and a wonderful swimming teacher at Cool Splashings in St. George ensured that), but cannot get across the pool alone as she is not yet three years old. This leaves my husband as lifeguard and swim companion and herein lies the dilemma.
The swim trunks. Or really, lack thereof. Banana hammock, striped. Tiny little Speedo style swimwear. Not a lot of material and a pool full of Lily's classmates and their parents. I stepped in even when I knew I should not have, even when I have not yet confirmed with this child's parents that all of us are even invited. I hurt his feelings, which I did not foresee, but my thoughts were on Lily and I could not have allowed him to potentially embarrass our child, maybe even himself.
In fairness, I know that this is not at all fair. I have loved him in his skivvies, think he looks great. But we have been in Barbados, France, the Hamptons in those swim trunks, not at a suburban kid's swim party. "Why are Americans so uptight? It is the body. What is wrong with showing the body? These are for swimming. Who can swim in those giant pants?" And to some extent I have agreed with him, at least supported him in the past. " It's just different this time", I said. Sometimes we just don't get each other, don't understand, though we try.
This morning as my husband was walking out the door, I asked, as I often do, "Do you have your keys?" He walked back up the stairs to me and said, "I gave you one already but here you are," and kissed me one more time.
"Your KEYS. Your KEYS, honey."
"Oh, I thought you said a keez."
That one is cute. Though there are times when it just isn't so, when we not only don't hear each other or understand each other's pronunciations, but our cultural differences, ideas, and perspectives shatter peace in the home as we know it and we are both left staring (or glaring)at each other in disbelief.
My husband is French, REALLY French, though truthfully I have never met a French person who wasn't. I love him and think he and his people get a bad rap. They are presumed by all to be arrogant, humorless (or strangely inflicted with a love of Jerry Lewis), unhip snobs and I think that this truly misses the mark. Arrogance, to me, implies a kind of cruelty, the perception that one is so much more superior and f*** you for not being as I am.
I think the French arrogance is more charming than that. They are proud and very well versed in the successes and achievements of their countrymen, and there have been very many successes. Leaders in philosophy, art, music, fashion, cuisine, culture, politics, literature, war, have come from France. Even favorite children's songs that we all hum along to were composed by French musicians and composers. Love that tune, "Somewhere Beyond the Sea"? A Frenchman called Charles Trenet wrote it originally as La Mer. Trying to explain Sodoku to the husband got me so flustered that I sent him to Wikipedia for a better explanation. As soon as he found it he announced, "Ah, yes. I know this. It is based on a French game. Sodoku in the States was founded by some American in the 60s, but you know the French game is from the 18th century, so..." Neither of us plays sodoku and no, I did not know of its origine francaise either.
Our most frequent conversations revolve around food. Quel surprise! And on nearly every point, I agree with him. And that's the thing, it isn't that he is wrong. It's that it feels so good to him to be right that he smears it like a gorgeous French butter all over the place and I, by nature, have to challenge his smug, "You know I'm right" attitude. One of our favorite topics is le pain quotidien. We love baguette, buy it frequently or he lovingly makes his own in our "substandard oven". (His baguette would be much better, as would his pizza were we to have a more suitable oven.) Where in the United States, a stick of baguette, can run you up to $4 US dollars, a baguette in France, one's daily bread, is inexpensive (approximately one Euro) to ensure that all Frenchmen are able to eat an appropriate serving of their beloved pain.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to tear up a baguette while visiting France and would be hard pressed to share it with a small child, puppy, or nun, the stuff is so fantastic. And I think that it is lovely that the price of a good baguette will never get beyond the means of the average consumer in France. But every.single.time.we eat a baguette,EVERY SINGLE TIME, we talk about how France looks out for "everyman" with this generous offering while the United States could give as crap about the health of the general populace, offering only crap fast food at low cost. I don't think anyone would mistake me as the representative of all that's good in America, but give me a break.
He doesn't wear a beret or a striped shirt, nor does he twist his waxed moustache while peddling a bike with a basket in front. He does love wine and good food (he is a chef after all) and wears his pants up a little too high for a youngish, good-looking man. We have a laugh at our differences and agree that my American black chic mothering style jibes well with the French style being touted at present. He will wait hours for me to get my hair done, listen to me complain about how very few designers, even the beloved French fashion houses do not know how to cut pants for the fuller black behind, has accepted the finger wagging, eye popping, occasional neck roll when he says something that I have found ridiculous, and is genuinely interested in African-American culture, history, and bien sur, cuisine.
I know he finds my attraction to and distrust of the dominant culture a bit confusing and my emotionality, individuality, fast smiles, quick handshakes, and easy handling of social and public situations "very American." He is right to find us (Americans) a bit childish, wide-eyed, self-involved; we are a relatively new country in the grander scheme of things, more like teenagers to the middle life crises of some European nations, and the true kiddies of newer formed nations. We somehow make it work and have managed, as yet, no attempted murders or abandonment.
He is quite logical, head-centered compared to my artistic, organic, heart-centered style. His references are philosophical, historical, intellectual, Wikipedial in nearly ALL conversations. I mean, how many arguments between a husband and wife have this exchange"I am Cartesian! You know this about me." And he is. Square, logical. 1+1=2. But tonight I will appeal to his artistic, creative, and shadow emotional side. Both of us "free to be you and me" except that there is no way I am going to allow him to wear his South of France swimwear to the party. We will try to find a suit before the party with an appropriate length of short and tushie coverage. I know he will capitulate. But I will never hear the end of it.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
The swim trunks. Or really, lack thereof. Banana hammock, striped. Tiny little Speedo style swimwear. Not a lot of material and a pool full of Lily's classmates and their parents. I stepped in even when I knew I should not have, even when I have not yet confirmed with this child's parents that all of us are even invited. I hurt his feelings, which I did not foresee, but my thoughts were on Lily and I could not have allowed him to potentially embarrass our child, maybe even himself.
In fairness, I know that this is not at all fair. I have loved him in his skivvies, think he looks great. But we have been in Barbados, France, the Hamptons in those swim trunks, not at a suburban kid's swim party. "Why are Americans so uptight? It is the body. What is wrong with showing the body? These are for swimming. Who can swim in those giant pants?" And to some extent I have agreed with him, at least supported him in the past. " It's just different this time", I said. Sometimes we just don't get each other, don't understand, though we try.
This morning as my husband was walking out the door, I asked, as I often do, "Do you have your keys?" He walked back up the stairs to me and said, "I gave you one already but here you are," and kissed me one more time.
"Your KEYS. Your KEYS, honey."
"Oh, I thought you said a keez."
That one is cute. Though there are times when it just isn't so, when we not only don't hear each other or understand each other's pronunciations, but our cultural differences, ideas, and perspectives shatter peace in the home as we know it and we are both left staring (or glaring)at each other in disbelief.
My husband is French, REALLY French, though truthfully I have never met a French person who wasn't. I love him and think he and his people get a bad rap. They are presumed by all to be arrogant, humorless (or strangely inflicted with a love of Jerry Lewis), unhip snobs and I think that this truly misses the mark. Arrogance, to me, implies a kind of cruelty, the perception that one is so much more superior and f*** you for not being as I am.
I think the French arrogance is more charming than that. They are proud and very well versed in the successes and achievements of their countrymen, and there have been very many successes. Leaders in philosophy, art, music, fashion, cuisine, culture, politics, literature, war, have come from France. Even favorite children's songs that we all hum along to were composed by French musicians and composers. Love that tune, "Somewhere Beyond the Sea"? A Frenchman called Charles Trenet wrote it originally as La Mer. Trying to explain Sodoku to the husband got me so flustered that I sent him to Wikipedia for a better explanation. As soon as he found it he announced, "Ah, yes. I know this. It is based on a French game. Sodoku in the States was founded by some American in the 60s, but you know the French game is from the 18th century, so..." Neither of us plays sodoku and no, I did not know of its origine francaise either.
Our most frequent conversations revolve around food. Quel surprise! And on nearly every point, I agree with him. And that's the thing, it isn't that he is wrong. It's that it feels so good to him to be right that he smears it like a gorgeous French butter all over the place and I, by nature, have to challenge his smug, "You know I'm right" attitude. One of our favorite topics is le pain quotidien. We love baguette, buy it frequently or he lovingly makes his own in our "substandard oven". (His baguette would be much better, as would his pizza were we to have a more suitable oven.) Where in the United States, a stick of baguette, can run you up to $4 US dollars, a baguette in France, one's daily bread, is inexpensive (approximately one Euro) to ensure that all Frenchmen are able to eat an appropriate serving of their beloved pain.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to tear up a baguette while visiting France and would be hard pressed to share it with a small child, puppy, or nun, the stuff is so fantastic. And I think that it is lovely that the price of a good baguette will never get beyond the means of the average consumer in France. But every.single.time.we eat a baguette,EVERY SINGLE TIME, we talk about how France looks out for "everyman" with this generous offering while the United States could give as crap about the health of the general populace, offering only crap fast food at low cost. I don't think anyone would mistake me as the representative of all that's good in America, but give me a break.
He doesn't wear a beret or a striped shirt, nor does he twist his waxed moustache while peddling a bike with a basket in front. He does love wine and good food (he is a chef after all) and wears his pants up a little too high for a youngish, good-looking man. We have a laugh at our differences and agree that my American black chic mothering style jibes well with the French style being touted at present. He will wait hours for me to get my hair done, listen to me complain about how very few designers, even the beloved French fashion houses do not know how to cut pants for the fuller black behind, has accepted the finger wagging, eye popping, occasional neck roll when he says something that I have found ridiculous, and is genuinely interested in African-American culture, history, and bien sur, cuisine.
I know he finds my attraction to and distrust of the dominant culture a bit confusing and my emotionality, individuality, fast smiles, quick handshakes, and easy handling of social and public situations "very American." He is right to find us (Americans) a bit childish, wide-eyed, self-involved; we are a relatively new country in the grander scheme of things, more like teenagers to the middle life crises of some European nations, and the true kiddies of newer formed nations. We somehow make it work and have managed, as yet, no attempted murders or abandonment.
He is quite logical, head-centered compared to my artistic, organic, heart-centered style. His references are philosophical, historical, intellectual, Wikipedial in nearly ALL conversations. I mean, how many arguments between a husband and wife have this exchange"I am Cartesian! You know this about me." And he is. Square, logical. 1+1=2. But tonight I will appeal to his artistic, creative, and shadow emotional side. Both of us "free to be you and me" except that there is no way I am going to allow him to wear his South of France swimwear to the party. We will try to find a suit before the party with an appropriate length of short and tushie coverage. I know he will capitulate. But I will never hear the end of it.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Leaving the girls
This may come as a surprise, but I have never left the girls alone. EVER. Well, not ever. Once in Barbados I was sent to the hospital with a miserable kidney stone that caused so much pain and agony, I was refused the opportunity to go home. That was one evening. The girls were small. Virginie has probably long forgotten about that time. Not so this one.
I have been warning the girls all week about my trip to surprise my sister on her 40th birthday, though I have not told them exactly where I am going knowing full well that they will want to go and then my going will be made all the more miserable because they are being left behind, and that Mommy will get to be with Auntie Shayboo, Uncle Jeffrey, and Grandma and Grandpa. They simply know that Mommy will be gone for almost two days, from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning and that “Papa is in charge.” Truth be told, I got my ticket at the last moment, when the airlines, realizing that the Super Bowl was not being held in the city to which I was travelling released all those $1010 tickets and re-priced them to something more reasonable. I cannot say more affordable at this time, because we are on a pretty tight budget and only FREE tickets are affordable right now, but the reduced fare was easier to justify.
Didier was well prepped for his role. I left out clothes for Lily to wear to school on Monday and emailed a list of phone numbers and important “facts.” Like who has the extra set of keys to our house. Where the closest hospital can be found. Recommendations for the sleeping arrangements –“Be prepared to get a tiny sliver of bed whilst the girls enjoy the full use of our king-sized mattress. “ Dinner recommendations. Pizza. No clothes were left for Virginie, but she’s easy. More than likely what she is wearing now, slept in, and wore the previous day, will be what she chooses. If not that, the orange sparkly dress hanging on a door hook also serves. Didier has been adequately trained in hair braiding and actually does a better job at brushing out their hair after a bath than I,since they even let him near their hair at all. It’s the novelty and that he is so loving and gentle with them, so honored to be allowed this intimate act. I can say only that I aim to get the knots out with the least amount of chatter.I have been given lots of advice about leaving the girls with the husband, some of which is sweet and funny and some, less so. “Let him see what’s it’s like to be on your own with the girls 24/7 for two days. That’ll show him.” And it will. And the job is tough. Those people can be ruthless and needy and terribly exhausting when tired or scared. But being with them should not be a punishment and watching him endure what I have been accustomed to for years gives me no pleasure.
“I will take pictures of the girls and send them to you.” After spending two days in the hospital after having Virginie, Lily arrived at the hospital looking like a street urchin, poor soul. Those bright brown eyes were barely visible under a dreadlocked matte of curls and her outfit looked strangely familiar. Like the one I’d last put her in when I’d left for the hospital. I know how it goes. But they will be no worse for the wear.
“Tell him to call us if he needs anything.” No chance. I think Didier’s got this. And I think he can do it better without the excitement of other people, other children, other energy. The hardest part will be at night when Virginie seeks me out for comfort and snuggles, when Lily eagerly awaits story time with funny voices and movements, and Mommy is not there. But “Dad” is great. He gives chocolate cake and movie time and popcorn and all the toys in the tub for bath time. He does not enforce strict clean up rules and lets them draw on 75 pieces of paper an hour instead of Mommy’s rationed three sheet minimum depending on intricacy and detailing of the drawing.I am happy to go and surprise my sister. She will be thrilled and turning forty and remaining fabulous is nothing to slouch about. But I already miss my people. Felt lost and alone in the airport allowed to get a snack for myself, go to the bathroom with no fanfare, go to the ticket counter to ask a question without an entourage. Watching some other poor soul chasing his two year old through the food court brought a smile to my face. Allowing a family of four to regroup before hurrying through security gave me peace.
My husband keeps texting me to tell me to have a good time, to drink, eat, stay up late, celebrate with my family. I will. But I miss my other family too.Wednesday, February 1, 2012
A Calling
I envy. Probably more than I like to admit,but I have been envious. Not jealous or catty and bitchy and certainly not about everything. Not really about the things that one would think. I don't care if someone has better clothes or shoes or gets to meet famous people, unless it's Madonna or Oprah (yes, I am as easy as that) or makes more money. There are two areas, however, where I have been blindingly obsessed with others' success. Unable to fathom, pained, and like a deer in headlights, unable to look away.
I don't kid when I say this. It actually hurts to confess, feels like pulling off a sticky plaster from a still festering wound but I know that without the air it will never heal. When I see people, anyone really, but mostly daughters, girls, young and old, being loved and adored unconditionally, caressed, stroked, held by the hand, touched on the cheek and told that they are special, when it is so visible, so public, I go bonkers!
Sitting on an airplane coming back from Thanksgiving, a woman my age and her mother sat in the row behind the girls, holding hands and weeping. From what I could gather, they were saying goodbye to another family member and were heartbroken. The mother stroked her daughter's hair and wiped her tears and whispered something to her in a language I did not recognize and I saw this woman soften and relax into her mother's arms. I looked at my people, across the aisle from me, and loved them so much that tears didn't well up, they exploded onto my face. I glanced at the mother and daughter one row behind us and offered a smile. They accepted it and I sighed into myself.
When I was in college, a dear friend who lived in the room next door to mine, called her father nightly. Nightly! She would regale him with stories of her day and of the interesting characters she'd met, and there were plenty, and every night there was a sign off that sounded to me like, "I love you. No, I love you more. No, I love YOU more. I love YOU." It was maddening. It made me roll my eyes and tell her she was not ready for this world. My eighteen year old self actually told her this. How obvious it must have been to her, to anyone really looking that I was a raving jealous lunatic.
That kind of love makes one feel solid, attached, connected and able to do anything. They say things like, "I believe I can fly!" But I never, ever believed that kind of foolishness. I can't fly.
And since I know that I can't fly, how could I believe that I could do whatever I put my mind to? How could I discover my calling and never deviate from it, no matter how undermined, frightened, or prodded to try something else I'd been? I admire that courage, that passion, that drive, and that sense of value and worth in others. And I envy it. I want it. To feel in one's soul what one has been called to do in this blip of time on Earth, to do it, no matter the consequences, even believing, dare you! that what you do and what makes you happy can and should be one and the same? I would never have believed that.
There are silver linings on even the darkest clouds. Whilst in Barbados, I was forced to reassess all the BS I had been fed throughout my life. I spent so much time alone, in the proverbial cave, looking at myself and my life and my choices. I want to say that it was so incredibly moving to discover all of this, but truthfully, it was miserable and painful and I often found myself short of breath. From the outside looking in, I could not believe how disconnected I'd become to my essence, to the part of me that feels and loves and is driven by love, humanity, life. What was most difficult was that I didn't know what to do nor to whom I could talk about it. So I wrote. I kept a journal. I started the blog. I wrote in the voice in which I speak, with some formality, some slang, impassioned, sometimes impolite, sometimes crass and childish, but always honest. This is stuff of record. But then I did something else.
When I stopped writing City Mom (http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/), I kept a journal by my bed should I be pestered by some idea in the middle of the night and need to expel it in order to properly rest. That journal is filled with illegible scribble that somehow, when called upon, I can decipher. One night before Christmas, the night we'd brought our tree home, Didier and I were awakened to a horrific crash. The girls, God bless them, slept through the entire episode. But Didier and I were both up in a flash, racing to the living room anticipating an intruder or ceiling collapse. There on the floor, with broken ornaments, water, and pine needles, lay our tree. Hours earlier when I'd asked Didier if he was sure the base was wide enough, he had convinced me that not only was he certain but that he had "done an incredible job putting up the tree." As I muttered under my breath something about hating to be right all the time, a character came to mind. . She lead me to a story. It had little form at first. Began as a stream of consciousness and took shape slowly. It is gaining momentum and excites me daily. I have been more and more courageous each day and that has strengthened my belief that this, writing, will lead me to who I am.
I have been called to words. To write. And every day I get up and smile at the possibilities, even after cursing out the mundane and bitching about the stagnant life of a suburban housewife. I try to put down just three pages a day and though I cannot say that each day brings genius, most don't, I can say that each day brings promise. Each day connects me to the source. And each day, I see that source as love. And there is room in it for me.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
I don't kid when I say this. It actually hurts to confess, feels like pulling off a sticky plaster from a still festering wound but I know that without the air it will never heal. When I see people, anyone really, but mostly daughters, girls, young and old, being loved and adored unconditionally, caressed, stroked, held by the hand, touched on the cheek and told that they are special, when it is so visible, so public, I go bonkers!
Sitting on an airplane coming back from Thanksgiving, a woman my age and her mother sat in the row behind the girls, holding hands and weeping. From what I could gather, they were saying goodbye to another family member and were heartbroken. The mother stroked her daughter's hair and wiped her tears and whispered something to her in a language I did not recognize and I saw this woman soften and relax into her mother's arms. I looked at my people, across the aisle from me, and loved them so much that tears didn't well up, they exploded onto my face. I glanced at the mother and daughter one row behind us and offered a smile. They accepted it and I sighed into myself.
When I was in college, a dear friend who lived in the room next door to mine, called her father nightly. Nightly! She would regale him with stories of her day and of the interesting characters she'd met, and there were plenty, and every night there was a sign off that sounded to me like, "I love you. No, I love you more. No, I love YOU more. I love YOU." It was maddening. It made me roll my eyes and tell her she was not ready for this world. My eighteen year old self actually told her this. How obvious it must have been to her, to anyone really looking that I was a raving jealous lunatic.
That kind of love makes one feel solid, attached, connected and able to do anything. They say things like, "I believe I can fly!" But I never, ever believed that kind of foolishness. I can't fly.
And since I know that I can't fly, how could I believe that I could do whatever I put my mind to? How could I discover my calling and never deviate from it, no matter how undermined, frightened, or prodded to try something else I'd been? I admire that courage, that passion, that drive, and that sense of value and worth in others. And I envy it. I want it. To feel in one's soul what one has been called to do in this blip of time on Earth, to do it, no matter the consequences, even believing, dare you! that what you do and what makes you happy can and should be one and the same? I would never have believed that.
There are silver linings on even the darkest clouds. Whilst in Barbados, I was forced to reassess all the BS I had been fed throughout my life. I spent so much time alone, in the proverbial cave, looking at myself and my life and my choices. I want to say that it was so incredibly moving to discover all of this, but truthfully, it was miserable and painful and I often found myself short of breath. From the outside looking in, I could not believe how disconnected I'd become to my essence, to the part of me that feels and loves and is driven by love, humanity, life. What was most difficult was that I didn't know what to do nor to whom I could talk about it. So I wrote. I kept a journal. I started the blog. I wrote in the voice in which I speak, with some formality, some slang, impassioned, sometimes impolite, sometimes crass and childish, but always honest. This is stuff of record. But then I did something else.
When I stopped writing City Mom (http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/), I kept a journal by my bed should I be pestered by some idea in the middle of the night and need to expel it in order to properly rest. That journal is filled with illegible scribble that somehow, when called upon, I can decipher. One night before Christmas, the night we'd brought our tree home, Didier and I were awakened to a horrific crash. The girls, God bless them, slept through the entire episode. But Didier and I were both up in a flash, racing to the living room anticipating an intruder or ceiling collapse. There on the floor, with broken ornaments, water, and pine needles, lay our tree. Hours earlier when I'd asked Didier if he was sure the base was wide enough, he had convinced me that not only was he certain but that he had "done an incredible job putting up the tree." As I muttered under my breath something about hating to be right all the time, a character came to mind. . She lead me to a story. It had little form at first. Began as a stream of consciousness and took shape slowly. It is gaining momentum and excites me daily. I have been more and more courageous each day and that has strengthened my belief that this, writing, will lead me to who I am.
I have been called to words. To write. And every day I get up and smile at the possibilities, even after cursing out the mundane and bitching about the stagnant life of a suburban housewife. I try to put down just three pages a day and though I cannot say that each day brings genius, most don't, I can say that each day brings promise. Each day connects me to the source. And each day, I see that source as love. And there is room in it for me.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
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