My mother was here this past week visiting from Florida. My brother and his wife, their two girls, my hubby and my two, along with a few friends and kids, walked a loop in the woods in the reservation with her. My mother thanked me for this, a walk in the woods, something she referred to as her favorite, something I had no idea was, in fact, her favorite. There are a lot of things that I don't know are my mother's favorite just as there are plenty of things that move me of which she has no inkling. She is so clearly my mother and though we love each other, we are not particularly close. I am distrusting of any energy directed my way from my her, so fearful am I of her rejection, of her withdrawal of love, this maddening aloofness, that I don't seek it out. This weekend I felt something that can only be described as different. It was a release, a letting go of the breath I'd been holding my entire life.
That is not to say that I feel like we are somehow closer, intertwined, connected on some deeper level; I cannot go quite that far. But the intensity of the longing for her, for mothering, nurturing has relaxed. There is still a part of me that aches for a mother that feels me from miles away, wants more for me than she wants for herself, that reaches for me when I am in pain, knows that I am, hurts for me, and wants to fix it, even if that is impossible. At 42 years old, my face still burns and my heart drops into my stomach with the embarrassment of my need, my desire to be nurtured. I know it's not coming. It is what it is.
I am a demonstrative mother, a participant, player, activist, clown for my children. I tell them and show them every day how and why they are important to me so that when they are no longer with me, when they are teenagers, young adults, and finally left on this earth without me they will be able to recall in their hearts how I have loved them, adored them, given to them, shared with them, and saved a place for them. I am imperfect. I yell sometimes. Lots. My frustration, my fatigue, my feeling of doom that the three's will last forever radiating rippling heat from my body. They know that I am all too real, that I am passionate, that I love them emotionally, spiritually, viscerally. I hold them, caress them, squeeze them, talk to them about love and God and dreams and hopes. Who knows? Maybe it is too much.
When a child behaves badly, is a bully, or becomes a serial killer, it's always the mother's fault. Mother love is so, so powerful that giving it can turn anyone into a king and withholding it can turn a star into a falling, burnt out meteorite. I watch in awe at women my age and older weeping in the arms of their mothers. Calling their mothers to recount all the details of their lives, the minutiae and the milestones. Holding hands while walking through the park. Tearing up talking about the strength of their bond. I have many friends who have lost their mothers who long for them and miss them every single day. Miss their mothers in their perfect imperfection. It has all been forgiven.
My mom talks on her phone incessantly, saves audio of lectures from her world travels so that she can save no photos on the device, and couldn't pull them up anyway. She only listens occasionally, and repeats and repeats and repeats. I can tell that long before she knew she was beautiful, if she even believes it now, though everyone will tell you that she truly is, she was a little nerdy and I love that. She flies her freak flag pretty low and tight but she does carry one. Her twinge of kookiness turned into full blown cray with me, but without it I would have had only the straight and narrow and might not have survived the inflexibility of my other parent.
For her life, she cannot read me or my feelings. She cannot, as I have hoped all my life, know just what to say, send me a care package, make it all better but she is a lovely person, well loved and adored by everyone who meets her. She is shyly funny and irreverent, can work the crossword puzzle like a fiend, and is quite a talented photographer. She used to sew our clothes, help us with our dioramas, make pancakes and chicken tenders, and slowly blink away the realization I felt lonely, awkward, and strange. I held tight to that feeling for too much of my life, wanted an apology, an admission of guilt or fault. But the funny thing is, raising the people has shown me in the most incredibly painful and often hysterical ways that almost every mistake I make as a parent would require me to say "I'm sorry" all the time. Maybe she couldn't do that. I say it often because I want them to hear it. I want them to know that I am doing the best that I can and that I know that sometimes, I am just screwing it all up. But that I love them to pieces despite my booming screams across the house.
While visiting my mother made a passing comment about hoping to see Lily and Virginie when they become teenagers, to see the young women they will become. My husband answered immediately, "But you are young. Of course you will see them." Overhearing this conversation, my heart sank before I was able to right myself and return to a more guarded, protected state. Of course she is going to see Lily and Virginie, I thought, why even say something like that. My defensiveness revealed the truth. I would miss my mother too. Regardless of what I longed for, in spite of what was withheld, no matter that she could never see me fully, could never completely understand, I need her. She is my mother.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Health Scare
I have lost my health coverage and the coverage for my family. Suffice it say that our coverage, like many others, is contingent on employment and as freelancers, at present, the husband and I are entirely dependent on an employer's interest in covering our family of four or on coverage garnered by companies like e-surance and other very expensive options. All the talk about healthcare ballied around in the political arena is not theoretical for us. It is a reality. Having lived abroad for years in a tiny island nation that many would say could not even be compared to the vastness, awesomeness, greatness of America would be humbled to know that in that tiny country, its populace is covered by government insurance for basic preventative, managing, and sick coverage and the cost of medications, tests, and even home visits is well below the cost of any of these things in the US.
Born and raised in France, my husband is dumbfounded at our situation. It seems that just when we are down, struggling to right ourselves, our basic need to feel protected should we or worse, our children, come to harm or injury is a privilege and not a right. Pulling the belt tighter, we have to make difficult choices, and coverage for a family of four comes in close to $1000 per month. We're going to pay it, we have to, and that payment does not even guarantee that should we need to see a specialist or a dentist or get a particular medicine we will not have additional expenses. That sets my nerves on fire.
In recent years, I have discovered that I am prone to severe panic attacks, the latest culminating in a visit to a local hospital where I could not be told that I was not having a heart attack. I wasn't. I was having an anxiety attack. Two months later with the loss of our coverage, the start of school, relative uncertainty, and the billing that came from that hospital visit looming, I had another anxiety attack. This one occurred last night. I gasped suddenly and began crying uncontrollably, sobbing really, feeling my imminent demise and imagining my children and husband missing me. I could not contain the energy and it soon overtook me. It wouldn't stop. I couldn't break it. I had to stand up and move to convince myself I was still on this earthly plane. The rest of the night was spent in my husband's arms, crying occasionally, believing that I might not wake up in the morning, that it was a real possibility, and mourning along with my children and husband, the loss of me.
I called my sister late at night to tell her that I'd had another attack and she said that I must do something different than I am doing. That continuing on with my life as it was would bring more of this anxiety and panic. She told me that I must get some meds, some counsel (which I'd been doing but was not covered by my insurance), and I balked. I told her that until we were covered again I would not be able to do anything to take care of myself. The pain of that truth and realization rocked me to the core. I would not take care of me because I could not afford to take care of me. Because my health and the health of my family was not covered. It was hard not to feel unloved, unprotected, uncared for in that moment. And I, as I often do in my OCD, semi-hypochondriacal way, then convinced myself of various other illnesses that would not be tended to, felt every pain in my body as a potential untreated threat.
I have no doubt that the hubby and I will weather this, will make it right. We have in the past. Both of us are ants, not grasshoppers, and we store and scrimp and save and budget, so we will find a way to be covered, get back to full-time employ, keep the girls from the stresses that are meant only for adults. But I cannot help but think of other uninsured, unprotected families who do not have what we do, who fear check ups, well visits, broken bones, expensive medications for asthma (like our youngest has), epi-pens (like our oldest has), or desperate need for anti-anxiety medications or therapy (like I need) and choose to go without or worse, must. The cycle of worry, of panic, of fear brought on by our daily lives has brought me to near mental breakdown and in this great country I am unable, without spending the money we will need to live, to make taking care of myself, as simple as it should be, a priority.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Born and raised in France, my husband is dumbfounded at our situation. It seems that just when we are down, struggling to right ourselves, our basic need to feel protected should we or worse, our children, come to harm or injury is a privilege and not a right. Pulling the belt tighter, we have to make difficult choices, and coverage for a family of four comes in close to $1000 per month. We're going to pay it, we have to, and that payment does not even guarantee that should we need to see a specialist or a dentist or get a particular medicine we will not have additional expenses. That sets my nerves on fire.
In recent years, I have discovered that I am prone to severe panic attacks, the latest culminating in a visit to a local hospital where I could not be told that I was not having a heart attack. I wasn't. I was having an anxiety attack. Two months later with the loss of our coverage, the start of school, relative uncertainty, and the billing that came from that hospital visit looming, I had another anxiety attack. This one occurred last night. I gasped suddenly and began crying uncontrollably, sobbing really, feeling my imminent demise and imagining my children and husband missing me. I could not contain the energy and it soon overtook me. It wouldn't stop. I couldn't break it. I had to stand up and move to convince myself I was still on this earthly plane. The rest of the night was spent in my husband's arms, crying occasionally, believing that I might not wake up in the morning, that it was a real possibility, and mourning along with my children and husband, the loss of me.
I called my sister late at night to tell her that I'd had another attack and she said that I must do something different than I am doing. That continuing on with my life as it was would bring more of this anxiety and panic. She told me that I must get some meds, some counsel (which I'd been doing but was not covered by my insurance), and I balked. I told her that until we were covered again I would not be able to do anything to take care of myself. The pain of that truth and realization rocked me to the core. I would not take care of me because I could not afford to take care of me. Because my health and the health of my family was not covered. It was hard not to feel unloved, unprotected, uncared for in that moment. And I, as I often do in my OCD, semi-hypochondriacal way, then convinced myself of various other illnesses that would not be tended to, felt every pain in my body as a potential untreated threat.
I have no doubt that the hubby and I will weather this, will make it right. We have in the past. Both of us are ants, not grasshoppers, and we store and scrimp and save and budget, so we will find a way to be covered, get back to full-time employ, keep the girls from the stresses that are meant only for adults. But I cannot help but think of other uninsured, unprotected families who do not have what we do, who fear check ups, well visits, broken bones, expensive medications for asthma (like our youngest has), epi-pens (like our oldest has), or desperate need for anti-anxiety medications or therapy (like I need) and choose to go without or worse, must. The cycle of worry, of panic, of fear brought on by our daily lives has brought me to near mental breakdown and in this great country I am unable, without spending the money we will need to live, to make taking care of myself, as simple as it should be, a priority.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: How I spent my summer vacation
Back to the Suburban Grind: How I spent my summer vacation: The weather this Labor Day weekend did me a great service. The overcast, rainy days, with low clouds and high humidity still blinded me and...
How I spent my summer vacation
The weather this Labor Day weekend did me a great service. The overcast, rainy days, with low clouds and high humidity still blinded me and forced me to wear my sunglasses, but provided a definite end to the glorious, sunny days of summer. In just a couple of days, Lily will be a first grader and yesterday's trip to Target finalized the mandatory shopping (tissues, hand sanitizer, pencil box, folders, crayons). We spent the last few weeks of the summer traipsing back and forth between home and Southampton, NY where the husband's employer and family relocated for the hazy days of summer. They were kind enough to rent a little house for our family in North Sea, and though we didn't spend any of the early summer there, it quickly became our "summer house" to the girls where we explored, relaxed, and regrouped.
The end of the summer brought for me, a love and a joy I have not felt since my childhood. I allowed myself to feel carefree, relaxed, unencumbered, all of which are extraordinarily difficult for me. Early summer was scheduled with camp and community pool time, play dates and playground visits, and while entertaining enough for the people, left me feeling overscheduled and busy, tense, guilty, and so adult. Stressed. I looked at the girls' time away from school and extracurricular activities as a punishment and not as a gift. I was constantly looking for a distraction--Facebook, Pinterest, magazines, rearranging the attic--and couldn't bring myself to just give up plans of my own and just be with the people. A neighborhood girlfriend told me to chill out, embrace the time with Lily and Virginie, just be. A late spring reading with an incredible psychic and clairvoyant encouraged the same. Claire, as the psychic is called, foresaw small trips and travel for the girls and me, events that would bring us closer, open my eyes to them, inspire. I couldn't have known how right she would turn out to be.
Our first trip out to the island, Didier and I packed the car with clothes, swimsuits, food, toys, books, magazines, an iPad full of games and movies, a portable DVD player, paper, crayons, art materials, and scooters. I didn't want to find myself out in the middle of nowhere with two kiddles staring at my face. I have mentioned numerous times that driving is not my favorite parental responsibility, and a part of me hoped that everything we'd want to do would be within walking distance. On arrival it was more than obvious that this would not be the case. Thanks to our Garmin GPS, I was willing to brave a new locale and landscape and took the girls immediately to a rocky beach on the bay side. We collected white stones, pink rocks, and the tiniest transparent yellow and orange shells that looked like flecks of candy or spun sugar. We would skip rocks across the water, load our pockets with our cache, and take pictures of each other. Yes, I put my camera in the hands of the wees. I asked them to think about how everything looked in the viewfinder, teaching them about composition, light, and contrast. Baby steps, of course, but the conversation has begun. They took loads of pictures. I caught myself smiling, really smiling in some of them. It had been a long time.
Watching the sun set from the beach or outside our little cottage, we'd talk about things we loved, things we wished for. I told them stories about when I was each of their ages and watched their eyes bug out trying desperately to visualize how it could even be possible that I was once a kid. We'd go home to dinner, experiencing our night time rituals with a new perspective in a new location. We could hear the crickets chirping and if we stood outside could see only stars, millions of stars. We talked about the universe and God, angels and spaceships. The three of us slept in a king-sized bed in the master bedroom while Didier was relegated to the guestroom in a smaller bed but with much more room and certainly more quiet. I did cartwheels and handstands that I paid dearly for the next morning with charlie horses and cramped muscles or a spasm in my back. But it was worth it to just be with them.
They ate popsicles and ice cream sandwiches, sometimes two a day, and did tricks on the Macked out playground in Southampton. All of us drew countless Rapunzels (Virginie's absolute favorite) and colored them in, and lay in the grass or jumped about in the Zen rock garden out back. I drank wine while cooking dinner and sang classic rock songs at the top of my lungs. Just like in Barbados, the girls sat about naked wasting time without a care in the world.
I felt grateful and excited for fall to come, for school, for change, for dropping temps because fall, always high on the season list (coming in close with spring) made me long for closeness, being held, cuddled, snuggled. I thought of blankets, fleece vests, scarves, and soft hats. Fall signifies a chance to hibernate, go into ourselves, regroup, then rest, only to do it all again. It was the changing seasons I missed most in Barbados. That and some temperature control.
The girls and I made many trips between home and the Hamptons this summer, each time new discoveries and revelations were made. We met new friends, realized new talents ("monkeybarring," bike riding, drawing), and grew more tolerant of each others' personalities and eccentricities. I was willing to love them all the way and be loved by them in this beautiful landscape. I've realized that I often don't want to slow down, stop and smell the roses so to speak, because in doing so I will feel, all the way, burst with a love that can only be contained if I keep moving, move myself to distraction, and deflect. It isn't that I don't want to feel it, who doesn't? Just that I have never learned the pure joy of a love like that and it's depth, which I have only tickled with my toes, leaves me gasping for breath.
When we drove away from the house in the middle of the night after Didier had worked a long shift at his employers' home, I felt a real longing for more journeys like this one. Turning to see the girls curled up in their carseats fighting sleep but dozing off, I planned more of them. I couldn't predict exactly what we'd be doing, but I knew I wanted more with these people. More summers. More living. More life.
(c)Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The end of the summer brought for me, a love and a joy I have not felt since my childhood. I allowed myself to feel carefree, relaxed, unencumbered, all of which are extraordinarily difficult for me. Early summer was scheduled with camp and community pool time, play dates and playground visits, and while entertaining enough for the people, left me feeling overscheduled and busy, tense, guilty, and so adult. Stressed. I looked at the girls' time away from school and extracurricular activities as a punishment and not as a gift. I was constantly looking for a distraction--Facebook, Pinterest, magazines, rearranging the attic--and couldn't bring myself to just give up plans of my own and just be with the people. A neighborhood girlfriend told me to chill out, embrace the time with Lily and Virginie, just be. A late spring reading with an incredible psychic and clairvoyant encouraged the same. Claire, as the psychic is called, foresaw small trips and travel for the girls and me, events that would bring us closer, open my eyes to them, inspire. I couldn't have known how right she would turn out to be.
Our first trip out to the island, Didier and I packed the car with clothes, swimsuits, food, toys, books, magazines, an iPad full of games and movies, a portable DVD player, paper, crayons, art materials, and scooters. I didn't want to find myself out in the middle of nowhere with two kiddles staring at my face. I have mentioned numerous times that driving is not my favorite parental responsibility, and a part of me hoped that everything we'd want to do would be within walking distance. On arrival it was more than obvious that this would not be the case. Thanks to our Garmin GPS, I was willing to brave a new locale and landscape and took the girls immediately to a rocky beach on the bay side. We collected white stones, pink rocks, and the tiniest transparent yellow and orange shells that looked like flecks of candy or spun sugar. We would skip rocks across the water, load our pockets with our cache, and take pictures of each other. Yes, I put my camera in the hands of the wees. I asked them to think about how everything looked in the viewfinder, teaching them about composition, light, and contrast. Baby steps, of course, but the conversation has begun. They took loads of pictures. I caught myself smiling, really smiling in some of them. It had been a long time.
Watching the sun set from the beach or outside our little cottage, we'd talk about things we loved, things we wished for. I told them stories about when I was each of their ages and watched their eyes bug out trying desperately to visualize how it could even be possible that I was once a kid. We'd go home to dinner, experiencing our night time rituals with a new perspective in a new location. We could hear the crickets chirping and if we stood outside could see only stars, millions of stars. We talked about the universe and God, angels and spaceships. The three of us slept in a king-sized bed in the master bedroom while Didier was relegated to the guestroom in a smaller bed but with much more room and certainly more quiet. I did cartwheels and handstands that I paid dearly for the next morning with charlie horses and cramped muscles or a spasm in my back. But it was worth it to just be with them.
They ate popsicles and ice cream sandwiches, sometimes two a day, and did tricks on the Macked out playground in Southampton. All of us drew countless Rapunzels (Virginie's absolute favorite) and colored them in, and lay in the grass or jumped about in the Zen rock garden out back. I drank wine while cooking dinner and sang classic rock songs at the top of my lungs. Just like in Barbados, the girls sat about naked wasting time without a care in the world.
I felt grateful and excited for fall to come, for school, for change, for dropping temps because fall, always high on the season list (coming in close with spring) made me long for closeness, being held, cuddled, snuggled. I thought of blankets, fleece vests, scarves, and soft hats. Fall signifies a chance to hibernate, go into ourselves, regroup, then rest, only to do it all again. It was the changing seasons I missed most in Barbados. That and some temperature control.
The girls and I made many trips between home and the Hamptons this summer, each time new discoveries and revelations were made. We met new friends, realized new talents ("monkeybarring," bike riding, drawing), and grew more tolerant of each others' personalities and eccentricities. I was willing to love them all the way and be loved by them in this beautiful landscape. I've realized that I often don't want to slow down, stop and smell the roses so to speak, because in doing so I will feel, all the way, burst with a love that can only be contained if I keep moving, move myself to distraction, and deflect. It isn't that I don't want to feel it, who doesn't? Just that I have never learned the pure joy of a love like that and it's depth, which I have only tickled with my toes, leaves me gasping for breath.
When we drove away from the house in the middle of the night after Didier had worked a long shift at his employers' home, I felt a real longing for more journeys like this one. Turning to see the girls curled up in their carseats fighting sleep but dozing off, I planned more of them. I couldn't predict exactly what we'd be doing, but I knew I wanted more with these people. More summers. More living. More life.
(c)Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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