Sunday, April 21, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: All Apologies
Back to the Suburban Grind: All Apologies: I do my best. I am with my girls alone a lot. Their day to day is primarily, well, entirely, my responsibility. I do my best. But there ...
All Apologies
I do my best. I am with my girls alone a lot. Their day to day is primarily, well, entirely, my responsibility. I do my best. But there are certainly times when the stress, my emotions, the weight of it all gets to me and I let it out! That usually comes in the form of screaming and yelling and carrying on and saying stuff crazier than even my parents said when they were yelling at me. Truthfully, I feel terrible about it, especially when swear words come into play. My people know that Mommy says bad words and rather than copy me, they are trying to reform me. It takes a village, you know, to raise up everyone.
I hate it though. When I have come to my wit's end and I unleash. I hate seeing them looking at me, hoping, wondering, willing me to be better, and I am petty and tired and frustrated and mean. The difference though, between my experience and theirs is the apology. After every outburst, every lashing, every moment when I know there is a better way to handle things, we talk about it. We talk about my feelings and theirs. We talk about what made Mommy get to the crazy, especially when the crazy is not at all their fault but the fault of my being tired and overwhelmed and shocked as shit that I have woken up as the person in charge and I really just want to chill out for a second. They are learning, at the same time as I am, how to deal with their emotions and the emotions of others, how to listen, how to laugh, how to rage, how to respect, and how to love.
I never quite understood as a girl or teen or young adult or older one that one can have the full range of emotions, truly, and still be cared for, still be loved, still have a place in a family or group. I have tried to present, to represent, rather than just be myself. I do not want this for my children. I do not need them to be proper, young ladies at the expense of themselves. Of course I do not want them to be cruel or selfish, but I want them to be themselves fully, to accept and feel and express their full range of emotions. So when I laugh, I laugh hard. And when I cry, the tears are hot and if I am not hysterical, visible. And when I am angry or frustrated or frightened or at my end, I tell them,. I show them. And I apologize when I hurt them in anger, when I am make them feel small, when I take them down with me when anxiety controls my head and heart.
I feel like I am apologizing all the time. So often that I sit up at night and hope that they will come through it alright. That they will know that their mother loves them more than anything she ever had or has since they came. I tell them how I am learning this as I go, that we are all learning and often confused and sometimes selfish and once in a while irrational, but that we all come back to this. That we love each other, live to make each other happy, support each other on this journey, and are able to say we are sorry when we break the promise to love and respect each other. Saying sorry is one of the hardest things, I have found, for children to learn to say truthfully, not just mouthing the words, not just repeating what adults ask them to say, but meaning in their hearts. It is also hard for adults. There are many apologies I deserved and did not receive. I still feel the sting of not hearing those words following particularly cruel assaults and emotional betrayals. The girls will hear them from me. They will know that I am trying, that I tried, and that I have honored our pact to love, respect, and support each other on the journey.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I hate it though. When I have come to my wit's end and I unleash. I hate seeing them looking at me, hoping, wondering, willing me to be better, and I am petty and tired and frustrated and mean. The difference though, between my experience and theirs is the apology. After every outburst, every lashing, every moment when I know there is a better way to handle things, we talk about it. We talk about my feelings and theirs. We talk about what made Mommy get to the crazy, especially when the crazy is not at all their fault but the fault of my being tired and overwhelmed and shocked as shit that I have woken up as the person in charge and I really just want to chill out for a second. They are learning, at the same time as I am, how to deal with their emotions and the emotions of others, how to listen, how to laugh, how to rage, how to respect, and how to love.
I never quite understood as a girl or teen or young adult or older one that one can have the full range of emotions, truly, and still be cared for, still be loved, still have a place in a family or group. I have tried to present, to represent, rather than just be myself. I do not want this for my children. I do not need them to be proper, young ladies at the expense of themselves. Of course I do not want them to be cruel or selfish, but I want them to be themselves fully, to accept and feel and express their full range of emotions. So when I laugh, I laugh hard. And when I cry, the tears are hot and if I am not hysterical, visible. And when I am angry or frustrated or frightened or at my end, I tell them,. I show them. And I apologize when I hurt them in anger, when I am make them feel small, when I take them down with me when anxiety controls my head and heart.
I feel like I am apologizing all the time. So often that I sit up at night and hope that they will come through it alright. That they will know that their mother loves them more than anything she ever had or has since they came. I tell them how I am learning this as I go, that we are all learning and often confused and sometimes selfish and once in a while irrational, but that we all come back to this. That we love each other, live to make each other happy, support each other on this journey, and are able to say we are sorry when we break the promise to love and respect each other. Saying sorry is one of the hardest things, I have found, for children to learn to say truthfully, not just mouthing the words, not just repeating what adults ask them to say, but meaning in their hearts. It is also hard for adults. There are many apologies I deserved and did not receive. I still feel the sting of not hearing those words following particularly cruel assaults and emotional betrayals. The girls will hear them from me. They will know that I am trying, that I tried, and that I have honored our pact to love, respect, and support each other on the journey.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sweet, sweet flying fish, sea turtles, and whales!...
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sweet, sweet flying fish, sea turtles, and whales!...: The flying fish, a symbol of Barbados as popular as the trident and national colors of blue and gold, is loved and revered on the island nat...
Sweet, sweet flying fish, sea turtles, and whales! Yes, whales!
The flying fish, a symbol of Barbados as popular as the trident and national colors of blue and gold, is loved and revered on the island nation. Fishermen cast their nets for the catch and holiday shoppers open their purses for aprons, drinking glasses, tea kettles, and t-shirts with its image. During the two years I lived in Barbados with my family, I only once saw a flying fish as I tread water on the glorious beach at Sandy Lane. I was so shocked and startled to see it pass overhead that I quite believed it was a mirage. The flying fish population was dwindling due to overfishing and the slow destruction of the coral reef around Barbados in which they dwelled. I'd heard rumor that the fish were moving to different waters closer to Trinidad and Tobago, causing greater tension and unease between the two nations, never great bedfellows to begin with. Having only witnessed one in flight without really knowing if I'd actually seen it, I wasn't moved by the tall tales and kind of giggled at the overabundance of imagery in the souvenir shops much like I laughed at all the Big Apples in New York City.
And then, on our return to Bim, a vacation designed to heal old wounds and change my perspective and perception of the tiny island nation and our years there as expatriates, years I consider some of the darkest of my life, I saw schools of flying fish leap from the sea, fleeing the catamaran on which I danced and drank and seized life with our dear friends. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the urge to purchase as many pot holders, fridge magnets, and key chains with images of flying fish as I could. I shouted out every single time I saw them leap out of the water. Every single time. They were marvelous simply. We'd run into them after a delightful swim with the sea turtles and a chase that ended with a jaw-dropping sighting of a whale. A whale! Just when I thought I couldn't be any happier, our race to shore produced the schools of flying fish soaring and darting along in front of us, to the side, all around, using their wing-like fins to glide in the air, catching the light and leaving glitter trails on the water.
The flying fish had been gone and then returned. Just as I had. When I left Barbados, I was so angry with this place, so hurt, so destroyed and everything that was wrong in my life was connected to the bad years spent here. My husband's job, culture shock, severe post-partum depression and anxiety, made the landscape of Barbados haunt my nightmares and stand in for absolute horror in my life. Many wondered if I'd ever set foot again in Bim but any who know of my loyalty and love of friends had to have known that I could not be kept away forever. My friends here are some of the best in my life and as they love their home, I knew I'd have to find a place in my heart for Barbados. The return to Barbados as a vacationing family and not as expatriates has not only changed my perspective and perception of the place, but has given us all, collectively, an insanely incredible trove of memories.
There is nothing we set out to do here that we have not done. We have snorkeled, swum with turtles, relaxed seaside, eaten and drunk with abandon, seen friends, made peace with monkeys and even the white lizards (yuck), gone to little beach bars never visited and toured places never seen. We've gone back to old haunts, our old home even, and released the hold of bad juju and bad vibes. Even the dreaded hotel where my husband once worked lost some of its sway in its miserable, drab sameness, and tales of its continued troubles.
I knew all along that there was no way around this mess. That I had to go through it to break its spell (years of self-discovery and therapy had taught me that). That I could never free myself from the quicksand that those years of depression and hurt and sadness and fear brought about if I could not return and see that the quicksand was just muck and that it was never meant to hold me down. Those sweet, sweet flying fish soaring over the aqua blue waves with white crests sped up my heart, invited me to the chase, lead me back to a place where all the journeys are valuable, even the dark and scary ones, even the ones that seem to take it all away from us, even the ones that lead us right to the belly of the whale. When I saw that whale breaching, turning, showing itself to us out in the calm, blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, when I glanced around the catamaran to see the faces of people I love, my family--my husband, my girls, my life--and my friends, witnessing the awe and beauty of that moment, of that step on our paths crossing and converging, my quest for closure and peace was met.
I returned to Barbados hoping for an apology, offering a white flag, agreeing that we have differences, different wants and needs, but prepared to acknowledge and respect that we once shared time and space. We are still quiet frenemies, Barbados and I, hurting each other sometimes on purpose and mostly on accident. But when we see each other from far away, I will remember that she showed me the turtles and the whales and the flying fish and her beauty. I will remember that she made my skin glow and gave me pride in my womanly curves (at least when with her). She made my hair grow long and strong and taught my children to love nature and the water and sun and sea. She allowed my hubby to swim to her depths with fish and reefs and turtles and gave us a test that finally strengthened more than it broke us. I hope that she will remember that I gave fully and tried and tried and tried though I was scared shitless. That I traveled all around this island in search. Sometimes I found what I was looking for in the enormous waves of the Soup Bowl and quiet dignity of the East Coast. Sometimes it was watching the setting sun while liming with friends and kids. Sometimes it was in the music, in the dances that I'd never have known had she not shown me. Sometimes she frustrated me to no end like an annoying sibling, but I still rooted for her to win.
The flying fish have returned to Barbados and who knows how long they will stay. How long does not matter. They are already a part of this place and it a part of their glory. I'll go back home, settle back into the life I've dreamed for myself, continue searching and seeking but now, my time in Barbados will stand as a moment where I triumphed, having feared and felt encroaching darkness and turned it to light.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
And then, on our return to Bim, a vacation designed to heal old wounds and change my perspective and perception of the tiny island nation and our years there as expatriates, years I consider some of the darkest of my life, I saw schools of flying fish leap from the sea, fleeing the catamaran on which I danced and drank and seized life with our dear friends. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the urge to purchase as many pot holders, fridge magnets, and key chains with images of flying fish as I could. I shouted out every single time I saw them leap out of the water. Every single time. They were marvelous simply. We'd run into them after a delightful swim with the sea turtles and a chase that ended with a jaw-dropping sighting of a whale. A whale! Just when I thought I couldn't be any happier, our race to shore produced the schools of flying fish soaring and darting along in front of us, to the side, all around, using their wing-like fins to glide in the air, catching the light and leaving glitter trails on the water.
The flying fish had been gone and then returned. Just as I had. When I left Barbados, I was so angry with this place, so hurt, so destroyed and everything that was wrong in my life was connected to the bad years spent here. My husband's job, culture shock, severe post-partum depression and anxiety, made the landscape of Barbados haunt my nightmares and stand in for absolute horror in my life. Many wondered if I'd ever set foot again in Bim but any who know of my loyalty and love of friends had to have known that I could not be kept away forever. My friends here are some of the best in my life and as they love their home, I knew I'd have to find a place in my heart for Barbados. The return to Barbados as a vacationing family and not as expatriates has not only changed my perspective and perception of the place, but has given us all, collectively, an insanely incredible trove of memories.
There is nothing we set out to do here that we have not done. We have snorkeled, swum with turtles, relaxed seaside, eaten and drunk with abandon, seen friends, made peace with monkeys and even the white lizards (yuck), gone to little beach bars never visited and toured places never seen. We've gone back to old haunts, our old home even, and released the hold of bad juju and bad vibes. Even the dreaded hotel where my husband once worked lost some of its sway in its miserable, drab sameness, and tales of its continued troubles.
I knew all along that there was no way around this mess. That I had to go through it to break its spell (years of self-discovery and therapy had taught me that). That I could never free myself from the quicksand that those years of depression and hurt and sadness and fear brought about if I could not return and see that the quicksand was just muck and that it was never meant to hold me down. Those sweet, sweet flying fish soaring over the aqua blue waves with white crests sped up my heart, invited me to the chase, lead me back to a place where all the journeys are valuable, even the dark and scary ones, even the ones that seem to take it all away from us, even the ones that lead us right to the belly of the whale. When I saw that whale breaching, turning, showing itself to us out in the calm, blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, when I glanced around the catamaran to see the faces of people I love, my family--my husband, my girls, my life--and my friends, witnessing the awe and beauty of that moment, of that step on our paths crossing and converging, my quest for closure and peace was met.
I returned to Barbados hoping for an apology, offering a white flag, agreeing that we have differences, different wants and needs, but prepared to acknowledge and respect that we once shared time and space. We are still quiet frenemies, Barbados and I, hurting each other sometimes on purpose and mostly on accident. But when we see each other from far away, I will remember that she showed me the turtles and the whales and the flying fish and her beauty. I will remember that she made my skin glow and gave me pride in my womanly curves (at least when with her). She made my hair grow long and strong and taught my children to love nature and the water and sun and sea. She allowed my hubby to swim to her depths with fish and reefs and turtles and gave us a test that finally strengthened more than it broke us. I hope that she will remember that I gave fully and tried and tried and tried though I was scared shitless. That I traveled all around this island in search. Sometimes I found what I was looking for in the enormous waves of the Soup Bowl and quiet dignity of the East Coast. Sometimes it was watching the setting sun while liming with friends and kids. Sometimes it was in the music, in the dances that I'd never have known had she not shown me. Sometimes she frustrated me to no end like an annoying sibling, but I still rooted for her to win.
The flying fish have returned to Barbados and who knows how long they will stay. How long does not matter. They are already a part of this place and it a part of their glory. I'll go back home, settle back into the life I've dreamed for myself, continue searching and seeking but now, my time in Barbados will stand as a moment where I triumphed, having feared and felt encroaching darkness and turned it to light.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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