It seems we have found ourselves again waiting for a storm, a big one, er huge. This time it is Sandy who will make our acquaintance either as a tropical storm or a hurricane some time this evening. Schools and businesses, Wall Street, the market, the subways, and rail and road all closed down in anticipation. After last year's storm, Tropical Storm Irene, and Tropical Storm Tomas that we endured while living in Barbados, we have just come to accept these storms as part of our lives. I have been nervously laughing my face off over some of the posts on Facebook and other social media sites as we all anticipate our lady's arrival. She looks to be tough, enormous, and strong. With sustainable winds of up to 75 miles per hour, she will prove to be aggressive, destructive, and brutal. Wicked. We fear the creek behind our house overflowing again and broken trees and downed power lines. But for now, we are sitting in the house with pots and pans, garbage cans, and a tub full of water, with electricity fired up, waiting.
And it is the waiting that is the hardest part. While the husband, who thank God is home this time, and I watch the windows, check the space in the freezer for room to put more food when the power does finally go, review our cases of water, and all items to our evacuation bag, fret, the girls are dancing naked, playing golf in their Halloween costumes, and picking at their healthy lunch and devouring stolen junk food treats. Didier is cracking me up with his meteorological knowledge delivered with the greatest French accent. Nearly everything he says is funny enough to send me reeling. It's a great distraction.
We are not sure what to do next. Our original plan was to go to some friends' house to ride out the worst of the storm and avoid the possible flooding of the creek, but we are getting Intel that says the creek should hold. There has been little rain of late so the creek is low and the reservoir has been drained to accommodate the expected rain. It would be nice to stay home though I am certain I will not sleep more than a wink or two. Anticipation is not something at which I excel. In fact, the craziness of this wait has led me to early afternoon alcohol consumption. I feel better now.
The wind and rain has begin to kick up though it is still bearable. In anticipation of what is to come, I have found some of my old posts about past storms from City Mom in the Jungle. Please enjoy.
Hurricane Irene:
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2011/09/and-then-hurricane.html
Tropical Storm Tomas:
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/11/tropical-storm-tomas-arrives-i.html
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/11/tomas-home-alone-with-no-power-ii.html
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/11/tomas-starting-to-fade-into-light-iii.html
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: A little space
Back to the Suburban Grind: A little space: Yesterday afternoon while cleaning the house (which actually just started as a small two-loads of laundry, sweeping, possibly mopping mornin...
A little space
Yesterday afternoon while cleaning the house (which actually just started as a small two-loads of laundry, sweeping, possibly mopping morning and exploded into an OCD cleaning fest) I got the brilliant idea that the girls "queen-sized" bed should be separated into the two twins it actually is. The ultimate kiddie sleep bed was born out of necessity. I was just too tired and physically wounded from sleeping in either one of their little twins when called upon in the middle of the night, so I put them together, placed a soft featherbed on top and queen sheets, and got some good sleep sandwiched between Thing One and Thing Two. And whilst I got some semi-enjoyable shut eye, I was doing the girls no service preventing them from learning to sleep alone and denying them their "own" beds. So they were split.
We all marveled at the space created in the room with the separated beds. How each would have her own place to sit and daydream. How there was greater access to the chalkboard wall. The bookshelf that is home to about 1,000 books was turned upright, rather than on its side, and gave the place a cool sitting room, hang out vibe with greater floor space and room for their work table and chairs. We were all giddy and high, save Papa who really thought it was cool but is French so has to be pretty laid back about the whole thing, and I allowed myself to dream of a full night's sleep in my own king-sized bed that has been home to one sleeping Frenchman and not to the Frenchman and his lovely bride (me).
When we went to put the girlies to bed that night and by we, I mean me (I did), Lily started in with the whole, "I'm not sure I'm ready to be on my own" nonsense, while Virginie was all, "I am a big girl. I totally got this" jam. I had to take turns spending a few minutes with each ladybug in her own tiny crawl space, cuddling, hugging, promising to love each other forever. When I last landed in Virginie's bed (this after going back and forth between them about 100 times), Lily fell fast asleep. Virginie, who had been up late the night before and up early, was still chattering away about what a big fucking girl she was, even though I was in the dang bed with her! She then asked if we could go to my bed for a second and yes, judge not lest ye be judged, I went with her hoping her talk in the other room would not wake up her now long sleeping sister. We sat there for about 30 seconds and then she asked to return to her own bed, but alone. Without Mommy. Yay. What she meant was that I needed to come but that I should not sleep in her bed with her. I was to sit on the floor holding her hand.
I will spare you all the bloody details but suffice it to say, the Brave went down about thirty minutes later. I got out of the room and was pissed. I'd spent the night, my time, battling with the kiddle, while the husband cleared the table, put the dishes in the sink, and promptly went to his computer to read and listen to music. I came off the battlefield to the soaking dishes, laundry on the bed, and the next day's backpacks and lunches needing to be prepped. Somehow I must give off the sexy vibe during these rageful moments because there was the husband looking for a lovin' spoonful. "I just want to be alone for a minute, babe," I imagine I said, but more than likely barked. I do pretty well during the course of a twelve hour plus day of giving, giving, giving, but when the night time comes around and I have still not had a break, I let myself go to Crazytown.
The people are little and the new sleeping arrangement was a change. They will get used to it and sleep better and longer one hopes. My thinly worn patience revealed a slowly healing wound underneath. I just needed a little privacy, a little thinking time, a little space, the sound of no one's voice, the touch of no one's hand. That was just for tonight, not always. A good night's sleep can fill Mommy up and prepare her for better days. that's all I want.
Still waiting on the good night's sleep but happy to have the girls meet me in my bed in the morning, proud of themselves, giddy with proof of their getting to big girl status, and excited to do it all again. (Except for the chattering on and on part.)
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
We all marveled at the space created in the room with the separated beds. How each would have her own place to sit and daydream. How there was greater access to the chalkboard wall. The bookshelf that is home to about 1,000 books was turned upright, rather than on its side, and gave the place a cool sitting room, hang out vibe with greater floor space and room for their work table and chairs. We were all giddy and high, save Papa who really thought it was cool but is French so has to be pretty laid back about the whole thing, and I allowed myself to dream of a full night's sleep in my own king-sized bed that has been home to one sleeping Frenchman and not to the Frenchman and his lovely bride (me).
When we went to put the girlies to bed that night and by we, I mean me (I did), Lily started in with the whole, "I'm not sure I'm ready to be on my own" nonsense, while Virginie was all, "I am a big girl. I totally got this" jam. I had to take turns spending a few minutes with each ladybug in her own tiny crawl space, cuddling, hugging, promising to love each other forever. When I last landed in Virginie's bed (this after going back and forth between them about 100 times), Lily fell fast asleep. Virginie, who had been up late the night before and up early, was still chattering away about what a big fucking girl she was, even though I was in the dang bed with her! She then asked if we could go to my bed for a second and yes, judge not lest ye be judged, I went with her hoping her talk in the other room would not wake up her now long sleeping sister. We sat there for about 30 seconds and then she asked to return to her own bed, but alone. Without Mommy. Yay. What she meant was that I needed to come but that I should not sleep in her bed with her. I was to sit on the floor holding her hand.
I will spare you all the bloody details but suffice it to say, the Brave went down about thirty minutes later. I got out of the room and was pissed. I'd spent the night, my time, battling with the kiddle, while the husband cleared the table, put the dishes in the sink, and promptly went to his computer to read and listen to music. I came off the battlefield to the soaking dishes, laundry on the bed, and the next day's backpacks and lunches needing to be prepped. Somehow I must give off the sexy vibe during these rageful moments because there was the husband looking for a lovin' spoonful. "I just want to be alone for a minute, babe," I imagine I said, but more than likely barked. I do pretty well during the course of a twelve hour plus day of giving, giving, giving, but when the night time comes around and I have still not had a break, I let myself go to Crazytown.
The people are little and the new sleeping arrangement was a change. They will get used to it and sleep better and longer one hopes. My thinly worn patience revealed a slowly healing wound underneath. I just needed a little privacy, a little thinking time, a little space, the sound of no one's voice, the touch of no one's hand. That was just for tonight, not always. A good night's sleep can fill Mommy up and prepare her for better days. that's all I want.
Still waiting on the good night's sleep but happy to have the girls meet me in my bed in the morning, proud of themselves, giddy with proof of their getting to big girl status, and excited to do it all again. (Except for the chattering on and on part.)
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Two years ago...give or take
My family and I had such an incredible weekend that started with a Shabbat dinner with a lively, eccentric, creative cast of characters, wonderful food, and dancing on the tables (well, for the kids, those days are long behind me) and ended with a supremely enjoyable grown up evening in the dining room with the parents of one of Lily's dear classmates, where plans were made to bring our craziest crazies for a kind of show and tell, while the kiddles went wild in an adjacent room. WILD. There was nudity, crying, laughing, costume changes. The kids seemed to be having a ball too. I tease. Only the kids were doing all that stuff. Except for the crazy crazies.
It has been said that when you have kids you can meet some of the best people through their match ups and this was one of those cases. Our hosts were gracious, funny, opened lovely wines, served great food, and we, though fearing that the way-past-bedtime sleep time would lead to a supernova meltdown (it so did), just didn't want to leave or let it end. Going to sleep that night with a swirly brain and vice-tightened headache forming from all the good wine, oh and Cognac and Armagnac, I thought back to where we were years ago. Years ago when I was praying for relief and a return to something normal. And this is what I found.
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/10/and-then-deluge.html
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/10/barbados-staycation.html
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
It has been said that when you have kids you can meet some of the best people through their match ups and this was one of those cases. Our hosts were gracious, funny, opened lovely wines, served great food, and we, though fearing that the way-past-bedtime sleep time would lead to a supernova meltdown (it so did), just didn't want to leave or let it end. Going to sleep that night with a swirly brain and vice-tightened headache forming from all the good wine, oh and Cognac and Armagnac, I thought back to where we were years ago. Years ago when I was praying for relief and a return to something normal. And this is what I found.
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/10/and-then-deluge.html
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/10/barbados-staycation.html
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
My first true love
John Taylor is pimping a memoir called, In the Pleasure Groove: Love, Death, and Duran Duran. More than twenty years ago, I stood in line, in the rain, outside of Tower Records on Newbury Street in Boston and waited with what seemed like one million other fans to see/meet/greet/kidnap the band as they promoted Big Thing. Twenty years ago, I felt long in the tooth, shy, embarrassed that these people, this band, still pulled at my heart strings so. So imagine my surprise when, watching Nigel John Taylor, Gemini, bass player of one of my favorite bands of all time, Duran Duran, talk about his memoir on the Today Show (the Today Show that I'd abandoned since their wack-assed hatchet job of Ann Curry) I felt my heart sink to my stomach and had tears well up in my eyes.
Hey, I just met you. This is crazy. No, seriously. John Taylor was, for me, the beginning and the end in 1982 to 1984. It's easy for me to joke and tease my young self now. To the outsider it seems like the usual boy-band craziness-- screaming girls, undulating en masse to a band of semi-talented pin ups who in a very short span of time rake in money, fame, excess, until said screaming girls grow up and tire of them, moving on to something new. I will argue to this day that Duran Duran was one of the most underestimated groups in terms of songwriting, musicianship, and influence, but my connection to them and to John Taylor in particular, was not related to my thesis on their musical achievements and prowess, but on the emotional quality of their songs, the imagery created in their lyrics, that they were art students, outsiders, freaks and geeks, until they weren't. I wanted to get to the "until they weren't."
Watching John Taylor on television I was struck by how well preserved he is. He was elegant in that laissez-faire European kind of way, articulate, charming, humble, grounded. I appreciated his honesty and candor, while at the same time tried desperately to control my inner tween (a phrase not yet coined when I was indeed, "in between") from melting and oozing my heart down to my weakened knees. What I longed for in 1982 when I discovered these chaps from Birmingham, was freedom, release, love, things that my twelve year old self was not experiencing. My life was already scheduled, each day, month, year already planned. I lived in the suburbs. We travelled mostly to see family in other parts of the United States, primarily along the eastern seaboard.
I couldn't imagine finding a place where I could just be myself and be loved and appreciated for that. Where I could discover myself, make mistakes, make a fool of myself without the judgment of my peers. As one of just a handful of black or minority students in my community, I couldn't envision a place where I didn't have to explain or describe myself all the time, or worse, hide my true self for fear of being humiliated or exposed for being different. Unless one has lived the experience of being completely outside the dominant group, it would be impossible to understand just how debilitating and lonely it can be. Add to it an emotionally oppressive home life, where no one talked of their feelings or their passions or anything really, and a desperate New Romantic was born.
The lyrics were poetry to me. The grooves boomed deep into my core, John Taylor's bass guiding the songs to the catchy refrains. I may have called JT my husband or talked about how cute he was every day, but the truth was I just wanted to be included, to be part of a special group. I pinned all my hopes on a distant star, wrote long rambling letters to them about my loneliness, certain that if John Taylor from Duran Duran could validate my existence then I truly had a place in it. It breaks my heart to confess, and yet my longing, my need, my open, bleeding heart became more compassionate, more connected, more alive in being a fan. I saw other countries, people from those places, became interested in poetry, art, music, and the world just by following.
And then this morning, there he was on TV. Pensive and handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, curious. And there was I--older, wiser, married, a mother, artistic, thoughtful, curious. In that time, John Taylor had become a contemporary. And while my love for John Taylor is unrequited and I never received a single letter in response to my thousands sent, my feelings for the man, for the band, have not changed, though they have softened. I have my own pensive, handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, and curious European to handle. And with him, I have dreamed about the world, traveled, made a family, opened to all possibility. He might never have found me, had JT not paved the way for him.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Hey, I just met you. This is crazy. No, seriously. John Taylor was, for me, the beginning and the end in 1982 to 1984. It's easy for me to joke and tease my young self now. To the outsider it seems like the usual boy-band craziness-- screaming girls, undulating en masse to a band of semi-talented pin ups who in a very short span of time rake in money, fame, excess, until said screaming girls grow up and tire of them, moving on to something new. I will argue to this day that Duran Duran was one of the most underestimated groups in terms of songwriting, musicianship, and influence, but my connection to them and to John Taylor in particular, was not related to my thesis on their musical achievements and prowess, but on the emotional quality of their songs, the imagery created in their lyrics, that they were art students, outsiders, freaks and geeks, until they weren't. I wanted to get to the "until they weren't."
Watching John Taylor on television I was struck by how well preserved he is. He was elegant in that laissez-faire European kind of way, articulate, charming, humble, grounded. I appreciated his honesty and candor, while at the same time tried desperately to control my inner tween (a phrase not yet coined when I was indeed, "in between") from melting and oozing my heart down to my weakened knees. What I longed for in 1982 when I discovered these chaps from Birmingham, was freedom, release, love, things that my twelve year old self was not experiencing. My life was already scheduled, each day, month, year already planned. I lived in the suburbs. We travelled mostly to see family in other parts of the United States, primarily along the eastern seaboard.
I couldn't imagine finding a place where I could just be myself and be loved and appreciated for that. Where I could discover myself, make mistakes, make a fool of myself without the judgment of my peers. As one of just a handful of black or minority students in my community, I couldn't envision a place where I didn't have to explain or describe myself all the time, or worse, hide my true self for fear of being humiliated or exposed for being different. Unless one has lived the experience of being completely outside the dominant group, it would be impossible to understand just how debilitating and lonely it can be. Add to it an emotionally oppressive home life, where no one talked of their feelings or their passions or anything really, and a desperate New Romantic was born.
The lyrics were poetry to me. The grooves boomed deep into my core, John Taylor's bass guiding the songs to the catchy refrains. I may have called JT my husband or talked about how cute he was every day, but the truth was I just wanted to be included, to be part of a special group. I pinned all my hopes on a distant star, wrote long rambling letters to them about my loneliness, certain that if John Taylor from Duran Duran could validate my existence then I truly had a place in it. It breaks my heart to confess, and yet my longing, my need, my open, bleeding heart became more compassionate, more connected, more alive in being a fan. I saw other countries, people from those places, became interested in poetry, art, music, and the world just by following.
And then this morning, there he was on TV. Pensive and handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, curious. And there was I--older, wiser, married, a mother, artistic, thoughtful, curious. In that time, John Taylor had become a contemporary. And while my love for John Taylor is unrequited and I never received a single letter in response to my thousands sent, my feelings for the man, for the band, have not changed, though they have softened. I have my own pensive, handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, and curious European to handle. And with him, I have dreamed about the world, traveled, made a family, opened to all possibility. He might never have found me, had JT not paved the way for him.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Variety Show is the Spice of Life
Last year, when Lily was in kindergarten, there would be mornings when the principal and school staff would crank up the tunes and get the kids motivated for school and learning. There was the Macarena and the Hootie Hoot dance, done for the school's mascot, a crazy looking owl who encouraged the kids to get moving and get in the school and learn something. And there was often Lily in tears or visibly trembling because I had somehow tried to move her little body into a wiggle or get her to feel the rhythm or the beat. She was mortified, frightened stiff by the thought of people seeing her dancing. Though she took ballet, she was rather shy about performing and certainly didn't want the "entire school" as her audience.
I spent my entire youth from four to seventeen in a dance studio. At some point in my life I would have told you that I'd hoped to be a dancer. I loved the freedom of movement, the spiritual and emotional freedom denied me in my home life, the letting go. Though I was shy to speak publicly (in the early years), I felt safe and comfortable with dance to communicate my connection to people, to everything really. I loved it and I was good at it, so that helped. When Lily began to show promise in dance, I assumed she'd want to put it all out there, so to speak, but she really saved it for the dance studio. I let it go as I didn't want to push my girl into anything that felt uncomfortable for her.
And then at the end of last school year came the drumming concert run by the music department. Lily stood center stage dancing to the rhythm of the maracas, the bongos, the congas, and a traditional drum kit. The girl had rhythm and timing and presence. I was beside myself. My girl shows her enthusiasm for things in different ways. Sometimes she does that bouncing off the walls-hitting the ceiling-talking a mile-a-minute craziness that grows grey hair instantaneously on my head and blows my brains out. That's usually reserved for parties, play dates, candy, ice cream. But other times she just quietly, knowingly feels something and lets it get into her soul. In those moments I can see the person she is and may become. I see what moves her and what she loves deeply.
When a friend and mother of one of Lily's former classmates asked if Lily would like to dance in the school's variety show while her son drummed, I said I'd ask her but was sure she was going to shout a resounding "Hell to the nah!" (in six year old terms, of course. Only Mommy uses swear words at home.) To my surprise, Lily not only wanted to participate, but she suggested other friends to join her and Funky Drummer and the Beats was born.
Lily is one of the Beats. She will be dancing with two girlfriends and a boy who is being dubbed "the Hype man," along to the drumming of their nearly seven year old friend, to De La Soul's track "The Magic Number" from Three Feet High and Rising, the seminal alternative hip hop record from the 80s that changed the game for me! I loved De La Soul. They were young guys (then, as I was a young gal), African-American, who had a style and sound that referenced so much, pop culture, black culture, love, harmony, peace, and connection. It was hip hop and it was fun. I became all "black medallions, no gold," saggy jeans, short natural, funky shoes and belts, vintage dresses, black rimmed glasses-styley. I went to the clubs to dance all night long and nothing made me feel more connected to my generation, to my people (and that meant eccentrics, artists, and musicheads and dancers as much as it meant Af-Ams), to my fresh-out-of-the-suburbs style.
The group convened in the drummer's basement for our first rehearsal. We were all excited and enthusiastic. And when I say we, I mean the kids and their parents or guardians. And when I say enthusiastic I mean, the parents were wary and weary but positive if not a little anxious to see how this would go, and the kids were bouncing off the ceiling and the walls. Every child needed about 75 attempts at the drums before they could get serious and by get serious I mean, look in one direction for more than 5 seconds. And when I say look in one direction I mean in the direction of the choreographer who, as you may now have guessed, is yours truly. D, the drummer's mama and S, the mother of one of the Beats, did all we could to corral this group. In the moment that I was astrally traveling to "anywhere but here" I was also so incredibly awed by the work of the world's educators. Are you kidding me? We had five (eight if you count siblings and in this instance they need to be counted) and were out of our minds. I was sweating before I did even one step. I snuck over to D's house one late afternoon and banged out the choreography with just D, Lily, the drummer, and myself so we'd have something to share for the next time we all got together.
Our second rehearsal had just the Beats with D and S there for support, encouragement, music tech, and management, and the nanny of one of the Beats who came along for moral support and a show of physical strength (more adults!). Our drummer, who practices every day, did not need to be with us and his absence forced the girls to get serious. And when I say serious I mean, they could not play the drums but they could, of course, continue to try to fly off the walls. We got a lot done that day and were able to put a YouTube video together to share with the other parents who would need to work out the routine and practice with their young dancers.
All the prep was for audition day, well, kind of, as all acts get in, but we were to put it on for the first time. D secured copies of the recording for all of us before we all met in front of the school for our scheduled 6:05 pm meeting. A good friend who lives across the street, spared my head more grey hairs by taking Virginie off my hands and letting her run wild with her kids so I could focus on the task at hand. We practiced in the hallway with all parents looking on. The Beats had the moves down. Our Hype man, cuter than anyone should be, was ready with some improvised moves of his own. Our drummer, skills honed, was ready to unleash. We made our way to the music room where the auditions were being held and were greeted with smiles, open hearts, kindness. The girls did not want me to lead them in the dance as they were pretty confident that they had it down on their own. The music started, the drumming began, and the Funky Drummer and the Beats tore it down. And when I say tore it down, I mean they were awesome! After all that sweating and back and forth emails and rehearsing and worrying, the kids were alright.
We'll rehearse once a week, work out our costumes and props, check in once more with a "callback" but we're in. Driving home last night, hallucinating about the glass of wine I was about to savor (read tear down), I thought of how great it was that this all came together. How happy I was to get to know these other women, their kids, our styles blending into the management team of this great group. We've got lots going on, but that's no reason not to add just one more. The kids are going to have a great time. The crowd will love them. And I am thankful that Lily is already willing to try and do new things. Both Lily and I have discovered new things about ourselves and sharing this experience with her is magic.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I spent my entire youth from four to seventeen in a dance studio. At some point in my life I would have told you that I'd hoped to be a dancer. I loved the freedom of movement, the spiritual and emotional freedom denied me in my home life, the letting go. Though I was shy to speak publicly (in the early years), I felt safe and comfortable with dance to communicate my connection to people, to everything really. I loved it and I was good at it, so that helped. When Lily began to show promise in dance, I assumed she'd want to put it all out there, so to speak, but she really saved it for the dance studio. I let it go as I didn't want to push my girl into anything that felt uncomfortable for her.
And then at the end of last school year came the drumming concert run by the music department. Lily stood center stage dancing to the rhythm of the maracas, the bongos, the congas, and a traditional drum kit. The girl had rhythm and timing and presence. I was beside myself. My girl shows her enthusiasm for things in different ways. Sometimes she does that bouncing off the walls-hitting the ceiling-talking a mile-a-minute craziness that grows grey hair instantaneously on my head and blows my brains out. That's usually reserved for parties, play dates, candy, ice cream. But other times she just quietly, knowingly feels something and lets it get into her soul. In those moments I can see the person she is and may become. I see what moves her and what she loves deeply.
When a friend and mother of one of Lily's former classmates asked if Lily would like to dance in the school's variety show while her son drummed, I said I'd ask her but was sure she was going to shout a resounding "Hell to the nah!" (in six year old terms, of course. Only Mommy uses swear words at home.) To my surprise, Lily not only wanted to participate, but she suggested other friends to join her and Funky Drummer and the Beats was born.
Lily is one of the Beats. She will be dancing with two girlfriends and a boy who is being dubbed "the Hype man," along to the drumming of their nearly seven year old friend, to De La Soul's track "The Magic Number" from Three Feet High and Rising, the seminal alternative hip hop record from the 80s that changed the game for me! I loved De La Soul. They were young guys (then, as I was a young gal), African-American, who had a style and sound that referenced so much, pop culture, black culture, love, harmony, peace, and connection. It was hip hop and it was fun. I became all "black medallions, no gold," saggy jeans, short natural, funky shoes and belts, vintage dresses, black rimmed glasses-styley. I went to the clubs to dance all night long and nothing made me feel more connected to my generation, to my people (and that meant eccentrics, artists, and musicheads and dancers as much as it meant Af-Ams), to my fresh-out-of-the-suburbs style.
The group convened in the drummer's basement for our first rehearsal. We were all excited and enthusiastic. And when I say we, I mean the kids and their parents or guardians. And when I say enthusiastic I mean, the parents were wary and weary but positive if not a little anxious to see how this would go, and the kids were bouncing off the ceiling and the walls. Every child needed about 75 attempts at the drums before they could get serious and by get serious I mean, look in one direction for more than 5 seconds. And when I say look in one direction I mean in the direction of the choreographer who, as you may now have guessed, is yours truly. D, the drummer's mama and S, the mother of one of the Beats, did all we could to corral this group. In the moment that I was astrally traveling to "anywhere but here" I was also so incredibly awed by the work of the world's educators. Are you kidding me? We had five (eight if you count siblings and in this instance they need to be counted) and were out of our minds. I was sweating before I did even one step. I snuck over to D's house one late afternoon and banged out the choreography with just D, Lily, the drummer, and myself so we'd have something to share for the next time we all got together.
Our second rehearsal had just the Beats with D and S there for support, encouragement, music tech, and management, and the nanny of one of the Beats who came along for moral support and a show of physical strength (more adults!). Our drummer, who practices every day, did not need to be with us and his absence forced the girls to get serious. And when I say serious I mean, they could not play the drums but they could, of course, continue to try to fly off the walls. We got a lot done that day and were able to put a YouTube video together to share with the other parents who would need to work out the routine and practice with their young dancers.
All the prep was for audition day, well, kind of, as all acts get in, but we were to put it on for the first time. D secured copies of the recording for all of us before we all met in front of the school for our scheduled 6:05 pm meeting. A good friend who lives across the street, spared my head more grey hairs by taking Virginie off my hands and letting her run wild with her kids so I could focus on the task at hand. We practiced in the hallway with all parents looking on. The Beats had the moves down. Our Hype man, cuter than anyone should be, was ready with some improvised moves of his own. Our drummer, skills honed, was ready to unleash. We made our way to the music room where the auditions were being held and were greeted with smiles, open hearts, kindness. The girls did not want me to lead them in the dance as they were pretty confident that they had it down on their own. The music started, the drumming began, and the Funky Drummer and the Beats tore it down. And when I say tore it down, I mean they were awesome! After all that sweating and back and forth emails and rehearsing and worrying, the kids were alright.
We'll rehearse once a week, work out our costumes and props, check in once more with a "callback" but we're in. Driving home last night, hallucinating about the glass of wine I was about to savor (read tear down), I thought of how great it was that this all came together. How happy I was to get to know these other women, their kids, our styles blending into the management team of this great group. We've got lots going on, but that's no reason not to add just one more. The kids are going to have a great time. The crowd will love them. And I am thankful that Lily is already willing to try and do new things. Both Lily and I have discovered new things about ourselves and sharing this experience with her is magic.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Judgment of Solomon
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Judgment of Solomon: I have had the distinct pleasure of spending the entire cold, rainy Sunday in the presence of Lily and Virginie and Lily and Virginie only. ...
The Judgment of Solomon
I have had the distinct pleasure of spending the entire cold, rainy Sunday in the presence of Lily and Virginie and Lily and Virginie only. With five loads of laundry, a dishwasher full of dishes, two beds to strip and remake, play, clean up, play, clean up, it should be obvious that I am beat down like a clown and pretty short on nerves. After a bath this evening, the girls were trying to decide which pajamas to put on. For many children I can only imagine that it is not the game show drama and madness that it is over here. We can't just put on whatever Mommy leaves out for us, no matter that we chose these pajamas at the store ourselves. We need to make pretty precise decisions about why each pair is appropriate for this particular evening. Tonight, Lily requested the "princess pajamas." Okay, the princess pajamas are some pink flannel numbers with all of the Disney bitches on them that both girls used to own. Used to because the 2T's that were once Virginie's can now fit their doll babies and the 5T's that were once Lily's are creeping high on her leg. Her tiny bum fits snugly but the pajamas really are too short. There is now just one pair of jammies and it doesn't really fit either of them.
When the people discovered that there were princesses to be had, they each went pretty much out of their minds and demanded that they be given the jammies to wear. Neither gave a damn about the other's feelings. "She can wear the reindeer. She can wear the penguins. I want the princesses." It's been a long day and Mommy's brain was just not up for the closing arguments that both girls were about to offer so your judgeship came up with this. "You wear the bottoms and you wear the tops. Find what you are missing and let's keep it moving."
Virginie is now wearing the top of the pajamas with her naked booty wiggling free and Lily is topless with some highwaters on her legs. Tonight the fight is over pajamas; other nights, it's over the television or a Polly Pocket or me. Can I be split in two? Lily would like me to snuggle with her before bed in her room (the room shared with Virginie). Virginie would like to stay up and watch TV, or argue about it at least, in my room. They both plead their cases with pretty lame arguments, "because I want you to" is a pretty popular one, and then I am forced to stand before them and hand down a verdict. I try to do so with a lot of kisses and reassuring "You know I love you's" but my decision usually comes down with one of them melted onto the floor in a jiggly puddle of tears, the other, near gloating, which shows itself as insane motormouthing and explaining about some trivial little girl nonsense like whatever the heck Twilight Sparkle has up her sleeve or have I heard of these beyond fantastic slippers called Stompies.
What's funny is that they do not think I am on to them. They somehow believe that this game, this competition is going to end with one of them on top and the other vanquished. We go back and forth. I threaten to destroy the toy, project, playdough, book that is being wrestled over rather than hand it over to just one, only to find that they are quite capable of sharing and working it out. Four out of five times Virginie just wants to see Lily squirm. She just wants to hold the baby snow tiger plushy for thirty seconds and is then perfectly willing to give it to Lily to love down to the ground. But not tonight. Nothing comes between a girl and her Princesses. Nothing.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
When the people discovered that there were princesses to be had, they each went pretty much out of their minds and demanded that they be given the jammies to wear. Neither gave a damn about the other's feelings. "She can wear the reindeer. She can wear the penguins. I want the princesses." It's been a long day and Mommy's brain was just not up for the closing arguments that both girls were about to offer so your judgeship came up with this. "You wear the bottoms and you wear the tops. Find what you are missing and let's keep it moving."
Virginie is now wearing the top of the pajamas with her naked booty wiggling free and Lily is topless with some highwaters on her legs. Tonight the fight is over pajamas; other nights, it's over the television or a Polly Pocket or me. Can I be split in two? Lily would like me to snuggle with her before bed in her room (the room shared with Virginie). Virginie would like to stay up and watch TV, or argue about it at least, in my room. They both plead their cases with pretty lame arguments, "because I want you to" is a pretty popular one, and then I am forced to stand before them and hand down a verdict. I try to do so with a lot of kisses and reassuring "You know I love you's" but my decision usually comes down with one of them melted onto the floor in a jiggly puddle of tears, the other, near gloating, which shows itself as insane motormouthing and explaining about some trivial little girl nonsense like whatever the heck Twilight Sparkle has up her sleeve or have I heard of these beyond fantastic slippers called Stompies.
What's funny is that they do not think I am on to them. They somehow believe that this game, this competition is going to end with one of them on top and the other vanquished. We go back and forth. I threaten to destroy the toy, project, playdough, book that is being wrestled over rather than hand it over to just one, only to find that they are quite capable of sharing and working it out. Four out of five times Virginie just wants to see Lily squirm. She just wants to hold the baby snow tiger plushy for thirty seconds and is then perfectly willing to give it to Lily to love down to the ground. But not tonight. Nothing comes between a girl and her Princesses. Nothing.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Between a rock and hard place: A story in sleep torture
It seems that mine is a life of sleep deprivation and contorted positions. Before Lily was born I'd been given stern warning by mothers and women, friends and strangers even to get my rest. "Sleep now," they'd say,"because it all goes to hell when the baby is born." How could I have known, a single girl well into my thirties, who'd been able to drop in and out of bed whenever I chose, whose boyfriend/fiance/then husband was still willing to put some tape across his nose and rid himself of the rhinosounds, squeaks, and hisses, and who was still able to put in earplugs because the only thing she'd had to listen out for was, well, nothing, that these ominous warnings would predict a future so bleak that I should have been lying down all day every day?
Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family. It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister. None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.
We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt. I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down. She turned it up a notch to hysteria. I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow. She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me. She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her. I was knackered. Just wanted to get to sleep. My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.
As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired. When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed. Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company. Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks. "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom? May I wash my hands? Can I go to the bathroom?" Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle. Thank you. We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket.
Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door. I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls. My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either. I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom. While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay. He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea. Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.
During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old. Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results. I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me. But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her. After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction. I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired. I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night. This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.
I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years. I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago. For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors. Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them. Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me. I'm awake"
Night night.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family. It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister. None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.
We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt. I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down. She turned it up a notch to hysteria. I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow. She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me. She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her. I was knackered. Just wanted to get to sleep. My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.
As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired. When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed. Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company. Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks. "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom? May I wash my hands? Can I go to the bathroom?" Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle. Thank you. We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket.
Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door. I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls. My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either. I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom. While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay. He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea. Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.
During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old. Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results. I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me. But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her. After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction. I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired. I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night. This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.
I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years. I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago. For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors. Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them. Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me. I'm awake"
Night night.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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