Yesterday afternoon after about thirty minutes on the playground chatting with some of the other mommies, the girls and I were invited to a friend's house to finish off the playdating. M and I met a few months ago when she and her family moved to the area from a few towns over. Her daughter and mine are in the same kindergarten class and when shy G first arrived, Lily found a true mate. Lily, Virginie, and I have since grown to love the entire cast of characters in M's family. There are four of them. Eight and under. And then two parents, a dog (Lab), and a guinea pig. For all my talk about parenting and writing home about it, I have no idea on earth how M does it.
That afternoon, I sat chatting with M in her kitchen while she prepped dinner for her team, at least three times what I would prepare for the girls and myself, and watched her dole out advice, grapes, mixed peppers and carrots, discipline, rules and regulations to a constant stream of kiddies flowing through the kitchen. There were reports of beatdowns, lost iPods and homework, dress up dramas, easy and uneasy alliances, and broken chairs and toys. There was a quick release of the dog from his day room that brought Virginie shrieking and cowering between my legs while dressed as Tinkerbell. There was the return, just minutes later, of Virginie now dressed as Minnie Mouse being chased by O, the little boy bobbing and weaving through the house in the Tinkerbell costume.
When she thought she heard squeals from the guinea pig, M calmly washed her hands (as she was still getting dinner ready) and called upstairs, "Don't hurt the guinea pig!" and then went up to see that the thing was alright. He was fine, just being loved to pieces by six kiddies who wanted to pet him, pick him up, love him down, and repeat. She suggested they give the poor animal a break and put it back in its cage and waited for the next attraction. It came in the form of a construction or deconstruction project that saw four of the six children chipping away at the paint and plaster in an attic room with tiny tools in the hopes of "finding the iPod that was probably buried in the wall." The younger kids had been convinced to help the eldest find her treasured iPod with not one of them considering the absolute impossibility of it actually being in the wall. That one got some real rousing and M stormed upstairs to find small holes, chipped pain, and lots of noise as the busy elves got down to business. With all the kids lined up downstairs in the front foyer, she gave them the "what's what" and all of them, having been through this many times before, hung their heads and peered at each other. Only Lily kept chiming in to agree with her that they should have known better. (Funny that, she too had participated just minutes earlier.)
I tried my best to help straighten up the dress up box and toys in the hallway before rallying my troops to go home. Though we'd been invited to stay, I could not bear to put too much more on this dear woman's plate. I knew that just after dinner time would come homework, baths, teeth brushing, bath time, and all levels of menace and wanted to get her to her Zen place as soon as possible. Just didn't think that two more gals and one momma would help. I was super-grateful for the playdate.
Our week is pretty well planned out in part because I am an anal freakshow, but also because I believe that a basic routine helps guide us all, and by us all I mean the three year old who must have some structure or she will rattle us all to the ground. There are rituals for getting up in the morning, policies and procedures for the basic routine--up, dressed, make the bed, eat, brush teeth, get hair done, take a vitamin, toss back allergy meds, choose a toy for the car ride to school, jackets, backpacks, get in the car, music on as we pull out of the drive. This program runs like this pretty much every morning with the usual argument for a leotard or swimsuit for Virginie, no matter the weather, and an occasional mindfreak when Lily cannot decide which toy of hers should make the five minute ride to school. We just reverse the program for bedtime. I count on both girls sticking with the program. We have lots of time when we can just chill out, play, do whatever we like, but that time is not during the comings and goings from home. That time too is scheduled.
Each morning, like clockwork, as I round the curve that leads me to Lily's school drop off, I see them. M and one, two, three, four kids--three girls and one boy--making their way across the street to the drop off. All are dressed, all with hair combed and teeth brushed, some even on bikes or scooters. just two of the four go to the school, the other two spend much of their time with M with a little bit of pre-school thrown in there for one of them. Three days a week, I have the luxury of sending Virginie to her pre
I know a few other mothers of four. I see them juggling the schedules, the appointments, the homework, and the meal times. When the kids are further apart in age, I see how difficult it is to make everyone happy without either asking too much of the older ones or ignoring the pleas of the youngest. I have seen many either forgo extra activities for fear of having to take the entire family to the practices, games, and fundraising events, or taking everyone and having the littlest meltdown to the ground when staying out too late. I am able to put the two girls in the tub together and get much done with the two of them eating, playing, relaxing, and sleeping together and know it is not often the case with multiples.
In the face of this valiant effort, I must concede that parenting two sweet, curious, chatty little Princess Ballerina soccer-playing Mermaids can be crazy and hectic, exhausting and nuts, but it ain't four. M's kids are awesome. They are funny, intelligent, curious, athletic, adventurous, and creative. And there are four of them. And from what I can see, four is way more than two.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
There is a Light that Shines
Last week at school pick up, an older black, Caribbean woman came to me and put her arm around my waist and asked me to walk in with her. She was always kind with a sweet smile, so I gladly gripped my arm around her and walked with her. She said to me, "You have such a wonderful spirit. Coming from you is such a radiant light and it makes everyone around you feel so warm and welcomed." I thanked her rather sheepishly, trying to duck her, so uncomfortable am I with any kind of praise or compliment. She held me closer and said, "No really." I brushed her hand gently and told her to have a wonderful weekend as I ran off to collect Lily.
This morning, an older woman from Morocco who speaks only "hello and goodbye"English met me at the car as I was unloading Lily and scrambling with her sister. She said to me, "For you." and gave me a package with yummy cinnamon crepe-type pancakes. She smiled and pressed them into my hands and then spoke to me in an Arabic language that I was sadly unable to understand. We both smiled at each other and I hugged her and thanked her, smiling and bowing to her as I strapped Virginie in her stroller to go meet Lily before the bell rang.
I write this not to tell the world how special I am. I believe that anyone who really knows me understands that I have not gotten there yet. I share these stories because I have realized that I have made wonderful, beautiful friends in women who also do not see their light, their strength, their value. People are telling me that I am gold while I still feel like shit and these other women do too. In fact, I know far too many incredible, talented, artistic, creative women, single, married, with children, and without who struggle every day with who they are, not only to other people, but to themselves.
In recent weeks, I have become close with a young woman who is beautiful, smart, generous, and who is raising two young boys. Before the children, she had a job outside of the home, loved to travel, was curious about other cultures, thrived on new experiences. She loved fashion and dancing, music, pop culture, all of which still get her excited. From looking at her, you would not know what she endured to make it to this place in her life, a place where she still juggles her sense of worth. Her husband who is quite generous of spirit and very loving is emotionally available and supportive, but there are times when her past fears, abuses, and hurts are triggered and she is sent reeling. In those moments, she is brought back to a time, not just mentally, but physically (tremors, sweats, panic), when she was alone and abandoned. In spite of all the good in her life at present, she recalls that time when she fought the fight for her life alone.
I call her my "Baby Doppelganger" because I think we have similar traits and in younger photos, we look alike. I also call her this because I too have a dark life in the shadows of all that sunshine that threatens my rather shaky foundation. I have built my family, my community on the me that radiates and loves. The me that I was when I arrived on the planet, the true me. But the blackness, the loneliness, the terrifying isolation that feeds on the underside seems to threaten. The cruel voice in my head that tells me that I need to give more, that I am not enough, that I am lovable for what I have done for people, not who I am, that the abuses I suffered were somehow deserved forms a weak firmament. As a young girl and teenager bleeding for some comfort, some compassion to ease my aches, I could not imagine that there were others who felt this miserably. I would certainly never have gone to a girlfriend and shared.
Another friend, a talented professional, also raising two boys, practically glowed the first time I saw her. She is a beauty but you would be foolish to tell her. There is no chance she would ever believe you. I ran into her today at the playground and she was clearly in pain. Her life was changing fast and she felt herself a failure. Holding up the facade for so long, trying to outrun a difficult, painful childhood had caught up to her and everything she thought she knew about herself was called into question. She felt like she was starting over and in some ways she will be. That is actually a gift and in the long run I think she will see that. My heart aches for this kindred spirit and I know that it must be nearly impossible for her to envision a positive outcome.
Ignored and insulted little girls become women who must navigate the world without the proper tools. In a patriarchal, chauvinistic culture, they have already been short changed and ill prepared for all that will befall them. They will become lovers, girlfriends, wives, and mothers who never stop to speak for themselves, who work tirelessly to make others happy, who serve endlessly, and some of us will smile through it while others will cower and hiss, lash out before they can be hurt. When you add some sort of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse to their development and then as a society ask them not to speak about it, not to acknowledge it, attach a full dose of shame to it, it becomes very hard to unlock the pure light and pleasure of being alive.
I feel lucky in that there has always been a voice that told me that I was more than the sum of those shit experiences. I have always attributed this to God. I have always felt that without a divine presence, without a sense that real, pure love was available for me, I should just give up (and I mean that in the darkest, coal black, desperate way). There is healing in being able to give love to Lily and Virginie, but quite frankly, I still have so much work to do to heal my broken heart and spirit. I am not sure my partnership can support this process as it was built on what I'd hoped I was and not on who I truly am. So much unspoken, so much unforgiven, so much unacknowledged hurt and pain. I will not pass that on to them directly but if I do not seek to speak the truth and let my own light shine, they just may very well learn from my cowering. Easier said, than done. First we must reach out to each other and acknowledge each other. See and be the light.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
This morning, an older woman from Morocco who speaks only "hello and goodbye"English met me at the car as I was unloading Lily and scrambling with her sister. She said to me, "For you." and gave me a package with yummy cinnamon crepe-type pancakes. She smiled and pressed them into my hands and then spoke to me in an Arabic language that I was sadly unable to understand. We both smiled at each other and I hugged her and thanked her, smiling and bowing to her as I strapped Virginie in her stroller to go meet Lily before the bell rang.
I write this not to tell the world how special I am. I believe that anyone who really knows me understands that I have not gotten there yet. I share these stories because I have realized that I have made wonderful, beautiful friends in women who also do not see their light, their strength, their value. People are telling me that I am gold while I still feel like shit and these other women do too. In fact, I know far too many incredible, talented, artistic, creative women, single, married, with children, and without who struggle every day with who they are, not only to other people, but to themselves.
In recent weeks, I have become close with a young woman who is beautiful, smart, generous, and who is raising two young boys. Before the children, she had a job outside of the home, loved to travel, was curious about other cultures, thrived on new experiences. She loved fashion and dancing, music, pop culture, all of which still get her excited. From looking at her, you would not know what she endured to make it to this place in her life, a place where she still juggles her sense of worth. Her husband who is quite generous of spirit and very loving is emotionally available and supportive, but there are times when her past fears, abuses, and hurts are triggered and she is sent reeling. In those moments, she is brought back to a time, not just mentally, but physically (tremors, sweats, panic), when she was alone and abandoned. In spite of all the good in her life at present, she recalls that time when she fought the fight for her life alone.
I call her my "Baby Doppelganger" because I think we have similar traits and in younger photos, we look alike. I also call her this because I too have a dark life in the shadows of all that sunshine that threatens my rather shaky foundation. I have built my family, my community on the me that radiates and loves. The me that I was when I arrived on the planet, the true me. But the blackness, the loneliness, the terrifying isolation that feeds on the underside seems to threaten. The cruel voice in my head that tells me that I need to give more, that I am not enough, that I am lovable for what I have done for people, not who I am, that the abuses I suffered were somehow deserved forms a weak firmament. As a young girl and teenager bleeding for some comfort, some compassion to ease my aches, I could not imagine that there were others who felt this miserably. I would certainly never have gone to a girlfriend and shared.
Another friend, a talented professional, also raising two boys, practically glowed the first time I saw her. She is a beauty but you would be foolish to tell her. There is no chance she would ever believe you. I ran into her today at the playground and she was clearly in pain. Her life was changing fast and she felt herself a failure. Holding up the facade for so long, trying to outrun a difficult, painful childhood had caught up to her and everything she thought she knew about herself was called into question. She felt like she was starting over and in some ways she will be. That is actually a gift and in the long run I think she will see that. My heart aches for this kindred spirit and I know that it must be nearly impossible for her to envision a positive outcome.
Ignored and insulted little girls become women who must navigate the world without the proper tools. In a patriarchal, chauvinistic culture, they have already been short changed and ill prepared for all that will befall them. They will become lovers, girlfriends, wives, and mothers who never stop to speak for themselves, who work tirelessly to make others happy, who serve endlessly, and some of us will smile through it while others will cower and hiss, lash out before they can be hurt. When you add some sort of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse to their development and then as a society ask them not to speak about it, not to acknowledge it, attach a full dose of shame to it, it becomes very hard to unlock the pure light and pleasure of being alive.
I feel lucky in that there has always been a voice that told me that I was more than the sum of those shit experiences. I have always attributed this to God. I have always felt that without a divine presence, without a sense that real, pure love was available for me, I should just give up (and I mean that in the darkest, coal black, desperate way). There is healing in being able to give love to Lily and Virginie, but quite frankly, I still have so much work to do to heal my broken heart and spirit. I am not sure my partnership can support this process as it was built on what I'd hoped I was and not on who I truly am. So much unspoken, so much unforgiven, so much unacknowledged hurt and pain. I will not pass that on to them directly but if I do not seek to speak the truth and let my own light shine, they just may very well learn from my cowering. Easier said, than done. First we must reach out to each other and acknowledge each other. See and be the light.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Turbulence
Coming back from Spring Break, another trip taken by the just girls and me, this time to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, only minutes from take off, we unexpectedly and without warning hit a dangerous moment of turbulence that sent the plane into a sudden free fall. Passengers were screaming, some crying, and anyone not belted in, anything not bolted down, went flying about the cabin. My girls, thanks to a paranoid mama were tightly secured, but I still felt compelled to throw myself across their laps to be ensure their safety. Lily looked me in my eyes, almost through me and said, "This is bad, really bad." She was terrified. She understood on some soul level that we were outside of an everyday human experience. I felt her in that moment. With senses heightened I saw the bright light of the sun reflecting off of the clouds. I felt the air go cold and purple and I was absolutely terrified. I said a silent prayer to my Creator and begged him not to "take us from my husband after he just lost his mother." Never had I been so fearful for my life or the lives of my children. I told them so. "I love you so, girls, and Mommy is a little scared. Let's just hold onto each other."
Moments later there was control, I will not say that it was smooth sailing because the entire flight was rough, but I felt that we were out of imminent danger. I watched the girls a little longer than usual after that, looked into their faces, saw their interaction and prayed for as much time as any mother could hope for with them. I smelled them, really breathed them in, and let my love for them fill me. It stopped the tears.
Out of nowhere the atmosphere was rough, with no safe place, nowhere to hide or go for safety. There was turbulence and all was knocked off balance. In that moment, I reached for my family, for those I loved. I prayed for us, cried a little, and thought and believed that at least we were together. Would that I could do the same when the shakiness is just a metaphor, when it is just the uncertainty of life's tiny stink bombs and funhouse mirrors distorting the truth that have me off kilter. In just the split second of the free fall all I could think about was life in the grandest sense not in its miserably small and pathetic details of wrongs, slights,misdeeds, and mistakes.
I have often defined myself in relation to fear. Whether I considered myself fearless, fearful, terrified, frightened, scared, or freaked,it has been the thought of fear that dominated and overwhelmed. Even when I loved, fear lurked in the shadows causing me to doubt that love could ever be mine, in all scenarios and circumstances. Even in love I wondered if it were truly possible that it wouldn't be taken away. It's not easy to say that, but it is true. Right now, as the people are young and close and tethered to me at the heart, I have no doubt of my love for them nor theirs for me. The shaky, uncertain, terrifying turbulence of our flight showed me this. Here is hoping that in the shaky, uncertain, terrifying turbulence of my life it can be the same.
Moments later there was control, I will not say that it was smooth sailing because the entire flight was rough, but I felt that we were out of imminent danger. I watched the girls a little longer than usual after that, looked into their faces, saw their interaction and prayed for as much time as any mother could hope for with them. I smelled them, really breathed them in, and let my love for them fill me. It stopped the tears.
Out of nowhere the atmosphere was rough, with no safe place, nowhere to hide or go for safety. There was turbulence and all was knocked off balance. In that moment, I reached for my family, for those I loved. I prayed for us, cried a little, and thought and believed that at least we were together. Would that I could do the same when the shakiness is just a metaphor, when it is just the uncertainty of life's tiny stink bombs and funhouse mirrors distorting the truth that have me off kilter. In just the split second of the free fall all I could think about was life in the grandest sense not in its miserably small and pathetic details of wrongs, slights,misdeeds, and mistakes.
I have often defined myself in relation to fear. Whether I considered myself fearless, fearful, terrified, frightened, scared, or freaked,it has been the thought of fear that dominated and overwhelmed. Even when I loved, fear lurked in the shadows causing me to doubt that love could ever be mine, in all scenarios and circumstances. Even in love I wondered if it were truly possible that it wouldn't be taken away. It's not easy to say that, but it is true. Right now, as the people are young and close and tethered to me at the heart, I have no doubt of my love for them nor theirs for me. The shaky, uncertain, terrifying turbulence of our flight showed me this. Here is hoping that in the shaky, uncertain, terrifying turbulence of my life it can be the same.
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