I've been reconstructing so much in my life of late. We've been back in the States for a little over one year, have settled into an idyllic little town on the edge of glorious NYC. I feel its presence, NYC that is, though I rarely make the trip in. I tried to do some writing there for a few days but got distracted by all the life. I figured I'd do much better writing in my local library where just my thoughts that needed processing could distract me. And I am distracted. While working like a maniac to give my girls the sense of family unity that I longed for, I've got years of sticky stuff clogging the pipes. It has shown up in migraine headaches, panic and anxiety attacks, and near nervous breakdowns, though all of these seem to be on the wane.
After what I will call euphemistically an eye-opening Thanksgiving visit with family, I returned home with a realization that I had to, needed to reconnect with and forgive my husband for what I felt was abandonment, disconnection, miscommunication during our years in Barbados. No matter the difficult times, he always came back. He never attacked me physically, verbally, or emotionally. In fact, he never tried to hurt me ever. He never left or turned his back even when I was foaming at the mouth. He never fought, just looked at me with those soft, puppy dog eyes and probably wondered where the hell the beautiful, loving, fun, cool, sexpot of a girlfriend and wife had gone off to. Wedded bliss and parenthood can alter a person. Wrestling demons and cellular emotional poison can destroy one.
As I walked through the gate at the airport on our return, two car seats, a stroller, an enormous 27-lb carry-on bag, two girls' jackets, and two girls in tow, I felt the weight lift. I marched the girls through the terminal to baggage claim to get to their father. Before we'd even made it, I saw his black coat and shy smile creeping around the corner. He'd come as far as he could to meet us, was right at the edge. We all ran to him, embraced, and relaxed into home. We'd made our way back. To see the girls and me hugging and kissing all over the man like we'd been gone five months instead of five days showed just how desperate we were to affirm our unit, our gang, our team, our family. In my arrested development, I often found it difficult to "choose" between my two families--the one into which I was born and the one I'd made myself.
I have often wondered if other people have this dilemma. We answer a different call when we make our own families, play a different role. In my family now, I am awesome. I am beautiful. I am funny. I am smart, and silly, and talented, and a good cook. (Seriously. I mean, I'm no chef, but the girls love my food and I have learned so much from my husband whether I wanted to or not!) I keep a clean house, a fun house where everyone has a favorite place but no place is off limits. I cannot help but get new things to make our home comfy and cozy and delight in the squeals and winks of my people when they see something new that makes them feel special. We delight in each other even when we can't stand each other because the latter lasts only as long as whatever conflict has formed is resolved. It doesn't linger until the poison fills up our veins.
Being a homemaker, whether one works outside the home or not, (I currently do not.) does not have to be mutually exclusive from being the same wicked hot, fun sexpot one was before getting married and making people. This, I am working on. In Barbados, it was easy to be cute with all the half- dressed, sun-dressed, no bra, sweatiness, hair in a disheveled ponytail, swimsuit as underwear hot, hot, blazing hotness going on. But back on the East Coast, it became so easy to fall into sweatpants, loose fitting jeans, trainers, and formless t-shirts, even ones with cool band names, that I felt like I looked like a co-ed on a stay-in Friday night eating ramen noodles. While I may not rock a heel every day, my high top, high heeled sneakers are doing the trick and a little mascara and lipstick when I am one bad item shy of a needed Oprah make over keeps me presentable and looking like I give a damn.
We are working on allowing ourselves breaks from the kiddles and as they get older this is much easier. Though still slim on babysitter pickings, an afternoon at the movies or walking in the reservation, a cuddle and make out on the couch on his day off, or a movie and a glass of wine, no computers, no texting, no phone calls once the people are asleep has brought us back to each others' hearts. I don't know if I ever left his. He is slow burning, patient, watchful to my hysterical, freak out, nervous, at least in loving each other. He is in it for the long haul. He wants me, loves us. And this realization on the way back from where-I'm-just-not-quite-sure gave new clarity and definition to what is MY family.
I woke up one day and discovered that I am one of the adults in this family! Ha! Not sure how this happened, but I chose to take it seriously, to commit, to handle it and I realized that it's actually quite fun (when it doesn't suck). The changes to my perspective and in turn, to my outlook on our future and our success as a family have surprised me and given me tremendous hope. Being in a family can be hard, but it doesn't have to be. I surely do not want it to be in mine.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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