Thursday, May 30, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Running Late
Back to the Suburban Grind: Running Late: A couple of nights ago, Virginie, who has reignited the fires of late night chatter and moving about, came to our room because she was not c...
Running Late
A couple of nights ago, Virginie, who has reignited the fires of late night chatter and moving about, came to our room because she was not comfortable in her bed. It turns out that she'd accidentally wet the bed through her night time Pull Up and did not know that she could remove the pad beneath her and get back to the business of sleeping. Sleeping, apparently, was not on her agenda because she got right into our bed, had a few sips of her water, lay down, had a few more sips, lay down and started crying. I rubbed her back and tried to urge her back to sleep but to no avail. She was not comfortable and could not regroup. Around 5:15 am, I felt her body finally relax and she was asleep. What seemed like ten minutes later, the ducks on my iPhone started quacking, signaling wake up time. It was really 7 am. I felt like shit.
Lily, who'd managed to sleep the entire night in her own bed, as she usually does, woke up with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. She was reading quietly until she saw me. The chatter began promptly. Chatter on an adult without enough sleep is a kind of torture, no matter how sweet the voice and lovely the conversation. I grumbled my way through and prepped her breakfast and lunch. Once she was fully dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed and styled, and backpack packed, I got myself dressed enough and took her outside to wait for the bus. Without fanfare, she was picked up and taken off to school leaving me standing in the driveway determined to get Virginie, still asleep, snoring even, to school on time.
Tardiness, being late, not being on time is not only no virtue with the Penns, but I think entire back stories can be created about one's character should one not get "to the church on time." My father and his siblings have got a lock on the "so on time we are early" thing and they are not letting it go. Even as they advance in age, they will be the first to whatever it is, a taco stand, if it weren't so spicy! To get them all together talking about something, conversation will inevitably turn to someone who just "cannot get it together" and a big part of that is being late. So I got it. The message. Loud and clear. Virginie is in pre-school but I have to tell you, there was nothing in me that wanted to see her, tired or not, get to school after 9 am.
At 8:30, when Virginie was still, yes STILL asleep in my bed, I started to panic. Her lunch was packed, clothes laid out, backpack and folder checked and rechecked. I'd left the "hairstyling box" on the table and prepped for what I rightly assumed would be her breakfast, mini-waffles. Then I waited. For about 45 seconds and then started opening blinds, turning on music, whispering in her ear. She was going to school, I knew that, and if I could help it, she was going on time. 8:30 was already cutting it close if she was to actually eat breakfast, get dressed, brush her teeth, and get her hair done. The school is about ten minutes from our house and who knew what kind of impediments there'd be to our travel time. She needed to get up and get it together.
It isn't just about my time. I give that up on a regular basis. But being on time, I have been taught, is a sign of respect, a sign of self-worth and value, a consideration, a gesture of decency. I go insane and act like a monkey if I think we are not going to make it on time. It is a bit embarrassing and completely ridiculous at times, but the message has been implanted. I have a girlfriend who laughed with me one day when I commented on her son's near daily late arrival at school (And no it was not a holier-than-thou comment. I'd told her about my race through town to get Lily to school after a late wake up and how I was ranting about how we could not make that a habit and she said, "We are never on time. I hate it. Being on time that is"). She told me that there was something freeing about breaking the rules, not taking seriously the laws put in place, showing her son that he could come and go on his own time. She was never on time, always behind the eight ball, running, rushing, dropping off and picking up late. Her people seemed to roll with it. Maybe it made them more flexible, less rigid. I'll never know. Punctuality, even with my small people, is important.
That morning Virginie got to school fifteen minutes late. I could not deny her a good breakfast, brushing her teeth at her own pace, selection of shoes to go with her cute outfit, and a little wake up and squeeze time with Mommy. I told her that we wanted to be respectful of her teacher and try to do better next time and she promised she would. I told her that being on time would allow her the extra play in the morning before school got underway. I reminded her of the times we'd arrived promptly to other events and gotten good seating, a free snack, or early prize. She seemed to understand that Mommy built in a little time "just in case" and that getting there early was truly best for Mommy so that she could scope out the place and make sure everything was on the up and up. I was glad to help her make these connections and hoped for myself that I could release myself of some of the rigidity. True, I prefer to get to school, appointments, and parties on time, but I think the scheduled arrival and departure for the 5-hour, open-air concert could be a bit flexible. A work in progress.
I have to give myself and the people the chance to "stop and smell the roses," to slow down sometimes when life allows so we aren't just passing and running and running and passing but enjoying ourselves, each other, and tending to our most basic needs. The savored moments garnered from an unwatched clock can be so delicious. Maybe there is a happy medium or at least space for no tears and no yelling, no stress or anxiety. My tightly wound clock will surely teach the girls to respect theirs and others' time, but I hope to give them some moments so warm and wonderful that time stands still.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Lily, who'd managed to sleep the entire night in her own bed, as she usually does, woke up with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. She was reading quietly until she saw me. The chatter began promptly. Chatter on an adult without enough sleep is a kind of torture, no matter how sweet the voice and lovely the conversation. I grumbled my way through and prepped her breakfast and lunch. Once she was fully dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed and styled, and backpack packed, I got myself dressed enough and took her outside to wait for the bus. Without fanfare, she was picked up and taken off to school leaving me standing in the driveway determined to get Virginie, still asleep, snoring even, to school on time.
Tardiness, being late, not being on time is not only no virtue with the Penns, but I think entire back stories can be created about one's character should one not get "to the church on time." My father and his siblings have got a lock on the "so on time we are early" thing and they are not letting it go. Even as they advance in age, they will be the first to whatever it is, a taco stand, if it weren't so spicy! To get them all together talking about something, conversation will inevitably turn to someone who just "cannot get it together" and a big part of that is being late. So I got it. The message. Loud and clear. Virginie is in pre-school but I have to tell you, there was nothing in me that wanted to see her, tired or not, get to school after 9 am.
At 8:30, when Virginie was still, yes STILL asleep in my bed, I started to panic. Her lunch was packed, clothes laid out, backpack and folder checked and rechecked. I'd left the "hairstyling box" on the table and prepped for what I rightly assumed would be her breakfast, mini-waffles. Then I waited. For about 45 seconds and then started opening blinds, turning on music, whispering in her ear. She was going to school, I knew that, and if I could help it, she was going on time. 8:30 was already cutting it close if she was to actually eat breakfast, get dressed, brush her teeth, and get her hair done. The school is about ten minutes from our house and who knew what kind of impediments there'd be to our travel time. She needed to get up and get it together.
It isn't just about my time. I give that up on a regular basis. But being on time, I have been taught, is a sign of respect, a sign of self-worth and value, a consideration, a gesture of decency. I go insane and act like a monkey if I think we are not going to make it on time. It is a bit embarrassing and completely ridiculous at times, but the message has been implanted. I have a girlfriend who laughed with me one day when I commented on her son's near daily late arrival at school (And no it was not a holier-than-thou comment. I'd told her about my race through town to get Lily to school after a late wake up and how I was ranting about how we could not make that a habit and she said, "We are never on time. I hate it. Being on time that is"). She told me that there was something freeing about breaking the rules, not taking seriously the laws put in place, showing her son that he could come and go on his own time. She was never on time, always behind the eight ball, running, rushing, dropping off and picking up late. Her people seemed to roll with it. Maybe it made them more flexible, less rigid. I'll never know. Punctuality, even with my small people, is important.
That morning Virginie got to school fifteen minutes late. I could not deny her a good breakfast, brushing her teeth at her own pace, selection of shoes to go with her cute outfit, and a little wake up and squeeze time with Mommy. I told her that we wanted to be respectful of her teacher and try to do better next time and she promised she would. I told her that being on time would allow her the extra play in the morning before school got underway. I reminded her of the times we'd arrived promptly to other events and gotten good seating, a free snack, or early prize. She seemed to understand that Mommy built in a little time "just in case" and that getting there early was truly best for Mommy so that she could scope out the place and make sure everything was on the up and up. I was glad to help her make these connections and hoped for myself that I could release myself of some of the rigidity. True, I prefer to get to school, appointments, and parties on time, but I think the scheduled arrival and departure for the 5-hour, open-air concert could be a bit flexible. A work in progress.
I have to give myself and the people the chance to "stop and smell the roses," to slow down sometimes when life allows so we aren't just passing and running and running and passing but enjoying ourselves, each other, and tending to our most basic needs. The savored moments garnered from an unwatched clock can be so delicious. Maybe there is a happy medium or at least space for no tears and no yelling, no stress or anxiety. My tightly wound clock will surely teach the girls to respect theirs and others' time, but I hope to give them some moments so warm and wonderful that time stands still.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: After Mother's Day
Back to the Suburban Grind: After Mother's Day: My friend A has been spending Mother's Day alone for the past couple of years. Mother's Day for her, and for many I've heard, i...
After Mother's Day
My friend A has been spending Mother's Day alone for the past couple of years. Mother's Day for her, and for many I've heard, is indeed a mother's day. A day to do with it what she will. A went into the city this year, New York City, and did a bit of shopping and visited a museum. I went to the city too on both Saturday and Sunday to visit with my parents, my sister, my brother, and their families. My parents and my sister were staying downtown in Battery Park City at a luxury hotel with gorgeous views of the Statue of Liberty. Both days were wonderful for everyone, truly. No real conflict, no stress, no heartache or heartbreak. When visits with my family are few and far between, a weekend as lovely as the one that passed is a treat.
And yet there is this. On the one day set aside for me, a mother, I was running. Taking the train in the early morning after dressing the girls, doing their hair, making sure they'd eaten enough and had snacks for the ride in, carrying asthma meds, sippy cups, changes of clothes, toys, crayons, and coloring books. Before 8:45 am, I'd done more than most would do all day. My husband, not one for pomp and circumstance, grabbed a rose plant and card on his trip back from Dunkin Donuts, where he snagged Mother's Day sweets for the girls to inspire them to be kind to Mommy and get a move on in the morning. I gave him the words I believed he meant to share and told him that honoring his mother with roses, her favorite flower, was a pleasure and an honor. This is not a lie. I truly loved that woman. She was selfless, giving, feisty, and loving. We gave in the same way. Completely, totally, quietly wishing there were more moments for just us. After she passed, I spoke with an incredible psychic who gave me a moment with dear Paulette that still leaves me breathless.
It seems a shame there is just this one day. Only one? One day to express gratitude for the countless ways the mother of the house holds it down and keeps it running wearing lipstick and cute shit, strutting her stuff and cleaning poop. It's not just the household tasks, the bills, the drop offs, boo boos and play dates. The mother's heart is the pulse of the family, regardless of whether she is home all day or working outside of the home. When she shines there is light everywhere and when she is down the house is less comforting, scarier. Moms know this. I do anyway and I fear a cold heart stealing from my girls' childhoods, even if it is mine, so I give to them, share with them, show them love, love, love. They are too young to show me with more than affection and insanely cute hand-mades. Too young to give me my space, my time, my "room of my own" without someone else to take care of them. They are still little and my presence assures and reassures, that all is right in the world. My smile, my kind words, my listening ear tells them that there is a place in the world for them reserved by their loving mother.
They sat with me, held my hands, kissed my cheeks, and told me how much they loved me. I knew it to be true. Thanked them and counted myself among the blessed. Not just blessed to have children, but to be loved by such wonderful humans. It is intoxicating, heady, chakra spinning, and sometimes exhausting. Sometimes the love I want is quiet. Is a place for just myself. A place for my thoughts, my heart, my dreams, my heartbeat resonating just for me. It is a place where I can rejuvenate so that I can keep doing what I do. On this day, Mother's Day, I never made it to my own room, to my own space.
And like that, Mother's Day was over. We were home in time for me to get those dirty, little birds in the tub, scrub them down, read a story, and have Didier pick up some take out for everyone. After clearing plates and trays, I got the people to brush their teeth, get ready for bed, and pass out. There are photos, proof of what a wonderful weekend it was. I know it was. But I missed the chance to honor myself and after Mother's Day, there are never very many of those. For me.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
And yet there is this. On the one day set aside for me, a mother, I was running. Taking the train in the early morning after dressing the girls, doing their hair, making sure they'd eaten enough and had snacks for the ride in, carrying asthma meds, sippy cups, changes of clothes, toys, crayons, and coloring books. Before 8:45 am, I'd done more than most would do all day. My husband, not one for pomp and circumstance, grabbed a rose plant and card on his trip back from Dunkin Donuts, where he snagged Mother's Day sweets for the girls to inspire them to be kind to Mommy and get a move on in the morning. I gave him the words I believed he meant to share and told him that honoring his mother with roses, her favorite flower, was a pleasure and an honor. This is not a lie. I truly loved that woman. She was selfless, giving, feisty, and loving. We gave in the same way. Completely, totally, quietly wishing there were more moments for just us. After she passed, I spoke with an incredible psychic who gave me a moment with dear Paulette that still leaves me breathless.
It seems a shame there is just this one day. Only one? One day to express gratitude for the countless ways the mother of the house holds it down and keeps it running wearing lipstick and cute shit, strutting her stuff and cleaning poop. It's not just the household tasks, the bills, the drop offs, boo boos and play dates. The mother's heart is the pulse of the family, regardless of whether she is home all day or working outside of the home. When she shines there is light everywhere and when she is down the house is less comforting, scarier. Moms know this. I do anyway and I fear a cold heart stealing from my girls' childhoods, even if it is mine, so I give to them, share with them, show them love, love, love. They are too young to show me with more than affection and insanely cute hand-mades. Too young to give me my space, my time, my "room of my own" without someone else to take care of them. They are still little and my presence assures and reassures, that all is right in the world. My smile, my kind words, my listening ear tells them that there is a place in the world for them reserved by their loving mother.
They sat with me, held my hands, kissed my cheeks, and told me how much they loved me. I knew it to be true. Thanked them and counted myself among the blessed. Not just blessed to have children, but to be loved by such wonderful humans. It is intoxicating, heady, chakra spinning, and sometimes exhausting. Sometimes the love I want is quiet. Is a place for just myself. A place for my thoughts, my heart, my dreams, my heartbeat resonating just for me. It is a place where I can rejuvenate so that I can keep doing what I do. On this day, Mother's Day, I never made it to my own room, to my own space.
And like that, Mother's Day was over. We were home in time for me to get those dirty, little birds in the tub, scrub them down, read a story, and have Didier pick up some take out for everyone. After clearing plates and trays, I got the people to brush their teeth, get ready for bed, and pass out. There are photos, proof of what a wonderful weekend it was. I know it was. But I missed the chance to honor myself and after Mother's Day, there are never very many of those. For me.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: All tomorrow's parties
Back to the Suburban Grind: All tomorrow's parties: My baby turned four years old a few weeks ago. Because we were prepping and traveling weeks before, revisiting Barbados for Spring Break, I...
All tomorrow's parties
My baby turned four years old a few weeks ago. Because we were prepping and traveling weeks before, revisiting Barbados for Spring Break, I didn't have the chance to plan something properly. So I took to my senses and realized that if she had a celebration in her classroom and a get together with friends, I could stave her off until I had time to do something right. It is very popular to go all out for children's parties here. Honestly, it was no easier in Barbados where birthday parties could turn into all day affairs where kids, adults, entire families were invited to eat, drink, and be merry while hopping the day about in a jumping castle, having faces painted, watching magic shows, riding ponies, and crashing bumper cars. I am all for showing my children new experiences, but I just don't think that level of entertainment is required.
So last weekend at just noon, we held an old school, throw down, shindig right here at the house! Yes, in our house with decorations that we put up, food that we prepared, and games that I lead. I hope the kids had a good time. It sure looked like they did. I sure did. Didier and I got up at 8 am and started decorating. Pink, purple, princess. Those were the main themes of the day. All the girls were instructed to arrive in costume, dressed as princesses, knights, or heroes, whatever made them feel special. I'd at first asked an actress friend to come and help me. I'd wanted her to lead the games and activities dressed as a princess or fairy godmother or something, but she was unable to make it. I have that Julie McCoy kind of energy around kids so I figured that I could take the reins on this one and provide a killer, 4 year old's raver. I so did.
We had Pin the Crown on the Princess, Pin Pascal on Rapunzel, freeze dance, punching balloon games, and a project involving glittery crowns, stickers, and more glitter. There was fresh fruit, Veggie Snacks, chicken fingers, and goodie bags full of princess paraphernalia (you know, crowns, wands, bracelets, stickers, and one candy Ring Pop), and it was fun! So much silly fun. There was no controlled play area with tickets and rules and manufactured excitement. The girls and one dragon (Oliver) got to be little kids doing what little kids do. Play, eat, dance, laugh, giggle, run, smile, fall on the floor, freeze. Then do it all over again.
There is so much pressure on parents, pressure we put on ourselves to top the last cool thing or to be as impressive as our neighbor who seems to have unlimited access to the latest and greatest. We are expected to excite, entice, enthrall, and thrill our children to crazed ecstasy. I get it. As an adult, I go mental about the new technology, the cool new stuff, cool tricks, read up on what's what, want to be in the know. But for my money, for all tomorrow's parties, I want activities that are about connection as well as celebration. I want the excitement to come from the joy of doing whatever it is we are doing together. Togetherness, being with friends, contact. I want the kiddles to feel their hearts soar with true contentment and the excitement of being loved and honored. I want anything else to be the gravy, not the main meal.
The girls recently attended a Fairy Party with fairy dust and wands, a search for fairy houses in the garden, and lots of spinning and twirling outside with other kids. They left with a "how-to-call-a-fairy" activity kit and their own specially-designed fairy houses. Both were out of their minds when they got home, thrilled to tell us the stories of the fairies that hide in the trees and in the landscape. They also enjoyed a demo from a company called Outrageous Pets, which despite having outrageous pricing for this thrifty mama, boasted a show and tell of really cool animals that the kids could learn about and touch. A hedgehog, chinchilla, boa constrictor, and blue and sugar glider peppered every story, real and imaginary, for the next week.
From what I can see, we will have plenty of opportunity to negotiate for stronger, better, faster, longer events. Celebrations with the shock and awe of Disney or Atlantic City or Las Vegas. But while the people are young, while they are little children, the thrills we will provide will be flutters, smiles, giggles, and wiggles. Rated G and simply easy. An hour and a half later, Virginie's party was over. She was beaming with pride at sharing her day with her friends and we were thrilled that we'd pulled it off. We left the decorations up for two days. Wandering into that pink and purple wonderland every time we passed through the dining room was pure magic. As we packed it all away, I told the girls that next time they walked through the dining room, they should envision all the sparkle, the streamers, and decorations though they were no longer there. That, I told them, is the joy and wonder of life. Even in an ordinary room, on an ordinary day, there is a hidden spark, a light. Keep looking for that, I told them and every day will be a thrill.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
So last weekend at just noon, we held an old school, throw down, shindig right here at the house! Yes, in our house with decorations that we put up, food that we prepared, and games that I lead. I hope the kids had a good time. It sure looked like they did. I sure did. Didier and I got up at 8 am and started decorating. Pink, purple, princess. Those were the main themes of the day. All the girls were instructed to arrive in costume, dressed as princesses, knights, or heroes, whatever made them feel special. I'd at first asked an actress friend to come and help me. I'd wanted her to lead the games and activities dressed as a princess or fairy godmother or something, but she was unable to make it. I have that Julie McCoy kind of energy around kids so I figured that I could take the reins on this one and provide a killer, 4 year old's raver. I so did.
We had Pin the Crown on the Princess, Pin Pascal on Rapunzel, freeze dance, punching balloon games, and a project involving glittery crowns, stickers, and more glitter. There was fresh fruit, Veggie Snacks, chicken fingers, and goodie bags full of princess paraphernalia (you know, crowns, wands, bracelets, stickers, and one candy Ring Pop), and it was fun! So much silly fun. There was no controlled play area with tickets and rules and manufactured excitement. The girls and one dragon (Oliver) got to be little kids doing what little kids do. Play, eat, dance, laugh, giggle, run, smile, fall on the floor, freeze. Then do it all over again.
There is so much pressure on parents, pressure we put on ourselves to top the last cool thing or to be as impressive as our neighbor who seems to have unlimited access to the latest and greatest. We are expected to excite, entice, enthrall, and thrill our children to crazed ecstasy. I get it. As an adult, I go mental about the new technology, the cool new stuff, cool tricks, read up on what's what, want to be in the know. But for my money, for all tomorrow's parties, I want activities that are about connection as well as celebration. I want the excitement to come from the joy of doing whatever it is we are doing together. Togetherness, being with friends, contact. I want the kiddles to feel their hearts soar with true contentment and the excitement of being loved and honored. I want anything else to be the gravy, not the main meal.
The girls recently attended a Fairy Party with fairy dust and wands, a search for fairy houses in the garden, and lots of spinning and twirling outside with other kids. They left with a "how-to-call-a-fairy" activity kit and their own specially-designed fairy houses. Both were out of their minds when they got home, thrilled to tell us the stories of the fairies that hide in the trees and in the landscape. They also enjoyed a demo from a company called Outrageous Pets, which despite having outrageous pricing for this thrifty mama, boasted a show and tell of really cool animals that the kids could learn about and touch. A hedgehog, chinchilla, boa constrictor, and blue and sugar glider peppered every story, real and imaginary, for the next week.
From what I can see, we will have plenty of opportunity to negotiate for stronger, better, faster, longer events. Celebrations with the shock and awe of Disney or Atlantic City or Las Vegas. But while the people are young, while they are little children, the thrills we will provide will be flutters, smiles, giggles, and wiggles. Rated G and simply easy. An hour and a half later, Virginie's party was over. She was beaming with pride at sharing her day with her friends and we were thrilled that we'd pulled it off. We left the decorations up for two days. Wandering into that pink and purple wonderland every time we passed through the dining room was pure magic. As we packed it all away, I told the girls that next time they walked through the dining room, they should envision all the sparkle, the streamers, and decorations though they were no longer there. That, I told them, is the joy and wonder of life. Even in an ordinary room, on an ordinary day, there is a hidden spark, a light. Keep looking for that, I told them and every day will be a thrill.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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