Saturday, March 30, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Blow your nose
Back to the Suburban Grind: Blow your nose: I have been on my own with the girls for a long ten days thus far. While we do get into a rhythm that serves us well, I am beat down like a...
Blow your nose
I have been on my own with the girls for a long ten days thus far. While we do get into a rhythm that serves us well, I am beat down like a clown tending to absolutely everything in our lives with an insane amount of precision, efficiency, and organization. That is my proto-OCD at work. I have but one safe place, and it is just relatively so. Sleep, night time, my dreams. Unfortunately, even that has been encroached upon. First by my obsessive desire to catch up on two seasons of Game of Thrones and Homeland in just a matter of days (Yes, I know, my brain is nearly ready to explode.) and second, by the almost four year old's sniffling and coughing. Again.
There are few things more difficult to teach a child (for me anyway) than how to blow her nose. I am still not sure to this day how Lily learned how to do it, but she is a pro. She does take gruesome interest in whatever is in that tissue once she's done it, but that is another matter. She can blow her nose, clear out the mucus and other gunk, and generally keep herself free of the dreaded ear infections that seem to plague the under six set. Virginie, not so much. And when I say not so much, I mean not at all. Her nose blowing consists entirely of sucking that mucus all the way to the back of her brain and then rubbing a tissue over her dry nose. Both in Barbados and here in the States, this little person suffers from some sort of reaction to allergens, cold viruses, tickles in the throat, lungs, and nasal passages. It feels like we get a free week or so and then we're back at it. But this time around there is no need for her prescribed inhaler. What she needs is to blow that nose!
I woke up this morning (extremely early for me) to a sniffling, sucking, chattering Virginie sitting upright in my bed (when Papa's away...) picking away at the boogies crusting her little nose. I tried, in my sleepy stupor, to teach her to blow, threatening her with saline drops and the aspirator. I acted like a crazy person. I was desperate to clear her face and steal a few more minutes. I am sure any relatively astute television viewer or complete idiot could see what I couldn't. We were never going back to sleep. She was not going to blow her nose. I needed to finish the last two episodes of Homeland so that I could go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight...because we were about to be up and ready to start the day.
Poor, little soul. She is sniffling away as she parades around the house in her "princess coat," a tiny leopard print, swing coat that she is wearing over her princess pajamas. Lily is sitting in front of her trying to show her how to "smell a flower and blow out the candles" with her nose. I hear a lot of sniffle sucking and then blowing out the candles with her mouth. Up early and ready to do things. We will have to go to bed early anyway. Perhaps there will be some sort of antihistamine administered to aid in her sleeping. Plus, the "Easter bunny" is going it alone this time and has to get up to that attic and construct the monster baskets that are popular these days. LalaLoopsies, Barbies, candy, and maybe a little Jesus in there, you know, for Easter. God willing, there will be some nose blowing in our future or maybe I will just never sleep again.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
There are few things more difficult to teach a child (for me anyway) than how to blow her nose. I am still not sure to this day how Lily learned how to do it, but she is a pro. She does take gruesome interest in whatever is in that tissue once she's done it, but that is another matter. She can blow her nose, clear out the mucus and other gunk, and generally keep herself free of the dreaded ear infections that seem to plague the under six set. Virginie, not so much. And when I say not so much, I mean not at all. Her nose blowing consists entirely of sucking that mucus all the way to the back of her brain and then rubbing a tissue over her dry nose. Both in Barbados and here in the States, this little person suffers from some sort of reaction to allergens, cold viruses, tickles in the throat, lungs, and nasal passages. It feels like we get a free week or so and then we're back at it. But this time around there is no need for her prescribed inhaler. What she needs is to blow that nose!
I woke up this morning (extremely early for me) to a sniffling, sucking, chattering Virginie sitting upright in my bed (when Papa's away...) picking away at the boogies crusting her little nose. I tried, in my sleepy stupor, to teach her to blow, threatening her with saline drops and the aspirator. I acted like a crazy person. I was desperate to clear her face and steal a few more minutes. I am sure any relatively astute television viewer or complete idiot could see what I couldn't. We were never going back to sleep. She was not going to blow her nose. I needed to finish the last two episodes of Homeland so that I could go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight...because we were about to be up and ready to start the day.
Poor, little soul. She is sniffling away as she parades around the house in her "princess coat," a tiny leopard print, swing coat that she is wearing over her princess pajamas. Lily is sitting in front of her trying to show her how to "smell a flower and blow out the candles" with her nose. I hear a lot of sniffle sucking and then blowing out the candles with her mouth. Up early and ready to do things. We will have to go to bed early anyway. Perhaps there will be some sort of antihistamine administered to aid in her sleeping. Plus, the "Easter bunny" is going it alone this time and has to get up to that attic and construct the monster baskets that are popular these days. LalaLoopsies, Barbies, candy, and maybe a little Jesus in there, you know, for Easter. God willing, there will be some nose blowing in our future or maybe I will just never sleep again.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Find 100 Ways
Back to the Suburban Grind: Find 100 Ways: FIND ONE HUNDRED WAYS, James Ingram Songwriters: Benjamin Wright, Anthony Tyrone Coleman, Kathleen Wakefield Produced by Quincy...
Find 100 Ways
FIND ONE HUNDRED WAYS, James Ingram
Songwriters: Benjamin Wright, Anthony Tyrone Coleman, Kathleen Wakefield
Produced by Quincy Jones
Compliment what she does
Send her roses just because
If it's violins she loves
Let them play
Dedicate her favourite song
And hold her closer all night long
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
Don't forget, there could be
An old lover in her memory
If you need her so much more
Why don't you say?
Maybe she has it in her mind
That she's just wasting her time
Ask her to stay
Find one hundred ways
Being cool won't help you keep a love warm
You'll just blow your only chance
Take the time to open up your heart
That's the secret of romance
Sacrifice if you care Buy her some moonlight to wear
If it's one more star she wants
Go all the way
In your arms tonight, she'll reflect
That she owes you the sweetest of debts
If she wants to pay
Find one hundred ways
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
Send her roses just because
If it's violins she loves
Let them play
Dedicate her favourite song
And hold her closer all night long
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
Don't forget, there could be
An old lover in her memory
If you need her so much more
Why don't you say?
Maybe she has it in her mind
That she's just wasting her time
Ask her to stay
Find one hundred ways
Being cool won't help you keep a love warm
You'll just blow your only chance
Take the time to open up your heart
That's the secret of romance
Sacrifice if you care Buy her some moonlight to wear
If it's one more star she wants
Go all the way
In your arms tonight, she'll reflect
That she owes you the sweetest of debts
If she wants to pay
Find one hundred ways
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
I spent the night out again with some wonderful friends. It is always a relief when I find friends with whom I can talk, be free, and relax and whose children are equaled loved and adored by my own kiddles. Talking about how each couple first met and fell in love, I found myself silent. Silent because my husband was out of town on business and I hoped to have him share the story with me rather than reminiscing alone, recounting and recalling by myself. We all laughed and then waxed nostalgically about life lived in the metropolis--Manhattan, Brooklyn, city versus life out in the burbs.
Looking around the table, each of us creative, talented, sharp, tired parents, in various stages of "in love" with our partners (something that anyone, but certainly any parent, will tell you is often in flux), I thought of how the heck I'd gotten here. Here in the place where I was talking about my life BC (before children) longingly, lovingly, relishing the memory of possibilities that city-dwelling afforded me. I was becoming heated, angry, hurt, completely forgetting how lonely, exhausting, tiny my life was BC. I was quietly simmering because Didier was away working, cooking for a wealthy family while they vacationed and that I was home, home alone with the people taking care of their every need, want, whim, scheduled activity, supervised or unsupervised, housework, homework, work. I was tired.
When I am alone for long periods of time, I often forget that I am not "in it alone," that it is not me against the world, that I have not been abandoned by my husband, left to raise my children alone in a cruel, darkening world. This is my stuff. This is me. I cannot and do not dare claim that this is the stuff of all mothers, but it is my bag. As I go through the routine, the day to day handling of the lives of three people, meeting basic needs and occasionally offering some spiritual guidance and emotional support, I feel alienated, isolated, stripped. It isn't that I don't feel like my children appreciate me because I know that they do in their way. It surely isn't that I would change my life. Being a mother is probably one of the most profoundly defining and yes, rewarding experiences of my life. I just think that the woman I was before the children came, before the responsibilities of caring for and guiding two souls through the universe, two people through the world, would have never believed the heightened level of anxiety, joy, panic, possibilities that motherhood would bring. When I am alone with the girls, I get into gear, click into mommy mode, and run like a well-oiled, efficient machine with moments of humanity and kindness, but mostly strict routine so that everyone can get to bed by 8 o'clock and Mommy can have a glass of wine in peace.
And then my husband returns as he left. In a huff, in a hurry, tired, in need of care, tenderness, compassion. And I offer it. From Mommy it is given, as it is always given. But I am not a machine and days, weeks in the pattern, in service, without a shower (or at least a meaningful one), comfort, or stillness can make a lady crazy. I remember my mother listening to this song on the radio when I was a girl. I thought it was pretty (if not a little schmaltzy) and was moved by the tenderness of a man, advising another how to care for a woman, to attend to her. I couldn't imagine, truly, that any man, except for in the movies or on Fantasy Island or the Love Boat, would even give a damn. I have been humming this song all week as I count down the days to Didier's return. He will come back and life will continue on as if he'd never left. I will release the control on the conveyor belt, set it to a different speed but keep it working, and continue loving the people, caring for them, guiding them, tending to them, but there will be no 100 ways. Not from my husband. Maybe from the girls.
While I assume that song was meant to be a love song to win over a woman unsure and insecure, it serves better the wife and mother. The woman, already committed, toiling away for her family--husband/wife/partner and kids--who recalls being that unsure woman and is now the unsung hero. I am feeling sentimental these days, nostalgic for my younger, attractive, wittier self. I wish I recognized more of her in the mirror behind my greasy-haired, head-banded, yoga pants rocking, make-up-less self. I really hope my husband does too.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Looking around the table, each of us creative, talented, sharp, tired parents, in various stages of "in love" with our partners (something that anyone, but certainly any parent, will tell you is often in flux), I thought of how the heck I'd gotten here. Here in the place where I was talking about my life BC (before children) longingly, lovingly, relishing the memory of possibilities that city-dwelling afforded me. I was becoming heated, angry, hurt, completely forgetting how lonely, exhausting, tiny my life was BC. I was quietly simmering because Didier was away working, cooking for a wealthy family while they vacationed and that I was home, home alone with the people taking care of their every need, want, whim, scheduled activity, supervised or unsupervised, housework, homework, work. I was tired.
When I am alone for long periods of time, I often forget that I am not "in it alone," that it is not me against the world, that I have not been abandoned by my husband, left to raise my children alone in a cruel, darkening world. This is my stuff. This is me. I cannot and do not dare claim that this is the stuff of all mothers, but it is my bag. As I go through the routine, the day to day handling of the lives of three people, meeting basic needs and occasionally offering some spiritual guidance and emotional support, I feel alienated, isolated, stripped. It isn't that I don't feel like my children appreciate me because I know that they do in their way. It surely isn't that I would change my life. Being a mother is probably one of the most profoundly defining and yes, rewarding experiences of my life. I just think that the woman I was before the children came, before the responsibilities of caring for and guiding two souls through the universe, two people through the world, would have never believed the heightened level of anxiety, joy, panic, possibilities that motherhood would bring. When I am alone with the girls, I get into gear, click into mommy mode, and run like a well-oiled, efficient machine with moments of humanity and kindness, but mostly strict routine so that everyone can get to bed by 8 o'clock and Mommy can have a glass of wine in peace.
And then my husband returns as he left. In a huff, in a hurry, tired, in need of care, tenderness, compassion. And I offer it. From Mommy it is given, as it is always given. But I am not a machine and days, weeks in the pattern, in service, without a shower (or at least a meaningful one), comfort, or stillness can make a lady crazy. I remember my mother listening to this song on the radio when I was a girl. I thought it was pretty (if not a little schmaltzy) and was moved by the tenderness of a man, advising another how to care for a woman, to attend to her. I couldn't imagine, truly, that any man, except for in the movies or on Fantasy Island or the Love Boat, would even give a damn. I have been humming this song all week as I count down the days to Didier's return. He will come back and life will continue on as if he'd never left. I will release the control on the conveyor belt, set it to a different speed but keep it working, and continue loving the people, caring for them, guiding them, tending to them, but there will be no 100 ways. Not from my husband. Maybe from the girls.
While I assume that song was meant to be a love song to win over a woman unsure and insecure, it serves better the wife and mother. The woman, already committed, toiling away for her family--husband/wife/partner and kids--who recalls being that unsure woman and is now the unsung hero. I am feeling sentimental these days, nostalgic for my younger, attractive, wittier self. I wish I recognized more of her in the mirror behind my greasy-haired, head-banded, yoga pants rocking, make-up-less self. I really hope my husband does too.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Dance
In the first phase of my life, elementary school to high school, if you asked anyone about me in my school or neighborhood how to describe me or my interests, after reporting that I was one of a handful of black (now African-American) kids, they would tell you that I loved to dance. Danced all the time. Ballet, tap, jazz, Russian character, the hustle, the bump, whatever 70s and 80s style dances were available to watch on Soul Train, I was about it. I didn't just love it, I was good at it. Enough that my dance teacher asked my parents to come in and speak with her one afternoon to tell them that she could set up some appointments for me in the city with a couple of dance schools/companies, should I (they) be interested. They assured her (and me) that I (they) were not. I'd convinced myself that there could be no life for me in dance. That dancers could not make a living, that I was smart and should do something that smart people do like go to college and study and write papers and get a good job that paid good money which is what a contributor to society did. I always felt that I gave in too eagerly and too quickly. I'd given up something that I loved more than I'd loved anything because I was afraid. Because I was doubtful that I could ever be that good at anything.
The dance school was small time, but we lived big in our dreams. We watched endless ballets, studied choreography. Michael Jackson's Beat It, which finally had its chance on MTV, just blew my mind open. Seeing all those dancers, not just ballerinas, but dancers with all different body types, strong men and women, combining their training with improvised street styles moving in all kinds of way to different rhythms and using their bodies like instruments of sound and movement got me so wound up I often moved my body in my sleep. I danced all night in my dreams. I cannot say, really, with any certainty that I would have made a great professional dancer, but I did love it and before I found my voice, which happened in my late teens and early twenties, I felt that dance was one of the only ways for me to communicate in a way that was honest and real and true.
Then came college and a strict education in visual arts--drawing, painting, studio techniques, sculpture, ceramics, anatomy, printmaking--and a life of movement seemed worlds away. I have not been good at allowing myself the space to work in all media at once. Some call if focused, others obsessive, but I have a hard time switching from one area to the next, feeling that I am not committing enough to just one discipline. It was the same trying to learn Spanish after learning passable French. I just could not separate the two languages and ultimately had to give up one. I gave up French to learn Spanish and then when I met my French hubby, gave up Spanish to relearn French.
Once a dancer, always a dancer. I love to move. Watching dancers, I sit up high in my seat moving along with them, marking their movements and feeling the music inside of me as though I were actually moving. I love the freedom that movement gives my spirit and have found that in the greatest moments of depression, I hold myself rigidly so as not to let that freedom enter my heart. It's that overwhelming. I am that sure of it's power to release my hold and control on myself. As I have been finding my way back to myself, dancing has somehow found its way to me too. First, taking the girls to class has reminded me of my time as a student. Then, I took a Cardio Jams class which was a parent/child class that had bits of dance, yoga, exercise, and stretching that left me over the moon and talking non-stop. My husband was worn down by the constant chatter that had started as a flutter in my tummy and rose to my heart and then to the purest joy. I was dancing again!
Today, I took another class with Lily at a fundraiser for the school district. Because I am a crazy, paranoid freak, I was sure that we needed to arrive early to secure our place. We were there in time to see the adult class ending. I had my face pressed against the window which was wet with sweat drops dripping down from the windows as the dancers, moms and other women of my community, got their dance on. They were great, the choreography exciting, and the energy electric. I promised myself I would be in that class as soon as I could.
I was right about the Cardio Jams. The place was packed. Lily and I had a fantastic time together and when I danced in the middle of a circle, letting the music just course through me, Lily looked at me as though she'd never seen me before. She said, "Mommy, I didn't know you could do that!" And I told her,"Baby, I think Mommy had forgotten." I want to remember. I want to return to dance for my exercise, for my freedom, for my joy. Being in the class with the other parents and our children, I let go of my hang ups about my body. There were women who were taller, more slender, more fit, beautiful, clean, and glamorous. But I didn't care. I can dance. I dance. I love to dance. And I want it to be part of my life again. When I was young and did not speak, could not express myself, there it was and now, even though I can express myself, maybe even talk too much, the movement might sometimes be all I want to say.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The dance school was small time, but we lived big in our dreams. We watched endless ballets, studied choreography. Michael Jackson's Beat It, which finally had its chance on MTV, just blew my mind open. Seeing all those dancers, not just ballerinas, but dancers with all different body types, strong men and women, combining their training with improvised street styles moving in all kinds of way to different rhythms and using their bodies like instruments of sound and movement got me so wound up I often moved my body in my sleep. I danced all night in my dreams. I cannot say, really, with any certainty that I would have made a great professional dancer, but I did love it and before I found my voice, which happened in my late teens and early twenties, I felt that dance was one of the only ways for me to communicate in a way that was honest and real and true.
Then came college and a strict education in visual arts--drawing, painting, studio techniques, sculpture, ceramics, anatomy, printmaking--and a life of movement seemed worlds away. I have not been good at allowing myself the space to work in all media at once. Some call if focused, others obsessive, but I have a hard time switching from one area to the next, feeling that I am not committing enough to just one discipline. It was the same trying to learn Spanish after learning passable French. I just could not separate the two languages and ultimately had to give up one. I gave up French to learn Spanish and then when I met my French hubby, gave up Spanish to relearn French.
Once a dancer, always a dancer. I love to move. Watching dancers, I sit up high in my seat moving along with them, marking their movements and feeling the music inside of me as though I were actually moving. I love the freedom that movement gives my spirit and have found that in the greatest moments of depression, I hold myself rigidly so as not to let that freedom enter my heart. It's that overwhelming. I am that sure of it's power to release my hold and control on myself. As I have been finding my way back to myself, dancing has somehow found its way to me too. First, taking the girls to class has reminded me of my time as a student. Then, I took a Cardio Jams class which was a parent/child class that had bits of dance, yoga, exercise, and stretching that left me over the moon and talking non-stop. My husband was worn down by the constant chatter that had started as a flutter in my tummy and rose to my heart and then to the purest joy. I was dancing again!
Today, I took another class with Lily at a fundraiser for the school district. Because I am a crazy, paranoid freak, I was sure that we needed to arrive early to secure our place. We were there in time to see the adult class ending. I had my face pressed against the window which was wet with sweat drops dripping down from the windows as the dancers, moms and other women of my community, got their dance on. They were great, the choreography exciting, and the energy electric. I promised myself I would be in that class as soon as I could.
I was right about the Cardio Jams. The place was packed. Lily and I had a fantastic time together and when I danced in the middle of a circle, letting the music just course through me, Lily looked at me as though she'd never seen me before. She said, "Mommy, I didn't know you could do that!" And I told her,"Baby, I think Mommy had forgotten." I want to remember. I want to return to dance for my exercise, for my freedom, for my joy. Being in the class with the other parents and our children, I let go of my hang ups about my body. There were women who were taller, more slender, more fit, beautiful, clean, and glamorous. But I didn't care. I can dance. I dance. I love to dance. And I want it to be part of my life again. When I was young and did not speak, could not express myself, there it was and now, even though I can express myself, maybe even talk too much, the movement might sometimes be all I want to say.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Faith
Back to the Suburban Grind: Faith: I believe in God strongly but have a difficult time sharing it. I don't do church people and I don't do attempted conversions. I...
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Faith
I believe in God strongly but have a difficult time sharing it. I don't do church people and I don't do attempted conversions. I've always been quiet in my faith and in my prayer or meditation and have found it quite a turn off to hear people chattering about it like they are sharing recipes for the Thanksgiving morning breakfast bake. It seems so personal, so intimate to me. Sharing one's faith, one's deepest core beliefs, and the spiritual energy that connects us is something that is shared slowly, revealing itself as relationships grow deeper, more connected. I don't even talk much with my husband about my true sense of faith, but do suspect that he knows. It's not so much a secret, as a special, private hiding space for myself that I am too shy or too protective to share, though it does inform so much of my life and for those whom are close, it is more than obvious.
My husband and I took in an early evening date night and went to the dine-in movie theatre where we saw the Life of Pi while eating appetizers and drinking beers. We held hands and giggled at each other every time we saw each other in the 3-D glasses. This love has been a long time coming. We both recalled it from those early years and dared let go when the people were tiny and the landscape, both physical and emotional, was unfamiliar. With his mother recently passed and my searching, melancholy soul always longing for true connection (of all kind, not just romantic), we were seeking.
There were so many movie options, but we chose The Life of Pi. Well, I did. I'd read and loved the book when it came out. I love Ang Lee's direction of pretty much everything, save the Incredible Hulk and even that had its moments. The movie, like the book, presented a real meaning-of-life conflict, proposed an awesome, tragic and magical story, wonder and hope. I read the book years ago and for me, it was inspiring. It was heartbreaking. For my husband it was brand new. But he leaned back in his chair, ready, willing, and able to be taken wherever this piece wanted to go. He trusted it and he trusted me, knew I wouldn't take him anywhere he wouldn't be able to go.
I grew up in a Lutheran household and though neither of my parents were raised with this particular brand of Christianity, we were still of the faith. I cannot say my experience was typical-black-church, though my parents' Southern roots were sewn with church in the thread. I didn't care for going to church, but I loved my pastor (Pastor Al Gibson) and I loved God. Loving God for me was a complete secret because it felt as ridiculous as it would have read back then. Now everyone is professing, but then, only the Jesus freaks were shouting out. I loved the mystical, the magical, the spiritual, and the other world. I loved the possibility of guidance, acceptance, and everlasting love, no matter my weaknesses. And I felt reminded of my weaknesses daily.
I recently spent an evening at a new friend's house and we connected quickly and easily which was, for me, unexpected. As she began to serve everyone slices of pizza while we lounged around her kitchen, she asked so casually, if we minded her serving the pizza on paper plates so that she could remain kosher. As she explained how she tries to keep kosher in her home, I felt the strength and pride of her faith. It put me at ease though hers was different than mine. I took comfort in her having a guiding principle in her life and in her giving such to her children. There is nothing incredible in this story. I have countless friends of different faiths and belief systems--Christians, born-agains, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Zoroastrians, Hindus, Wiccans, folks who practice deep meditation, and read up on Sufism and all things mystical. But lately, I have felt the pull of the spirit world, the tug of the planets aligning, a quiet calling that has me reaching ever more for something to demonstrate our connection, our universal guiding principle.
The other day I reached out to a new friend on Facebook because I felt her in need somehow. I asked all my friends to just offer up a prayer or thought, maybe include her in their daily meditation. She messaged me and asked how I knew that she needed and I just said, "I knew." What she shared next with me was one of the greatest gifts I've received, and one I'd been asking for in my heart. She first offered her blog with passionate, personal stories that she shared only with those closest to her. Attached to her message was a YouTube video of the chant she used in meditation. My mind blew open. I had been asking for guidance around meditation. Had even been given another chant from a beloved friend that I used daily. Suddenly I realized that I could use this tool daily to connect with the Divine, to free myself of the day to day, even if for just 6, 12, or 24 minutes, options on the YouTube site. I felt a prayer answered.
This shift has caused all kinds of change in my life. I have abandoned relationships to which I seemed tethered. Endured sickness that struck my children and me and caused me to dream of nights well outside my normal zone, far out in the universe. I have felt a new sense of peace, a new sense of order, seen the lines drawn between people who want to make it good and those who cannot see truly what they want at all. I have been called selfish and negative and a traitor for wanting only to find myself in the right state of mind for the first time in a long time. I have found myself back in love, joined with new friends and reconnected with old friends who are searching and seeking. I want to live in a truth where having and buying and consuming cannot be all that my life and the world I live in will represent. I need to do differently in order to pass different values on to my children. I need to provide for my children spiritual guidance, choices, options, ideas, and the power to conjure for themselves a new order.
A few nights ago, while putting the girls down to sleep, after saying our prayers, I began the Nichiren Buddhist chant, nam myoho renge kyo, slowly in the darkness. The girls listened calmly, then Lily asked, "How do you know that language?" I told her that Uncle Ray had shared it with me and that it helped me and that deep down we all know that language. The cool thing about Lily is that she believed that. It was enough for her. Virginie hummed along with me as I chanted until there was silence. Both girls drifted to sleep as I chanted to put our lives in harmony and rhythm with the law of life, Dharma. I believe this. I have faith.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
My husband and I took in an early evening date night and went to the dine-in movie theatre where we saw the Life of Pi while eating appetizers and drinking beers. We held hands and giggled at each other every time we saw each other in the 3-D glasses. This love has been a long time coming. We both recalled it from those early years and dared let go when the people were tiny and the landscape, both physical and emotional, was unfamiliar. With his mother recently passed and my searching, melancholy soul always longing for true connection (of all kind, not just romantic), we were seeking.
There were so many movie options, but we chose The Life of Pi. Well, I did. I'd read and loved the book when it came out. I love Ang Lee's direction of pretty much everything, save the Incredible Hulk and even that had its moments. The movie, like the book, presented a real meaning-of-life conflict, proposed an awesome, tragic and magical story, wonder and hope. I read the book years ago and for me, it was inspiring. It was heartbreaking. For my husband it was brand new. But he leaned back in his chair, ready, willing, and able to be taken wherever this piece wanted to go. He trusted it and he trusted me, knew I wouldn't take him anywhere he wouldn't be able to go.
I grew up in a Lutheran household and though neither of my parents were raised with this particular brand of Christianity, we were still of the faith. I cannot say my experience was typical-black-church, though my parents' Southern roots were sewn with church in the thread. I didn't care for going to church, but I loved my pastor (Pastor Al Gibson) and I loved God. Loving God for me was a complete secret because it felt as ridiculous as it would have read back then. Now everyone is professing, but then, only the Jesus freaks were shouting out. I loved the mystical, the magical, the spiritual, and the other world. I loved the possibility of guidance, acceptance, and everlasting love, no matter my weaknesses. And I felt reminded of my weaknesses daily.
I recently spent an evening at a new friend's house and we connected quickly and easily which was, for me, unexpected. As she began to serve everyone slices of pizza while we lounged around her kitchen, she asked so casually, if we minded her serving the pizza on paper plates so that she could remain kosher. As she explained how she tries to keep kosher in her home, I felt the strength and pride of her faith. It put me at ease though hers was different than mine. I took comfort in her having a guiding principle in her life and in her giving such to her children. There is nothing incredible in this story. I have countless friends of different faiths and belief systems--Christians, born-agains, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Zoroastrians, Hindus, Wiccans, folks who practice deep meditation, and read up on Sufism and all things mystical. But lately, I have felt the pull of the spirit world, the tug of the planets aligning, a quiet calling that has me reaching ever more for something to demonstrate our connection, our universal guiding principle.
The other day I reached out to a new friend on Facebook because I felt her in need somehow. I asked all my friends to just offer up a prayer or thought, maybe include her in their daily meditation. She messaged me and asked how I knew that she needed and I just said, "I knew." What she shared next with me was one of the greatest gifts I've received, and one I'd been asking for in my heart. She first offered her blog with passionate, personal stories that she shared only with those closest to her. Attached to her message was a YouTube video of the chant she used in meditation. My mind blew open. I had been asking for guidance around meditation. Had even been given another chant from a beloved friend that I used daily. Suddenly I realized that I could use this tool daily to connect with the Divine, to free myself of the day to day, even if for just 6, 12, or 24 minutes, options on the YouTube site. I felt a prayer answered.
This shift has caused all kinds of change in my life. I have abandoned relationships to which I seemed tethered. Endured sickness that struck my children and me and caused me to dream of nights well outside my normal zone, far out in the universe. I have felt a new sense of peace, a new sense of order, seen the lines drawn between people who want to make it good and those who cannot see truly what they want at all. I have been called selfish and negative and a traitor for wanting only to find myself in the right state of mind for the first time in a long time. I have found myself back in love, joined with new friends and reconnected with old friends who are searching and seeking. I want to live in a truth where having and buying and consuming cannot be all that my life and the world I live in will represent. I need to do differently in order to pass different values on to my children. I need to provide for my children spiritual guidance, choices, options, ideas, and the power to conjure for themselves a new order.
A few nights ago, while putting the girls down to sleep, after saying our prayers, I began the Nichiren Buddhist chant, nam myoho renge kyo, slowly in the darkness. The girls listened calmly, then Lily asked, "How do you know that language?" I told her that Uncle Ray had shared it with me and that it helped me and that deep down we all know that language. The cool thing about Lily is that she believed that. It was enough for her. Virginie hummed along with me as I chanted until there was silence. Both girls drifted to sleep as I chanted to put our lives in harmony and rhythm with the law of life, Dharma. I believe this. I have faith.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sleep charts, training, and bribes
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sleep charts, training, and bribes: I had to make a sleep chart for my 3 3/4 year old child whose interest in conversation and chatterboxing at all hours of the night and early...
Sleep charts, training, and bribes
I had to make a sleep chart for my 3 3/4 year old child whose interest in conversation and chatterboxing at all hours of the night and early morning was killing my beauty rest, my peace of mind, and was slowly eroding my sanity. I promised a worthy prize at the end of ten nights of uninterrupted sleep. No waking in the night to talk or demand food or play on the iPad allowed, but escorts to the bathroom or checks for illness or bad dreams were permitted. Not one to miss a prize, Lily signed on too. I had to allow it though I knew she'd breeze through this challenge and get the reward. Including her was like allowing an Olympic swimmer to compete against middle school challengers but I had to to be fair...to her. The oldest doesn't quite understand that she's already reached these milestones, been coddled and handled through these obstacles in the very recent past. All she sees is the possibility of a toy and knows immediately that only one of them in this fight ain't right.
We were off to a rough start. Well, Virginie was...and by association so was I. The first night was as miserable as all those before the chart went up. She asked me why she had water in her sippy cup instead of juice. Then asked me to change it. I didn't. There were tears and desperation. She asked about the colors in the rainbow. She wanted me to say them and then she would repeat them. When I did not state them with the right dose of enthusiasm she cried and asked me to do them all again. I did while drifting off to sleep, so she nudged me, poked me in the eye, whispered in my ear., "Mommy, why are your eyes closed? Why do we have to sleep? I don't like to." I foolishly engaged. "We need sleep for our health. We need it to function during the day and do the things we want to do." She asked, "What is function?" I answered, "To be able to do things correctly, do them well." "Why do we have to function?" And it goes on and on like that until I think I am going to fall down the rabbit hole and I start to beg.
We did eventually get to sleep about an hour and a half later, but by then I was nearly willing to give away all the government secrets. The next few days we started to get on track. I kept reminding Virginie that the end goal was a prize and that it wouldn't be something whack from the dollar store. A real prize. Lily got the idea. She was on it. I don't think she even got out of bed to use the bathroom until daybreak. Every morning Lily would ask, "Did you have a good sleep? Can I get a star?" And she could because she'd slept through the night. Seeing that first star go up, Virginie got the fever. She was not about to miss out on a prize. So sleep training commenced.
While I know Virginie was thrilled out of her face to see those stickers go up, no joy could overtake my own. That first morning that I woke up face down with drool on the pillow, I almost didn't recognize where I was. I was so used to sleeping twisted up in a ball of blankets and special lovies in a teeny, tiny toddler bed that the incredible sensation of space and warmth around me nearly had me convinced that I was on an alien abduction operating table. "Oh, glorious sunlight shining into my life!" I thought. WOWZ. This is what everyone was raving about! Another night, then another and another. I was getting hooked on this stuff! I would have bought a Barbie castle and sports car for this wonderfulness! Though I knew a habit took more than four days to form, I was optimistic.
Imagine my shock and surprise when Virginie called for me on that fifth day and wanted to talk about "that thing that Annabel had on her head" and "why Papa and Lily were sleeping and we're not." We stayed up for almost two hours and I felt defeated. Somehow, despite this setback, we made it to ten days, ten stickers, and a present. We walked as a family to the toy store in town where each of the girls got to choose a small toy. I didn't set a price limit but I did tell them that it was not Christmas nor was it their birthdays, that this was a reward, a token to celebrate their achievement. Lily clutched a bug-eyed unicorn named Magic to her chest and, no surprise, Virginie chose a Rapunzel bath toy that could detach from her floating shell and play with the other Rapunzels in her collection.
I know that ten days, ten stickers does not a habit make. Last night, after having received her ten stickers, Lily called me in the night crying about a "bad choice" she'd made that was racking her brain. We sat up for an hour talking about forgiving herself and being kind to herself and with a little snuggling and kissing, all was forgiven. I cuddled up behind her in her little bed and we promptly went to sleep. One hour later I was tip toeing back to my own bed. The chart still hangs and will continue to be loaded with stars and encouragement. I don't really care so much about the number of stickers and stars, don't even mind if we don't really get to ten each time. They feel really proud when they've made it overnight, are jazzed that Mommy has had some rest and has a genuine smile on her face to greet them. And when we all get some sleep? That is the best reward of all.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
We were off to a rough start. Well, Virginie was...and by association so was I. The first night was as miserable as all those before the chart went up. She asked me why she had water in her sippy cup instead of juice. Then asked me to change it. I didn't. There were tears and desperation. She asked about the colors in the rainbow. She wanted me to say them and then she would repeat them. When I did not state them with the right dose of enthusiasm she cried and asked me to do them all again. I did while drifting off to sleep, so she nudged me, poked me in the eye, whispered in my ear., "Mommy, why are your eyes closed? Why do we have to sleep? I don't like to." I foolishly engaged. "We need sleep for our health. We need it to function during the day and do the things we want to do." She asked, "What is function?" I answered, "To be able to do things correctly, do them well." "Why do we have to function?" And it goes on and on like that until I think I am going to fall down the rabbit hole and I start to beg.
We did eventually get to sleep about an hour and a half later, but by then I was nearly willing to give away all the government secrets. The next few days we started to get on track. I kept reminding Virginie that the end goal was a prize and that it wouldn't be something whack from the dollar store. A real prize. Lily got the idea. She was on it. I don't think she even got out of bed to use the bathroom until daybreak. Every morning Lily would ask, "Did you have a good sleep? Can I get a star?" And she could because she'd slept through the night. Seeing that first star go up, Virginie got the fever. She was not about to miss out on a prize. So sleep training commenced.
While I know Virginie was thrilled out of her face to see those stickers go up, no joy could overtake my own. That first morning that I woke up face down with drool on the pillow, I almost didn't recognize where I was. I was so used to sleeping twisted up in a ball of blankets and special lovies in a teeny, tiny toddler bed that the incredible sensation of space and warmth around me nearly had me convinced that I was on an alien abduction operating table. "Oh, glorious sunlight shining into my life!" I thought. WOWZ. This is what everyone was raving about! Another night, then another and another. I was getting hooked on this stuff! I would have bought a Barbie castle and sports car for this wonderfulness! Though I knew a habit took more than four days to form, I was optimistic.
Imagine my shock and surprise when Virginie called for me on that fifth day and wanted to talk about "that thing that Annabel had on her head" and "why Papa and Lily were sleeping and we're not." We stayed up for almost two hours and I felt defeated. Somehow, despite this setback, we made it to ten days, ten stickers, and a present. We walked as a family to the toy store in town where each of the girls got to choose a small toy. I didn't set a price limit but I did tell them that it was not Christmas nor was it their birthdays, that this was a reward, a token to celebrate their achievement. Lily clutched a bug-eyed unicorn named Magic to her chest and, no surprise, Virginie chose a Rapunzel bath toy that could detach from her floating shell and play with the other Rapunzels in her collection.
I know that ten days, ten stickers does not a habit make. Last night, after having received her ten stickers, Lily called me in the night crying about a "bad choice" she'd made that was racking her brain. We sat up for an hour talking about forgiving herself and being kind to herself and with a little snuggling and kissing, all was forgiven. I cuddled up behind her in her little bed and we promptly went to sleep. One hour later I was tip toeing back to my own bed. The chart still hangs and will continue to be loaded with stars and encouragement. I don't really care so much about the number of stickers and stars, don't even mind if we don't really get to ten each time. They feel really proud when they've made it overnight, are jazzed that Mommy has had some rest and has a genuine smile on her face to greet them. And when we all get some sleep? That is the best reward of all.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Brother Man
Back to the Suburban Grind: Brother Man: I am almost six years older than my brother which was just enough distance to see him as a cute and cuddly threat when he was born and a str...
Brother Man
I am almost six years older than my brother which was just enough distance to see him as a cute and cuddly threat when he was born and a strange, little brainiac as he grew into a viciously smart kid and I into a miserable, brooding teenager. I was always so curious about him, intrigued and fascinated. He was a boy and did boy things and was sensitive, inquisitive, and obviously bright. It was understood that he was bright. He "got" things easily, skipped second grade, had a memory for all kinds of information, facts, dates, concepts, and loved exploring them, sometimes talking, talking, talking about them out loud in order to process them. His role in the family was son and heir and "the smart one." Nevermind that he was also a talented musician, it seemed a "shame" for him to go in the direction of the arts when he was clearly gifted with this brain for "something more."
I can only imagine how being my little brother must have traumatized the poor soul. I was all arts and smarts--dance, visual arts, music, then acting later in life-- though the smarts did not reveal itself until years later when intelligence was no longer measured in test taking ability, memorization, and advanced algebra and trigonometry. I foolishly committed the rules to memory and existed only to serve them. Until I became that tortured teen, I ignored my own thoughts and cries and pleas for expression and did what I was told. My bro watched in the shadows of the Speak N-Spell, adding numbers on the calculator to turn it upside down and make funny words, spinning the globe and pouring through maps and Encyclopedia Britannica volumes while I went from people pleaser to sad, angry worm. My sister, two years younger than I am, buffered him from my angst and anxiety, teaching him about hip hop and teenage partying, relationships, and navigating the grey landscape that was our childhood home.
And then I was gone. As I watched from the dorm rooms I inhabited in Boston, my brother became a very cool, super hip, politically passionate dude. I wanted to know him but was long gone and fast disconnecting from the mothership. We'd move in and out of the circle, a little do-see-do, but never quite got to know each other or find ourselves completely comfy in each others' presence. I blamed myself for this. My brooding, emotional, artistic self saw ribbons of energy pushing and pulling and twisting around each other and I could never get my bearings. I recalled bad times where he'd existed only on the periphery, moments that did not sit with the same thud for him as they did for me. I was melancholy, mourning, dark and he was still searching, reaching, seeking. Though we were both artistic, creative, thinkers, though we were both inquisitive, longing,questing, I couldn't see in his success, his hopefulness, how it was that we'd come out of the same house, that he remembered too.
As soon as I saw the trotting horses in the park, I collected myself and got my bearings. I looked down and saw that I was pushing Virginie in our Peg Perego stroller that has survived international travel, beach dunes, and took comfort in seeing my hands gripping the carriage handles. I searched for Lily, looking for her red jacket through the trees and other colored parkas in the park and saw that she was close. Close to me and to the trotting horses. I didn't have to say anything because before I could figure out just what I would shout out about now, my brother rounded up the girls (his and mine) and got them well out of "harm's" way. I looked over at my sister-in-law and said, "He has it too, huh? The Penn panic. The horses aren't bothering you at all, are they?" They weren't. At all. Nor were they bothering my husband.
A smile came to my face and I took comfort in this commonality. My brother is all those wonderful things and he was freaked by the possibility of the "charging," yes, now charging (in my mind) horses. He was prepared for danger, ready. He believed in love and life, had found the most incredible place with his gorgeous wife and girls, successful career, nice home, spoils of a well-lived, well-guided life, and still flashed panicked eyes at obstacles on the road. As I watched him, looked at his face, I saw my baby brother, the little one, and I wanted to reassure him, even though I was pretty on guard myself. Even though, when we were younger, I had no tools to guide or protect or reassure.
Even if this guy wasn't my brother, I would think he was pretty awesome. In the second act, I get to know him for whom he probably always was, but I had no idea, and for the person he continues to develop into. The man, the dad, the husband, and the friend. The artist, the lawyer, the thinker. I can only hope that he recognizes that the broody, moody, emotional girl he witnessed has transformed into a still emotional, spiritual, hopeful, still a bit fearful, caring, creative woman with partially exorcised demons and a map with room for more experiences and destinations. We've been through some of the same places and I now hope we can show each other something new.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I can only imagine how being my little brother must have traumatized the poor soul. I was all arts and smarts--dance, visual arts, music, then acting later in life-- though the smarts did not reveal itself until years later when intelligence was no longer measured in test taking ability, memorization, and advanced algebra and trigonometry. I foolishly committed the rules to memory and existed only to serve them. Until I became that tortured teen, I ignored my own thoughts and cries and pleas for expression and did what I was told. My bro watched in the shadows of the Speak N-Spell, adding numbers on the calculator to turn it upside down and make funny words, spinning the globe and pouring through maps and Encyclopedia Britannica volumes while I went from people pleaser to sad, angry worm. My sister, two years younger than I am, buffered him from my angst and anxiety, teaching him about hip hop and teenage partying, relationships, and navigating the grey landscape that was our childhood home.
And then I was gone. As I watched from the dorm rooms I inhabited in Boston, my brother became a very cool, super hip, politically passionate dude. I wanted to know him but was long gone and fast disconnecting from the mothership. We'd move in and out of the circle, a little do-see-do, but never quite got to know each other or find ourselves completely comfy in each others' presence. I blamed myself for this. My brooding, emotional, artistic self saw ribbons of energy pushing and pulling and twisting around each other and I could never get my bearings. I recalled bad times where he'd existed only on the periphery, moments that did not sit with the same thud for him as they did for me. I was melancholy, mourning, dark and he was still searching, reaching, seeking. Though we were both artistic, creative, thinkers, though we were both inquisitive, longing,questing, I couldn't see in his success, his hopefulness, how it was that we'd come out of the same house, that he remembered too.
As soon as I saw the trotting horses in the park, I collected myself and got my bearings. I looked down and saw that I was pushing Virginie in our Peg Perego stroller that has survived international travel, beach dunes, and took comfort in seeing my hands gripping the carriage handles. I searched for Lily, looking for her red jacket through the trees and other colored parkas in the park and saw that she was close. Close to me and to the trotting horses. I didn't have to say anything because before I could figure out just what I would shout out about now, my brother rounded up the girls (his and mine) and got them well out of "harm's" way. I looked over at my sister-in-law and said, "He has it too, huh? The Penn panic. The horses aren't bothering you at all, are they?" They weren't. At all. Nor were they bothering my husband.
A smile came to my face and I took comfort in this commonality. My brother is all those wonderful things and he was freaked by the possibility of the "charging," yes, now charging (in my mind) horses. He was prepared for danger, ready. He believed in love and life, had found the most incredible place with his gorgeous wife and girls, successful career, nice home, spoils of a well-lived, well-guided life, and still flashed panicked eyes at obstacles on the road. As I watched him, looked at his face, I saw my baby brother, the little one, and I wanted to reassure him, even though I was pretty on guard myself. Even though, when we were younger, I had no tools to guide or protect or reassure.
Even if this guy wasn't my brother, I would think he was pretty awesome. In the second act, I get to know him for whom he probably always was, but I had no idea, and for the person he continues to develop into. The man, the dad, the husband, and the friend. The artist, the lawyer, the thinker. I can only hope that he recognizes that the broody, moody, emotional girl he witnessed has transformed into a still emotional, spiritual, hopeful, still a bit fearful, caring, creative woman with partially exorcised demons and a map with room for more experiences and destinations. We've been through some of the same places and I now hope we can show each other something new.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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