Learning MLK

Black National Anthem

Lift every voice and sing, till earth and Heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise, high as the listening skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered
Out from the gloomy past, till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
Thou Who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou Who hast by Thy might, led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee.
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee.
Shadowed beneath Thy hand, may we forever stand,
True to our God, true to our native land.

Written by James Weldon Johnson (1899), music by his brother John Rosamond Johnson (1900)


When I was a little girl, though I suspect younger than my two ladybugs, to celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday and legacy, my family would spend the afternoon at a black church listening to people who'd lived the Civil Rights era, talking about about our history and the life of this man, and singing and clapping and dancing to some incredible church music and old Negro spirituals.  We were meant to reflect, consider, uplift, and rise, rise, rise above what our people, African-American people had endured in our own country.  A suffering that weighed heavily in the story of my immediate family.  This was not the story of just my ancestors, but of my people, my family, my father and mother and uncles and grands and greats.  It was not the past.  It was the ever-fluid present.

The emotion was so visceral, so intense in those moments that I was often embarrassed and humiliated by the heaviness.  I was "one of the only's," "the Cosby" at my school (calling it largely white would understate it).  That my father and mother were well-educated and had good jobs and provided for us well above even the national average allowed others to define us as "past all that."  But we weren't.  We aren't.  That our experience as middle class, educated, law abiding, good neighbors seemed beyond the norm was just the start of the misunderstanding.  That Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday was still being debated as a national holiday confused the young me.  That I celebrated in a church full of African-Americans and very few others hit it home.  This was my cross to bear.  Everyone else got to have the day off.

I supposed that my white friends were spending the day shopping or watching TV, hanging out, while the weight of my people and really the future of our nation, felt like it rested on my shoulders, or ours, as we endured to keep the memory, the truth, and the history alive.  I wanted everyone to be considering Martin Luther King, Jr. in the same way I was.  As a man, a true person, not just an idea, who lived and breathed among us, the same air I was breathing now, and who saw severe racism and institutional injustice and wanted it changed.  I felt burdened in a way different than my parents and their parents had because, according to so many who "don't see color" I was not living the outright barbaric terrorism of the times before the Civil Rights era and was living in a nearly all white community, proof to so many that things had changed.  But I still felt racism's sting in the subtlest of ways and much of it was internalized.  I still felt that it was mine to prove that we were equal, alike, multidimensional and multifaceted. 

It has been an interesting lesson for my husband and me as we teach our children who are biracial and bicultural  about this very particular man from this very particular moment and then open up the discussion to the greater topics of racism and equality, tolerance and acceptance.  They are so young and still at an age where they see the differences but do not have cultural references as to what those differences mean to some people.  Because I experienced that sense of other, I have been both protective of their feelings as such and have also opened the dialogue before their questions about otherness have even arisen.  Since they were very small, they have seen both of our families either in person or via Skype.  My husband speaks French with them and they see him speaking with his friends and family only in French.  We have looked at the map and the globe to discover just "how close and how far" we are to where Papa grew up.  We have visited with my parents and family full of aunts, uncles, and cousins down South in Virginia, Washington, DC, Georgia, Florida, and the Carolinas.  When we lived in Barbados, they saw what looked to them like a thriving nation where black and white people worked along side one another, where they saw many more people of color in positions of power, where racism was, of course,  in play, as it is everywhere, but where they were not isolated because of their racial make up, where they were, in fact, part of the majority.  They learned there about the East Indians and Chinese in the Caribbean through the friendships they made, and though they certainly asked questions about where folks came from, it was more a curiosity of geography than fear or confusion about race.

We have made it clear through our friendships and relations and the way we speak about all people that intolerance based on color, creed, religion, or sexual orientation will not be accepted in our home.  They have never said they wished they were not black.  Have never said they don't believe themselves to be beautiful.  Have never said that boys are smarter than girls, that white is better than black, that something is a girl game or a boy color or only for one group or another.  We talk about other peoples' customs and religions, even practicing some of the holiday customs and going to services when we can to demonstrate how all people are just striving for the same goals for their families.  And yet, when the specifics of the pre-Civil Rights era come up, I am taken back to that pain. 

As they have begun to learn the very cursory history and stories they are shocked.  If the separate water fountains and segregated schools are enough to burn their cheeks and hurt their hearts, imagine how they were brought to silence, sucking the insides of their cheeks, when I told them that Grandma and Grandpa had grown up, been little kids, just as they were now, and had lived this abject racism and in the case of my parents, poverty.  That Grandma and Grandpa and their brothers and sisters and so many other families and children just like them could not look away from it, rather had to live it and breathe it every day of their lives.  That their lives, in the minds of many, institutionalized in the country they called home, were not as valuable as the lives of others.  They see the absolute injustice right away and struggle and fumble for words.  It is not an abstraction talked about as if a bygone era, but a tangible truth for people they love and hold dear.  Because they still see us all as equal, they are just unable to comprehend.  This is how it hurts.  As the true terror and violence of that time comes to light for them, they will need the strength to endure and to forgive and to continue the legacy of a real, live man who gave his life in that struggle.  For them, a real, live man who looks like Grandpa, for whom their eyes sparkle and who is loved infinitely.

Both girls are extremely empathic and feel for others so deeply and compassionately.  I feel so lucky that we are the same in that way.  But they, as I long ago, cannot define how it hurts, just feel the lumps in their throats, the flush of their cheeks, the knot in their hearts and they weep.  They have cried for friends that "would not be our friends if the brown and the white could not be together."  The oldest has a dear girlfriend who said she'd just have to be in jail because she loved her friend so and would not put up with that nonsense.  I loved this comment more than I realized because it keeps returning to me, to my heart.  I love it because during those MLK celebrations of my youth, I would have loved a professing of love and commitment such as that from someone who "didn't have to," was able to choose her commitment to the rights of others when the privilege was hers.

I was a young person and am now a grown woman.  What I shared is not shame but the real visceral pain of that history, of what separation, exclusion, divisiveness of any kind does not only to us on a global scale, but what it does just to our own individual selves. We miss the true evolution of ourselves--physically, emotionally, spiritually, nationally, internationally, globally.  We miss transcendence if we cannot "lift every voice and sing."  I am working hard to keep that love in mine.  I hope as we celebrate the man and his actions, we each make a commitment to ourselves and our actions. 


(c)  Copyright 2014.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

Reposted: Massacre of the Innocents

As the 365th day since the Newtown massacre loomed and images of those lost were flashed on screens with soft music playing in the background, as interviews with their friends and families aired, and stories of even more gun violence continued to spatter any news cycle at any time, my sadness and sense of helplessness began to surge.  I wanted to say something but found myself mute.  Shaking my head and muttering to myself over again what seems to be so obvious.  We have to make this stop.  I share again my post from last year.  Thank you for reading.


Though a requirement for my Master's Degree, statistics have never been a strong suit for me.  I remember when first learning basic stats in high school there was mention about considering the stats rather than sample stories or examples because while the stories are compelling, they often do not show the bigger picture.  I know this to be true, and yet when I see statistics showing that gun violence is down since the 70s and 80s, that supposedly gun assaults and the US obsession with guns and other destructive weapons is on the decline, I am not put at ease.  I respond to the sample.  I see the killing, the killing, the senseless killing and have a hard time taking comfort in the decreasing numbers.  Though I do accept the mathematical equations showing decline, I wonder if there is not more to review here.  I am concerned about the causes of the new type of killer.  I remember our fears in the 70s and 80s because I was a child during that time.  We were afraid of gangs, the thriving, illegal, and suspect trade in crack cocaine, a drug that seemed to take over inner city neighborhoods in a season and then spread throughout the United States.  During that bloody terror, a war on drugs was declared and it was fought out in the streets.  This is not what we are experiencing here and the stats don't say anything of it. 

I am frozen, but not numbed, boiling inside, acid rotting my gut, my heart bleeding out of my chest. The phrase "the slaughter of the innocents" has been much used in the murder of those 28 people in Newtown, CT and it is so appropriate.  My oldest daughter is the same age as many of the victims of this crime and my anxiety was not well served by this news.  I envisioned her walking through the hallway, dragging her hand along the wall as she daydreamed and walked to or from the bathroom, thrilled at the little bit of freedom she'd found in the middle of her day.  I have seen so many of her peers do exactly that on days that I have visited her school.  They look with wonder and trust and awe at nearly everything in the world.  This is the age where kids are not quite jaded or "bored" by much of anything.  Where their curiosity is peaked by almost everything.  They pay attention because they are studying, learning, analyzing and don't pay attention for just the same reason.  The thought of all those little, peering eyes trying to compute what was unfolding before them makes me faint.  I mourn the massacre of these innocents and the loss of innocence of the poor, wide-eyed children who witnessed the murder of their classmates and teachers and professionals.

I cannot stand the argument that "we" care only when the tragedy, the massacre, the deaths of children and innocents hit close to home.  How can anyone know that?  How can they claim that?  Yes, it is true that the media chooses what to cover, works its angles to keep us all interested in their particular network.  I would support the idea that the networks and cable news channels make assumptions about what the viewing population wants, finds sensational or exciting, but I don't believe that there is a collective "we" that doesn't care about murder, massacres, and human suffering wherever it happens.  I believe there is a greater "we" that does.  Death, destruction, war whether in reality or in television, film, gaming doesn't appeal to us because we fear the darkness it dredges.  We hope, pray, occupy in the hopes that the world can rid itself of its blood lust.  Let's not insinuate that we only care about our homies as reason not to discuss what is wrong.  And indeed, something is wrong. 

Some of us may take our temperatures and find that we don't feel well, but others are burning up with fever, sick.  We are the kind of sick that we don't even want to talk about in our homes so we surely do not want to discuss in relation to the culture of our great nation.  The debate about how great, how marvelous, how special the United States of America is in so many ways is not in question. What I am talking about it the overachieving, over-reaching, striving, proud, miraculous image of strength that goes home and sees something entirely different in the mirror.  Emotional and spiritual wounds left unchecked for lifetimes.  Heavily medicated but not brought to light.  We spend so much time on our projections that we have lost how we truly feel inside.  We don't even talk about how we feel and if somehow you are someone who does talk about it or want to, you are considered the one who is fucked up.  There is no dialogue here, no discussion, no honesty, no admittance of our fear, our frustration, our concern for ourselves and for others, even on the small scale, so how can we begin the conversation about healing the American spirit, the American soul.

It is hard to argue that culturally and collectively, we like guns, cars, wide open spaces, our individuality, and what we consider our freedom, the right to do whatever we want, however we want, beholden to no one.  We are proud and we have reason to be.  It is no surprise that to much of the world, we are considered cowboys.  Ye,s there is the love of the wide open space, the hard work, the commitment, the dedication but there is also that stubborn, risk-taking, man-on-my-own, my-way-or-the-highway attitude that gets in our way.  It is hard to address our fears and our shortcomings when our pride refuses to allow us to even admit them.

The state of our mental health is terrifying.  If we suffered physical wounds as traumatic as some of the wounds we are carrying, we'd stop immediately to salve them, heal them, warn others how we hurt ourselves in order to prevent the same from happening to them.  But when we are hurt or damaged or in psychic pain, we don't want to talk about it.  No one around us wants to talk about it either.  We want to take something and hope that whatever it is we've just put in our mouths will make that hurt go away.  That's not working.  In the mass murders in Newtown, CT at the Sandy Hook Elementary school where a clearly wounded boy from a family that looks like many that I grew up around took from us all, but specifically from the trusting parents and families and friends who felt that they had the right to send their children to school to learn, the most precious, the most sacred gems of our community.  The babies.

Targeting children, aiming at the very physical symbol of our hope, our dreams, our joy, he ripped out our souls and showed us how we are all truly strung together.  Our souls pulled out like a string of paper dolls from a cut out.  In our children, some of us have found the only place for true, pure love.  We have given to them all in our hearts.  They have mapped on our souls.  We delight in their innocence, their openness, their trusting nature, the purity of their minds, hearts, and spirits.  When children are hurt, even accidentally, we are distraught.  When they are aimed at, when they are the target, we know we are dealing with a sick individual or a sick community or a sick state, country, world.  We fail them and ultimately ourselves, if we cannot admit this.  If we cannot find a way to make this different.  If we will not try to heal ourselves.

My daughters are now trained at school how to handle a "Code Red."  The first time my oldest described just what that entailed I stood, mouth agape, with tears coming down my face.  At 5 1/2 years old, she was prepared to stand on a toilet seat in the bathroom if she found herself in there alone and heard gunshots or the sounds of shouting or escalating violence.  She stood in closets, under desks, and contorted her body into large cabinets with her classmates and teachers "just in case there was someone who wanted to see his/her child so badly that they came into the school to get him," what she'd been told would be the reason for such a situation.  She knew if the teacher gave the class her "most serious face" then she and her classmates were not to make a sound or pass notes or try to run to one another across the room, the hall, the building, but were to stay put until a "real police officer or good person" came to get them.  She practiced this with the same ease as I long ago practiced the fire drill.  I tell myself, "we never had a fire at school.  All those drills.  More than likely, my kids will have only drills. 
. 
"That's what the statistics say," they will assure me.  But in the random sampling, young children, babies, and the people trained and hired to guide them, lead them, teach them, are dead.  And to me, no matter the numbers, we are more than the numbers.  We are human beings.  We are our brothers' keepers and we must do better than this.  We must still.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
(c)  Copyright 2013.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.

The Way Back

I've been reconstructing so much in my life of late.  We've been back in the States for a little over one year, have settled into an idyllic little town on the edge of glorious NYC.  I feel its presence, NYC that is, though I rarely make the trip in.  I tried to do some writing there for a few days but got distracted by all the life.  I figured I'd do much better writing in my local library where just my thoughts that needed processing could distract me.  And I am distracted.  While working like a maniac to give my girls the sense of family unity that I longed for, I've got years of sticky stuff clogging the pipes.  It has shown up in migraine headaches, panic and anxiety attacks, and near nervous breakdowns, though all of these seem to be on the wane. 

After what I will call euphemistically an eye-opening Thanksgiving visit with family, I returned home with a realization that I had to, needed to reconnect with and forgive my husband for what I felt was abandonment, disconnection, miscommunication during our years in Barbados.  No matter the difficult times, he always came back.  He never attacked me physically, verbally, or emotionally.  In fact, he never tried to hurt me ever.  He never left or turned his back even when I was foaming at the mouth.  He never fought, just looked at me with those soft, puppy dog eyes and probably wondered where the hell the beautiful, loving, fun, cool, sexpot of a girlfriend and wife had gone off to.  Wedded bliss and parenthood can alter a person.  Wrestling demons and cellular emotional poison can destroy one. 

As I walked through the gate at the airport on our return, two car seats, a stroller, an enormous 27-lb carry-on bag, two girls' jackets, and two girls in tow, I felt the weight lift.  I marched the girls through the terminal to baggage claim to get to their father.  Before we'd even made it, I saw his black coat and shy smile creeping around the corner.  He'd come as far as he could to meet us, was right at the edge.  We all ran to him, embraced, and relaxed into home.  We'd made our way back.  To see the girls and me hugging and kissing all over the man like we'd been gone five months instead of five days showed just how desperate we were to affirm our unit, our gang, our team, our family.  In my arrested development, I often found it difficult to "choose" between my two families--the one into which I was born and the one I'd made myself. 

I have often wondered if other people have this dilemma.  We answer a different call when we make our own families, play a different role.  In my family now, I am awesome.  I am beautiful.  I am funny.  I am smart, and silly, and talented, and a good cook. (Seriously.  I mean, I'm no chef, but the girls love my food and I have learned so much from my husband whether I wanted to or not!)  I keep a clean house, a fun house where everyone has a favorite place but no place is off limits.  I cannot help but get new things to make our home comfy and cozy and delight in the squeals and winks of my people when they see something new that makes them feel special.  We delight in each other even when we can't stand each other because the latter lasts only as long as whatever conflict has formed is resolved.  It doesn't linger until the poison fills up our veins.

Being a homemaker, whether one works outside the home or not, (I currently do not.) does not have to be mutually exclusive from being the same wicked hot, fun sexpot one was before getting married and making people.  This, I am working on.  In Barbados, it was easy to be cute with all the half- dressed, sun-dressed, no bra, sweatiness, hair in a disheveled ponytail, swimsuit as underwear hot, hot, blazing hotness going on.  But back on the East Coast, it became so easy to fall into sweatpants, loose fitting jeans, trainers, and formless t-shirts, even ones with cool band names, that I felt like I looked like a co-ed on a stay-in Friday night eating ramen noodles.  While I may not rock a heel every day, my high top, high heeled sneakers are doing the trick and a little mascara and lipstick when I am one bad item shy of a needed Oprah make over keeps me presentable and looking like I give a damn.

We are working on allowing ourselves breaks from the kiddles and as they get older this is much easier.  Though still slim on babysitter pickings, an afternoon at the movies or walking in the reservation, a cuddle and make out on the couch on his day off, or a movie and a glass of wine, no computers, no texting, no phone calls once the people are asleep has brought us back to each others' hearts.  I don't know if I ever left his.  He is slow burning, patient, watchful to my hysterical, freak out, nervous, at least in loving each other.  He is in it for the long haul.  He wants me, loves us.  And this realization on the way back from where-I'm-just-not-quite-sure gave new clarity and definition to what is MY family.

I woke up one day and discovered that I am one of the adults in this family!  Ha!  Not sure how this happened, but I chose to take it seriously, to commit, to handle it and I realized that it's actually quite fun (when it doesn't suck).  The changes to my perspective and in turn, to my outlook on our future and our success as a family have surprised me and given me tremendous hope.  Being in a family can be hard, but it doesn't have to be.  I surely do not want it to be in mine.



(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

Things I love, I am thankful

I am thankful for Lily's shy smile, Virginie's eyelashes, watching Lily dance when she thinks I cannot see her, Virginie's inquisitive mind, both girls' constant conversation, Didier's eyes darting from one place to the next while he thinks.  I love to watch my husband walking to the train from our window, his bouncy gait as enthusiastic and energetic as the little boy I imagine him to have been.  I am thankful that each day, whether we drive each other mad or not, Didier and I have something more to discover about one another and thus far, still think that's pretty freakin' cool.  That we adore and admire and support our children with the same intensity and joy.  I love the curiosity, the drive, the charisma, and character of my children.   I love that my people trust me when they look in my eyes and know that I'll always have their backs even if just moments before, I was yelling. I love that we come back to center after every argument, every tussle, every misunderstanding and love it out. We are a family and as it is the first bond, the first experience of community and strength, I want to give that to them hard, drill it in so they never forget and wander off or get lost.

I am thankful for the families that came together to produce me.  Two incredibly strong, motivated, devoted, exceptional families that valued honesty, truth, love, wisdom, service, community, and compassion over the superficial and shallow.  Two families whose matriarchs and patriarchs were willing to endure and suffer setbacks and slights so that their families, their progeny could go forward and soar.  I am so grateful for this blessing and so often let myself forget the strength and guidance given to me by all these people, all these folks, both when they were with me and in spirit.  I am thankful for my connection to the spirit, to the universe, to God without which I would surely have given up.  I am thankful that even when things are difficult, exhausting, terrifying, I want to live and live long.  I accept the responsibility of my lineage and feel blessed that it is mine.  I am thankful that I get to pass this on to my children.

I am thankful for my education, for all that I have learned in school and in life, even when the lessons were damned hard and I thought they might kill me.  I am blessed that the value of a good, proper education was given to me by my parents, their parents, and their parents' parents.  I know that being able to learn, to think for myself, to consider has provided me with many incredible opportunities and allowed me to see the world through eager, inquisitive eyes.  I am so happy to be able to share these wonders with the girls.  I am happy that close-mindedness, shallow thinking, hate, and disdain have not been allowed to take root in my heart or my mind. 

I am thankful that as I age it is still hard to tell just exactly how old I am (for others) and that my body continues to serve me well and that I am in good health.  I pray that I am able to be with the girls and my husband for a long time, a long, healthy life.  I am blessed that the early signs of middle age are creeping slowly and not coming quickly (though I'd love to spend a tiny bit more time in the gym working it all out.)  I have my mother to thank for that, at least her incredible genes, because she looks about fifteen to twenty years younger than she is and has stayed as youthful in spirit (or maybe it's the early onset of the "whatevs.")

My friends and family who have supported me, cared for me, loved me, given to me when I didn't dare ask but certainly needed it have my thanks and gratitude forever.  These gems have shaped my life, changed me and challenged me, begged me to get my lessons when I was violently opposed, blinded by my ego, hurt feelings, and fear.  There are hardly words to describe how that invisible safety net of souls feels when it lifts me up and stands me back on my feet.  Through the trials and tribulations of a life lived seeking the truth, these people are invaluable.  Accepting their guidance and spirit has been one of the greatest gifts of my life.  I am truly thankful.

The Thanksgiving brawls, physical, psychological, and emotional that must certainly attack more than just me, often try to steal my heart and turn it to coal, may try to threaten my sense of gratitude, may try to break my heart and render me thankless.  But even that won't do.  My life is blessed.  My heart is still open.  And I am thankful, thankful, thankful that I am able to continue to love.

Happy Thanksgiving.



(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

The Meet and Greet

I was not popular in high school.  I wouldn't say that I was unpopular either, but I certainly didn't strut around the place cocksure that I was loved, admired, or led a coveted life.  Funny how so much in the adult world takes you right back to those awkward feelings in the hallways of a place where everything was learned--intellectually, emotionally, strategically, socially.  I didn't hate my experience, didn't hate being odd man out, though it was often lonely and painful, well hidden behind a smile and eccentric wardrobe.  It was the 80s and though our neighborhood was integrated, there was no strong minority presence, so minority students were more like novelty acts, not headliners. 

Unlike teens today, I didn't plot to hurt other people when I felt hurt and didn't have social media to blow up other people metaphorically with photos, miserable, cruel texts, or revealed secrets.  I always thought that becoming successful would be the best revenge.  Success being measured more by my ability to get as far away from my hometown as possible, finding a mate, making a family, and just having a level of happiness that the torture of being in high school and living at home denied me.  I feel so good about the life I have made with my hubby and people, even when I am staring into space wondering how the hell we got here, begging the heavens for some guidance, direction, help when I just don't know what turn to take. 

But we live in our own sweet bubble.  We are protected in this place because we made it and invite in only those we want.  We are a family of four and any friends, family, acquaintances, or repairmen who get close do so with great scrutiny and testing.  Can't play right?  No more play dates.  Can't speak kindly?  No more phone calls.  Bring the bad juju?  Buh-bye.  In just one situation, however, I am thrown back to the feeling I had trolling the high school hallways when I bumped into someone at the top of the heap. 

A few nights ago, I forced my husband to come home early from work and attend a parents' night at Virginie's school.  Were we not meeting her teachers, I would have scrapped the whole thing entirely, but we were.  Meeting her teachers.  And her teachers have already told us some wonderful things about our baby.  Our baby who is 3 1/2 and trying to write her own name.  Who talks non-stop with big words in big sentences.  For her and for Lily, for each other, we will do anything.  So there I found myself, with my handsome French husband with no high school hang ups because it seems that high school BS is a distinctly American problem, but with absolutely no interest in these people, meeting and greeting in the school's gymnasium while the PTA hawked books for its fundraiser and folks smiled at each other and air kissed each other and chatted about their other kids at bigger, better schools, their wonderful vacations, exciting plans for their charmed lives.  I felt myself in braces, short spiky hair, and black wrestling shoes, in a sea of glamorous sorority girls. 

I know, I know they are not all alike, not all the same.  That we all have our crosses to bear and that the truth is often hidden behind those hair flips and blindingly flashy diamonds.  Just as years later, relationships that never formed in high school have been able to develop and blossom via social media after one heck of a twentieth reunion.  But the gut feeling is still there.  The lump in the throat still lingers.  Having spent those formative years in a nearly all white school, where just by nature of being different I found myself on the outside(not to mention the secret and not so secret racist ideals exhibited by some, but certainly not all in my community), it is hard for me to fully accept that I would be welcomed at these gatherings.  Despite my attempts at self-improvement and self-acceptance, my inner teenager feels inept, awkward, and nervous in the crowd.   In nearly every crowd, as I never quite fit in with the black bourgeoisie either.  Fitting in has just not ever been my strongest suit.

But as a friend told me (another isolate, though introverted and not extroverted as I am) for the kids, for their development, for their friendships and relations, we have to make that effort even if we are afraid.  Even if we fear judgment or attack.  Even if it kills us.  And you know, though it appears that this group is "keeping up" with each other, they are not checking for me.  I am not part of the game.  We had a perfectly lovely visit to our baby girl's school, enjoyed the projects and pictures posted all around for us to see, and even met some warm individuals.  I know the projection is mine to deal with, something I work on all the time.  But consider, if I, an outgoing, open, smiling individual fears being unwelcome, excluded and nearly missed such a wonderful event, how many others without the same social tools are avoiding all contact entirely?  Who are not sending their kids to these great schools.  Are not participating in events that can advance their children's education, experiences, development.  Who feel like the dream is not meant for them.

I will meet anyone, greet anyone,  if it means that I can hand over a place in the world for my people where they feel welcomed, considered, and included.  I don't think it serves them or me to isolate ourselves.  But I also hope that no one continues to keep their group closed, hiding all the assets and casting doubt that the world is indeed the oyster of everyone and not just a chosen few.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

A poor man's Sandra Dee, Hurricane Sandy Part I.

Leading up to what would become Hurricane Sandy, a Category 1 hurricane that came and decimated the state where I grew up and essentially became me, there were lots of silly graphics showing its path.  One that seemed to heavily make the rounds was one of Olivia Newton-John in the character of Sandy from Grease going from hair flipped, head-banded, kind-hearted Sandy to the fierce 70s-disco, Lycra-wearing, hair cork-screwed and wild, red Candie's slings, still kind-hearted Sandy.  It gave me a giggle but really, it didn't ease my fears.  After living through Tropical Storm Tomas in Barbados which kicked our asses and left us powerless and many waterless for five days (many more even longer than that) I knew there would be nothing cute and kind-hearted about it.

The Friday before the Monday storm, Didier and I began collecting supplies.  Batteries, cases of water, soup, snacks for the kids (and way too many snacks for the mommy), and gas for the tank.  We started charging the portable DVD players, yes players, downloading videos and games for the iPad, using and savoring the electricity.  On Saturday morning, in a panic, I ran to Target to get a portable radio to find that they were sold out, and were wiped clean of all the water and C and D batteries.  There were no flashlights, no tents, no lamps, lanterns, and very few coolers.  I bought a cooler and six rain ponchos.  We had five flashlights at home, bought as soon as Hurricane Irene had left us, because we'd been without even one when she hit.  After Target I went to Pathmark, not sure for what, where I bought more Halloween candy (just in case the storm tracking as a direct hit on New Jersey somehow diverted and went out to sea and we'd be able to celebrate).  There, I saw a woman buying twelve boxes of Wheat Thins.  "I love them,"she told me.  "And they are on sale!"  Then the nervous laughter.

Of course there have been other massive hurricanes and bad storms in New Jersey's history.  Just last year there was Irene.  But none had the size and scope and sheer power that Sandy was bringing and most felt powerless.  All the collecting and hoarding, removing Halloween decorations and tying down garbage cans, still did not provide comfort or ease the thickening air around us.  By Monday, school was cancelled in anticipation.  There was wind, but not much more than a typical windy or rainy day, and many said so, wishing their kids could be at school, hoping that this was all that was coming, that somehow the forecasters had gotten it wrong and that Sandy was just a little wind, a little rain. My stomach was in knots when it wasn't fluttering nervously wit butterflies.  I did laundry, cleaned the house, refused to allow the kids to use the iPad, but did allow about ten hours of television, expecting the cable to go.  And then we waited.

At about six-thirty we decided to head over to our friends' home on higher ground.  Last year during Hurricane Irene, the creek behind our house flooded and our street was evacuated in the early morning hours in pitch blackness.  I did not look forward to moving the girls during gale force winds and rain, so we got out of dodge and went a few blocks higher but still in town.  We were in the house probably fifteen minutes when the power flickered and then went out.  It would stay that way until...well, now.  Our dear friends still have no power and I imagine that all the promises and mixed messages regarding its return are have begun to roll off their backs.  They'll believe it when they see it.  They are better than I.  I just don't think I could do it with the girls, the cold, and the flashbacks of storms past.  Such is my constitution.  Our hosts, new friends, but incredibly warm, honest, and exceptionally decent, provided us all with shelter, warm beds, and good company.

While the kids went wild, having "the best sleepover ever" the adults sat at the table, opening lovely bottles of wine, falling silent only when a particularly strong gust of wind left us all with the feeling that the house might actually lift off.  In the distance we saw flashing blue light and I, for one, assumed that a silent thunderstorm was also raging.  Turns out the transformers in our small village were blowing one after another as trees and branches began battling with the power lines.  In the darkness we could only guess what was happening out there, all of us listening intently for the sound of a crash of wood on wood that meant a tree had fallen on the house or the shattering of glass.  Were it not for social media we would have been, quite literally, in the dark.  News of Freehold, the town where I grew up, and other parts of southern New Jersey and the shore came in like Morse code.  We got short dashes of information--power lines down, Atlantic City deluged, subway stations flooded--and envisioned the worst as we waited for pictures, all the while hoping that where we sat would not provide an equally devastating headline.

Bedtime for the kiddies was an enormous snugglefest with each tucked into a cute sleeping bag lined up like a row of princess pink and rainbow sardines and some sailboats on the end for the little brother of Lily's friend.  I want to say that they were out like a light, but I was summoned to sit with mine for a little bit.  Once all were fast asleep, I made my way back downstairs, where not a single adult was to be found.  I could see small dots of light moving about in the night so I opened the front door to the howling wind to investigate.  Walking through the yard and up the street were our hosts and my husband trying to make heads or tails of all the sounds and light flashes.  Fearful of being struck by something, anything dangerous, all made their way back inside to the comfort and safety of the house. 

Exhaustion came quickly, sleep less so.  As I began dozing off next to the hubby, I would shudder and twitch and jolt at every loud sound, strain my ears to hear any peep from this kids' room.  After hours of going in and out of consciousness, I heard Lily's whimper and went to the room to consult.  A quick visit to the bathroom and a plea for me to massage her aching legs (growing pains) changed the sleep arrangements and Lily followed me to the room where her father, her little sister, and I had arranged ourselves.  To prevent us from piling on top of one another, I proposed that Lily and I sleep on the floor.  Virginie came down too leaving just Papa on the bed and the three ladies curled up on the floor.  And even still I slept.  In and out.

In the morning we all ventured out to see what Sandy had delivered.  She'd come fierce and she'd come hard.  There were enormous trees mangled and twisted, lying in the streets, across power lines, on rooftops, and across gardens.  Power lines were everywhere.  We'd been spared the expected rain and for that we were most grateful.  Had severe flooding been added to the crazy mix we'd be weeks away from a return to basics instead of days.  After a morning coffee and breakfast, we packed up our things and head home to see how we'd fared.  As we zigzagged through our once idyllic community, absolute shock and awe struck our faces.  Everything looked the same and yet completely and totally different.  Our town felt vulnerable, raw, and stunned but also hopeful, motivated, and connected.  The invisible lines of community began to glow like energy bands from one to another.  People came out of their homes offering whatever they had, food, batteries, chainsaws, gas cans, skills and they started to immediately to try put it back together again. 

As we rounded the corner to our street we saw light.  Lights inside of our neighbors' homes!  Our street had been spared the power outage that has disrupted most of the area.  I heard music, tv's blaring, laughter. There were no downed trees, no power lines wiggling on the ground, no one outside.  Just blocks away there was an eery calm, a silence, just the occasional hum of a chainsaw or just started generator.  People were standing outside, staring in awe, thanking their stars the trees had fallen one way instead of another.  Sandy had danced through the fun house in her tight pants all over our township, but on our street, she was still a poor man's Sandra Dee, quiet, wistful, hopeful.  A wallflower.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

It seems we have found ourselves again waiting for a storm, a big one, er huge.  This time it is Sandy who will make our acquaintance either as a tropical storm or a hurricane some time this evening.  Schools and businesses, Wall Street, the market, the subways, and rail and road all closed down in anticipation.  After last year's storm, Tropical Storm Irene, and Tropical Storm Tomas that we endured while living in Barbados, we have just come to accept these storms as part of our lives.  I have been nervously laughing my face off over some of the posts on Facebook and other social media sites as we all anticipate our lady's arrival.  She looks to be tough, enormous, and strong.  With sustainable winds of up to 75 miles per hour, she will prove to be aggressive, destructive, and brutal. Wicked.  We fear the creek behind our house overflowing again and broken trees and downed power lines.  But for now, we are sitting in the house with pots and pans, garbage cans, and a tub full of water, with electricity fired up, waiting. 

And it is the waiting that is the hardest part.  While the husband, who thank God is home this time, and I watch the windows, check the space in the freezer for room to put more food when the power does finally go, review our cases of water, and all items to our evacuation bag, fret, the girls are dancing naked, playing golf in their Halloween costumes, and picking at their healthy lunch and devouring stolen junk food treats.  Didier is cracking me up with his meteorological knowledge delivered with the greatest French accent.  Nearly everything he says is funny enough to send me reeling.  It's a great distraction.

We are not sure what to do next.  Our original plan was to go to some friends' house to ride out the worst of the storm and avoid the possible flooding of the creek, but we are getting Intel that says the creek should hold.  There has been little rain of late so the creek is low and the reservoir has been drained to accommodate the expected rain.  It would be nice to stay home though I am certain I will not sleep more than a wink or two.  Anticipation is not something at which I excel.  In fact, the craziness of this wait has led me to early afternoon alcohol consumption.  I feel better now.

The wind and rain has begin to kick up though it is still bearable.  In anticipation of what is to come, I have found some of my old posts about past storms from City Mom in the Jungle.  Please enjoy.


Hurricane Irene:
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2011/09/and-then-hurricane.html


Tropical Storm Tomas:
http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/11/tropical-storm-tomas-arrives-i.html

http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/11/tomas-home-alone-with-no-power-ii.html

http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/11/tomas-starting-to-fade-into-light-iii.html


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.

Two years ago...give or take

My family and I had such an incredible weekend that started with a Shabbat dinner with a lively, eccentric, creative cast of characters, wonderful food, and dancing on the tables (well, for the kids, those days are long behind me) and ended with a supremely enjoyable grown up evening in the dining room with the parents of one of Lily's dear classmates, where plans were made to bring our craziest crazies for a kind of show and tell, while the kiddles went wild in an adjacent room. WILD.  There was nudity, crying, laughing, costume changes.  The kids seemed to be having a ball too.  I tease.  Only the kids were doing all that stuff.  Except for the crazy crazies.

It has been said that when you have kids you can meet some of the best people through their match ups and this was one of those cases. Our hosts were gracious, funny, opened lovely wines, served great food, and we, though fearing that the way-past-bedtime sleep time would lead to a supernova meltdown (it so did), just didn't want to leave or let it end. Going to sleep that night with a swirly brain and vice-tightened headache forming from all the good wine, oh and Cognac and Armagnac, I thought back to where we were years ago. Years ago when I was praying for relief and a return to something normal. And this is what I found. 


http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/10/and-then-deluge.html

http://citymominthejungle.blogspot.com/2010/10/barbados-staycation.html



(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

My first true love

John Taylor is pimping a memoir called, In the Pleasure Groove:  Love, Death, and Duran Duran.  More than twenty years ago, I stood in line, in the rain, outside of Tower Records on Newbury Street in Boston and waited with what seemed like one million other fans to see/meet/greet/kidnap the band as they promoted Big Thing.  Twenty years ago, I felt long in the tooth, shy, embarrassed that these people, this band, still pulled at my heart strings so.  So imagine my surprise when, watching Nigel John Taylor, Gemini, bass player of one of my favorite bands of all time, Duran Duran, talk about his memoir on the Today Show (the Today Show that I'd abandoned since their wack-assed hatchet job of Ann Curry) I felt my heart sink to my stomach and had tears well up in my eyes.

Hey, I just met you.  This is crazy.  No, seriously.  John Taylor was, for me, the beginning and the end in 1982 to 1984.  It's easy for me to joke and tease my young self now.  To the outsider it seems like the usual boy-band craziness-- screaming girls, undulating en masse to a band of semi-talented pin ups who in a very short span of time rake in money, fame, excess, until said screaming girls grow up and tire of them, moving on to something new.  I will argue to this day that Duran Duran was one of the most underestimated groups in terms of songwriting, musicianship, and influence, but my connection to them and to John Taylor in particular, was not related to my thesis on their musical achievements and prowess, but on the emotional quality of their songs, the imagery created in their lyrics, that they were art students, outsiders, freaks and geeks, until they weren't.  I wanted to get to the "until they weren't."

Watching John Taylor on television I was struck by how well preserved he is.  He was elegant in that laissez-faire European kind of way, articulate, charming, humble, grounded.  I appreciated his honesty and candor, while at the same time tried desperately to control my inner tween (a phrase not yet coined when I was indeed, "in between") from melting and oozing my heart down to my weakened knees.  What I longed for in 1982 when I discovered these chaps from Birmingham, was freedom, release, love, things that my twelve year old self was not experiencing.  My life was already scheduled, each day, month, year already planned.  I lived in the suburbs.  We travelled mostly to see family in other parts of the United States, primarily along the eastern seaboard.

I couldn't imagine finding a place where I could just be myself and be loved and appreciated for that.  Where I could discover myself, make mistakes, make a fool of myself without the judgment of my peers.  As one of just a handful of black or minority students in my community, I couldn't envision a place where I didn't have to explain or describe myself all the time, or worse, hide my true self for fear of being humiliated or exposed for being different.  Unless one has lived the experience of being completely outside the dominant group, it would be impossible to understand just how debilitating and lonely it can be.  Add to it an emotionally oppressive home life, where no one talked of their feelings or their passions or anything really, and a desperate New Romantic was born.

The lyrics were poetry to me.  The grooves boomed deep into my core, John Taylor's bass guiding the songs to the catchy refrains.  I may have called JT my husband or talked about how cute he was every day, but the truth was I just wanted to be included, to be part of a special group.  I pinned all my hopes on a distant star, wrote long rambling letters to them about my loneliness, certain that if John Taylor from Duran Duran could validate my existence then I truly had a place in it.  It breaks my heart to confess, and yet my longing, my need, my open, bleeding heart became more compassionate, more connected, more alive in being a fan.  I saw other countries, people from those places, became interested in poetry, art, music, and the world just by following.

And then this morning, there he was on TV.  Pensive and handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, curious.  And there was I--older, wiser, married, a mother, artistic, thoughtful, curious.  In that time, John Taylor had become a contemporary.  And while my love for John Taylor is unrequited and I never received a single letter in response to my thousands sent, my feelings for the man, for the band, have not changed, though they have softened.  I have my own pensive, handsome, well dressed, accented, artistic, thoughtful, and curious European to handle.  And with him, I have dreamed about the world, traveled, made a family, opened to all possibility.  He might never have found me, had JT not paved the way for him. 


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

Between a rock and hard place: A story in sleep torture

It seems that mine is a life of sleep deprivation and contorted positions.  Before Lily was born I'd been given stern warning by mothers and women, friends and strangers even to get my rest.  "Sleep now," they'd say,"because it all goes to hell when the baby is born."  How could I have known, a single girl well into my thirties, who'd been able to drop in and out of bed whenever I chose, whose boyfriend/fiance/then husband was still willing to put some tape across his nose and rid himself of the rhinosounds, squeaks, and hisses, and who was still able to put in earplugs because the only thing she'd had to listen out for was, well, nothing, that these ominous warnings would predict a future so bleak that I should have been lying down all day every day?

Last night after a particularly grueling evening suffering with abdominal pain, I was forced to confront the three year old who threw down in an epic overtired, overexcited, pre-bed temper tantrum that went on for over an hour and caused lots of tears and stress for the entire family.  It appears that though she is relatively newly potty trained, Virginie would prefer never to have a pull up touch her little hips, save for during intense #2s, nor would she like to have to brush her teeth two minutes after her big sister.  None of this was shared, however, before the Exorcist-like knock down that took that wide-grinned whippersnapper and turned her into a mean Gremlin that ate way too much after midnight.

We moved from room to room allowing the tantrum to unfold, but never leaving her alone to feel alienated or rejected, though this is exactly how I felt.  I reached for her and held her tight, wrapping her flailing arms and legs in a kind of burrito to try to bring her down.  She turned it up a notch to hysteria.  I tried to dial it down to Zen but got closer to weeping willow.  She finally spun out and collapsed in the bed with me.  She wore no pull up, had brushed her teeth in the dark after her sister, was sweaty with curls stuck to her cheeks, and continued that trembling sigh that signals crazy-wild crying had taken place, and looked as angelic as that little puppy that has torn to shreds your favorite shoes, but is just so cute with the bits and pieces all around her.  I was knackered.  Just wanted to get to sleep.  My poor husband would have to miss his birthday "present" for this evening.

As we drifted off to sleep, exhausted and saddened, frankly, by the evening's turn of events, I started massive, heavy dreaming right away which usually tells me that I too am overtired.  When the spirits overtake me in slumber, provide wild visuals and what I often accept as secret messages, it means Mumma's ass is bushed.  Not sure how long I was lost in outer space when someone, tapped me on the arm to invite me to visit the toilet with her for company.  Lily often asks permission to do the most mundane tasks.  "Excuse me, Mommy, can I please play in my playroom?  May I wash my hands?  Can I go to the bathroom?"  Tonight it was a special invitation to watch her pee and then get in the bed with her to snuggle.  Thank you.  We cuddled up together, she surrounded by cute and cuddly stuffed animals, me lying on the connection point between two twin beds pushed together, with a now moist and cold Virginie rolling into me as though I were an electric blanket. 

Once both girls were fully asleep, I was able to extricate myself by completely flattening my body and slithering to the floor and rolling out the door.  I returned to my own comfortable bed to be confronted by snoring that rocked the walls.  My dear husband has not ever accepted my video proof of his snoring rattling the house and was not going for the pushes, taps, and nose pinches I offered last night either.  I can assure you that if you listen closely at the front door of the house, you can hear this poor sod all the way from our bedroom.  While he insists he cannot make that much noise because he does not have sleep apnea, which he calls ap-nay because he is saying it as one would in French, I have reassured him that of course he does not have ap-nay.  He just has an incredibly loud breathing situation that appears to make him stop breathing for a second and catch his breath again like apnea but is in no way apnea.  Whatever it is, I lay next to him each night with a foghorn ringing my inner ear until I cannot take it any longer and return to the pinch point in the girls' bed.

During our first months in Barbados, Virginie was a tiny little thing, just barely four months old.  Though we'd been wildly unsuccessful getting Lily to sleep in the crib years before, we felt confident that starting the process all over again with a more stubborn, willful child would/could yield better results.  I did manage to get Virginie in the crib, God bless me.  But in order for her to stay there and sleep the night, I would have to lie on the floor on a yoga mat with my hand reaching up to her.  After years of sleeping in Lily's toddler bed, this was a marked step in the wrong direction.  I was beginning to feel like a failure and I was damned tired.  I finally gave in and put two twin mattresses on the floor in the girls' room and slept with them every night.  This ensured at least five hours a night before one of the two people answered nature's clock and woke with the cocks and the baby sea turtles.

I have raised those mattresses with bed frames and a feather bed and carry one of the pillows from my own bed to theirs so as not to feel like a total loser but the truth is I have not had a good night's, seven to eight hour, refreshing, rejuvenating sleep in nearly seven years.  I should have heeded that advice and tried to bank it long ago.  For now it's green juice and hemorrhoid cream on the eyes in the morning and quick cuddles by my captors.  Stockholm syndrome-stylie, I have given in to them.  Every once in a while I close my eyes for a few minutes while sitting on the couch, watching soccer practice, or listening to one of the people regale me with tales of their lives or better yet some crazy detail from one of their favorite television shows, and I think, then say out loud, "Don't tease me.  I'm awake" 

Night night.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

How I spent my summer vacation

The weather this Labor Day weekend did me a great service.  The overcast, rainy days, with low clouds and high humidity still blinded me and forced me to wear my sunglasses, but provided a definite end to the glorious, sunny days of summer.  In just a couple of days, Lily will be a first grader and yesterday's trip to Target finalized the mandatory shopping (tissues, hand sanitizer, pencil box, folders, crayons).  We spent the last few weeks of the summer traipsing back and forth between home and Southampton, NY where the husband's employer and family relocated for the hazy days of summer.  They were kind enough to rent a little house for our family in North Sea, and though we didn't spend any of the early summer there, it quickly became our "summer house" to the girls where we explored, relaxed, and regrouped.

The end of the summer brought for me, a love and a joy I have not felt since my childhood.  I allowed myself to feel carefree, relaxed, unencumbered, all of which are extraordinarily difficult for me.  Early summer was scheduled with camp and community pool time, play dates and playground visits, and while entertaining enough for the people, left me feeling overscheduled and busy, tense, guilty, and so adult.  Stressed.  I looked at the girls' time away from school and extracurricular activities as a punishment and not as a gift.  I was constantly looking for a distraction--Facebook, Pinterest, magazines, rearranging the attic--and couldn't bring myself to just give up plans of my own and just be with the people.  A neighborhood girlfriend told me to chill out, embrace the time with Lily and Virginie, just be.  A late spring reading with an incredible psychic and clairvoyant encouraged the same.  Claire, as the psychic is called, foresaw small trips and travel for the girls and me, events that would bring us closer, open my eyes to them, inspire.  I couldn't have known how right she would turn out to be.

Our first trip out to the island, Didier and I packed the car with clothes, swimsuits, food, toys, books, magazines, an iPad full of games and movies, a portable DVD player, paper, crayons, art materials, and scooters.  I didn't want to find myself out in the middle of nowhere with two kiddles staring at my face.  I have mentioned numerous times that driving is not my favorite parental responsibility, and a part of me hoped that everything we'd want to do would be within walking distance.  On arrival it was more than obvious that this would not be the case.  Thanks to our Garmin GPS, I was willing to brave a new locale and landscape and took the girls immediately to a rocky beach on the bay side.  We collected white stones, pink rocks, and the tiniest transparent yellow and orange shells that looked like flecks of candy or spun sugar.  We would skip rocks across the water, load our pockets with our cache, and take pictures of each other.  Yes, I put my camera in the hands of the wees.  I asked them to think about how everything looked in the viewfinder, teaching them about composition, light, and contrast. Baby steps, of course, but the conversation has begun.  They took loads of pictures.  I caught myself smiling, really smiling in some of them.  It had been a long time.

Watching the sun set from the beach or outside our little cottage, we'd talk about things we loved, things we wished for.  I told them stories about when I was each of their ages and watched their eyes bug out trying desperately to visualize how it could even be possible that I was once a kid.  We'd go home to dinner, experiencing our night time rituals with a new perspective in a new location.  We could hear the crickets chirping and if we stood outside could see only stars, millions of stars.  We talked about the universe and God, angels and spaceships.  The three of us slept in a king-sized bed in the master bedroom while Didier was relegated to the guestroom in a smaller bed but with much more room and certainly more quiet.  I did cartwheels and handstands that I paid dearly for the next morning with charlie horses and cramped muscles or a spasm in my back.  But it was worth it to just be with them.

They ate popsicles and ice cream sandwiches, sometimes two a day, and did tricks on the Macked out playground in Southampton.  All of us drew countless Rapunzels (Virginie's absolute favorite) and colored them in, and lay in the grass or jumped about in the Zen rock garden out back.  I drank wine while cooking dinner and sang classic rock songs at the top of my lungs.  Just like in Barbados, the girls sat about naked wasting time without a care in the world.



I felt grateful and excited for fall to come, for school, for change, for dropping temps because fall, always high on the season list (coming in close with spring) made me long for closeness, being held, cuddled, snuggled.  I thought of blankets, fleece vests, scarves, and soft hats.  Fall signifies a chance to hibernate, go into ourselves, regroup, then rest, only to do it all again.  It was the changing seasons I missed most in Barbados.  That and some temperature control. 

The girls and I made many trips between home and the Hamptons this summer, each time new discoveries and revelations were made.  We met new friends, realized new talents ("monkeybarring," bike riding, drawing), and grew more tolerant of each others' personalities and eccentricities.  I was willing to love them all the way and be loved by them in this beautiful landscape.  I've realized that I often don't want to slow down, stop and smell the roses so to speak, because in doing so I will feel, all the way, burst with a love that can only be contained if I keep moving, move myself to distraction, and deflect.  It isn't that I don't want to feel it, who doesn't?  Just that I have never learned the pure joy of a love like that and it's depth, which I have only tickled with my toes, leaves me gasping for breath.

When we drove away from the house in the middle of the night after Didier had worked a long shift at his employers' home, I felt a real longing for more journeys like this one.  Turning to see the girls curled up in their carseats fighting sleep but dozing off, I planned more of them.  I couldn't predict exactly what we'd be doing, but I knew I wanted more with these people.  More summers.  More living.  More life.


(c)Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.

Silly Mommy, Playdates are for kids!

I spend so much time with my girls on our own, especially during the summer, that we often joke about being a little team.  We eat, sleep, hang out, swim, drive, play together and in between meet up with other mommies and their troupes, go shopping, and talk about life.  I ask them lots of questions and give them answers that I hope are empowering and uplifting, answers that I hope will strengthen them and give them courage.  So when Lily had a playdate this afternoon and a family pal came over to play with Virginie, I found myself the odd man out.

I spent the first hour sitting outside with Lily and her friend, Virginie hanging on the edge of their play,me listening about three yards away, chiming in when I thought the conversation or action needed to move along and basically, occupying myself by being completely involved in their game.  It would have been pathetic if I didn't become so acutely aware of it and pull back.  It started to drizzle, so I had the girls come in and continue their fun at the dining table.  We had popcorn and juice and worked on drawings of Lalaloopsy and Rapunzel, with my flourishes getting lots of attention and providing many hand cramps.  When they moved on to the next activity, dress up in the playroom, Virginie's friend had arrived and I realized that the time for me to roll back had come.

Playdates don't have to be Camp Mommy for all the kids who come over.  In fact, they'd prefer if I would just leave them be and hang back, available if real help is needed, but not really part of the action.  If they want to make a mess, draw, glue, glitter, dress up, dance, sing, pretend to be rebellious teenagers, what they don't want is my middle-aged behind somehow intervening or, worse, getting in on the action.  I am now sitting in the dining room on the computer, writing, reading articles, watching the clock, and listening.  The girls are having a ball.  Lily just shouted out something about making their own rules and they all cheered.  The little ones are dressed as a bee and Ariel the Mermaid respectively and the two older ones (all of six years old) are dressed as beautiful princess-explorers.  The playroom is a mess.  I have said only once, okay three times, that whatever mess is made has to be cleaned by small people, but other than that, I have stayed out...well, except to pick up the popcorn bowls.  I don't want ants.

This is a good lesson for protective, attentive me.  They want some down time, some alone time, some being on their own time.  And so do I.  I love the people they are becoming.  I love that they have their own friends and their own rules.  And even though this crazy shindig is going on at my house and I will deal with the aftermath of cleaning, vacuuming, straightening, I am grateful to be this fly on the wall into their characters, friendships, and development.  When the day is done, and the girls are falling asleep telling me the things they loved about this day, I know that they will be thankful for this time.  And completely worn out.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama:  Back to the Suburban Grind.

Summer Hiatus

Now I get it.  When I was a kid I just could not understand why all my favorite television shows had season finales right before school ended and did not start up new episodes until after the first week of school.  Except for camp and running amok in the neighborhood, I knew I could be there, why couldn't they?

I have been trying to write these past few weeks and have been failing miserably.  I am not suffering from writer's block.  In fact, I have had enough ideas to fill a small notebook that I keep by the bed.  My problem is that, as summer winds down, I find myself lounging at the shore, watching the girls do tricks at the pool, going to the park to help Lily master her bike riding, visiting the library to excite the girls to read as a summer pastime (really an all the time pastime but summer reading can be especially juicy).  This is the time to slow down, to be with my thoughts, to prep for a return to work, when being focused on my projects and timelines, deadlines, and bottom lines is discouraged by everyone.

I realized this week that by next, nearly all of our friends and acquaintances will be gone, abandoning town for one last hurrah at the shore, in the Caribbean, on the Cape, in the Hamptons and I hope that we, too will be doing the same.  It looks as though the hubby just might have an extra day or two to spend with the people and me, and I hope we are able to do it away from home. 

It is pointless to try to do anything else but relax, something I am quite inadequately trained to do.  Today, though I have the girls myself and have since Wednesday, I decided to use my free time between playdates, pool visits, and neighborhood family wind downs (basically kids running ragged in the backyards and on sidewalks, throwing and kicking balls, riding scooters and bikes, sidewalk chalk drawing, and holding on to the last moments before sleep, while the parents chat and catch up), to rearrange all the cupboards in the kitchen.  This after packing and labeling all clothing to be donated or consigned for men, women, and children, as well as toys and shoes, and some electrical equipment during yesterday's break.  That started after a visit to Target where the school shopping commenced and I began preparing for Lily's needs for the school year.  Rather than just start buying, I wanted to see what we were working with which meant...working.  (She needs quite a few things actually.)

Tonight, after the girls were long asleep and the dishwasher hummed its way through the heated dry cycle, I worked on long-overdue thank you notes, folded laundry, and started this post.  I'm not really ready for something new, it appears.  This is the catch up on old episodes, finding out if there is anything I have missed, preparing for the school year, creating new worlds to obsess over on Pinterest time.  Sooner than I think we will settle back into the school year and its energy, soccer practice and games, ballet, and new activities.  We will have new friends, new teachers, new class parents, and new shows.  For now we are sticky with chlorine, salty from the ocean, relaxed in our attitudes and time tables, overdosed on ice cream, popsicles, and lightening bugs (fireflies).  We wait for falling stars, linger as the night falls, go to sleep with ceiling fans and the light chirping of the crickets, make paper airplanes, draw Rapunzels with sidewalk chalk, and do hopscotch until Mommy gets out or tired.

We are having our break together and though I want to write something, share it, connect, we are just four points right now and those lines might be the only ones I can completely commit to connecting.  The time will come, and I know it is soon, that I can get back to the other creative work in my life but at present it's projects, splitting blades of grass, drawing Rapunzels in the driveway, swimming, giggling, staying up late.  I am on hiatus with my people and working hard at chillin' the f*** out.


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.

The Cover Up

While we were in Barbados, sweating our respective boobs and balls off (inside joke between the Mr. and myself but surely it is well understood by all), the least amount of clothing on land and sea was acceptable if not appropriate.  It was damned hot.  I wore a bikini on arrival and I had a newborn with me in tow and could not muster enough to really give a damn.  I couldn't even imagine swathing myself in so much cloth as to cover my entire midsection.  I spent two years never wearing socks, a bra, blowdrying my hair, or doing anything that might make me too hot.  Perhaps at times it was indecent.  I can only even consider that now as I find myself crowded in Suburbanation at the community pool.


There are all types of bodies at the pool ranging from letting it all go to incredibly hot.  What seems to be stressed in the mommy set, certainly not in the teen/pre-teen set where kinda anything goes, is modesty.  Even on the days where the temps reached over 100 degrees Fahrenheit there were cover-ups, shorts, tankinis, ruffled tops, etc covering all parts.  I gave it a go in a few Barbados staples for the first couple of visits and then gave in and bought a tankini top.  It's cute.  I'm totally not hot.  At least I don't want anyone to think I am or that I am trying to be.


Funny enough, in Barbados I could be wearing a tiny little bikini, sitting at a bar or on the beach and did not feel self-conscious in the least.  Yet out here I am stressed that all the wiggly bits are just too wiggly, that my suit is revealing the hours spent outside of the gym, and I find safety and security in my striped swimmy tank top that has signed me up quickly for the MahJong with the ladies in a week or two.  For some reason, here I care what someone, anyone might think about me, and have found safety in the fabric.  The tankini is like sunglasses for the body.  I can have my private time while still looking around.

I always imagined myself Jerry Hall style, rocking a hot bod, baby on the hip, bikini under some incredible caftan, gorgeous, talented man giving me the goo-goo eyes in the blazing hot sun, not giving a damn.  Barbados took the hubby away with that crap job where he worked pretty much non-stop, and the suburbs has taken all the rest of it.  Well, the babies grew up.  Now they are just in tow with all their toys and snacks and towels and chatter.  We eat chicken fingers at the snack bar, take ice cream with us on the way out.  I wade in the middle pool with the people, where they can touch the bottom and swim about freely, and I can hope for a friend with kiddles to chat with or else stare into the landscape while popping in and out of kiddie convo.  "Watch me!  Watch me!  Watch me!  Mom, look!"  I take a moment to astrally travel before coming back down.

Perhaps it is still all me.  I've struggled with the suburbs all my life.  I feel self-conscious (a kiss of death), too much, overwhelming, and ridiculous out here.  I think too much about it, consider it, consider it all, and just want to cover up.  Middle age has crept up on me and taken me back to the insecurities of my teenage years.  I imagine that this is how people get so tied up in their kids, or use them as an excuse, a way to deflect the focus or the spotlight from themselves.  No matter how I feel about myself out here, I feel like my girls are awesome, that I can give them more than I have, that they can be better than I ever felt.  In their names I will march all over that community pool looking for toys to play with in the baby pool, encourage them to swim and search for dive sticks in the middle pool, change my clothes in the parking lot with the doors opened covering up any jiggly bits. 

I will go every day so that they can swim and play,  There's really is no place for me to hide anyway.  I believe that I am back here in the suburbs, back here in New Jersey, where I'd said I'd never return to heal old wounds, to make amends, to get to a place of peace.  I know I can't move forward without it and I can't fully love me up if I still feel like I have to rock the tankini when I have a bikini heart.  Even if/when the bikini body fades.  Especially then.  We can't cover it all up.  Why cover up any of it?


(c)  Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.

Everyone is special

There is a big difference between teaching one's children that they are special as in relevant, important, valuable, and just all-around awesome, and letting them believe that their being called special makes them the most relevant, most important, most valuable, only awesome human being on the face of the earth.  I have witnessed, of late, too much of the latter.  My girls know just how special they are to me and their father, their extended family, and their friends.  They make no assumptions about how important they are to others, accepting that their behavior and how much fun they are to be with will determine if they are successful in their playground, swimming pool, and playdate excursions.  We have been loving but strict in our raising of the people because we have accepted that the responsibility of raising our children, helping them develop into kind, considerate, open, loving, welcoming, empathetic adults begins with us.  There is no getting around it.  The buck stops with us.  While we have been blessed with wonderful teachers, caregivers, and neighbors who lend a hand in keeping the girls on the straight path, at the end of the day I have no one to answer to but myself.  That's the hard part.  That's being a good, attentive, conscientious parent.




The conversation often starts like this.  "Your girls are so nice, so well behaved.  It's different with boys.  Boys are wild.  You can't hold them to anything.  Just have to get them outside and let them burn off all of that testosterone."  I don't have any boys but I don't accept that what their parents say is true.  Or like this.  "She just doesn't think we are that cool.  She's always rolling her eyes when we come up with things to do together."  The truth is, we are asking different questions of ourselves as parents and are certainly demanding different things of our children, if we are even asking questions at all.  I keep hearing my contemporaries say things like, "My kids don't listen to me.  He is always telling me what to do.  So and so will go ape shit if I don't buy such and such for him/do something or other for him/be whatever to him."  Yeah, no.  The center of our personal universe cannot be the little sun gods and goddesses unless we want to continue to populate our planet with self-absorbed, inconsiderate children who don't grow up, cannot empathize with others, and have little respect for themselves or anyone else.


Don't get me wrong.  My people are my sun, moon, and stars and they too work daily at beating me down into submission. It's almost a profession to them.  I still want them to have whatever it is I can give them, to see whatever it is I can show them, to do whatever it is I can offer them.  But a little perspective.  They are aware that I am doing for them and they respect my efforts, at least they are learning to.  They do not believe under any circumstances that everything they get is a right or worse that they are so special that they deserve it while some other child is not and does not.  They are learning from me with kindness and love that there are indeed other people on earth besides themselves with needs, desires, dreams, loves, etc.  I say with kindness and love because I, in no way, wish to humiliate them into recognizing others, nor do I wish to impose on them rules that they cannot fully comprehend.  I won't yell at them or force them to give something up.  I want them to know it within themselves that we are connected to everyone else and that we give as a desire to fulfill our souls as well as to bring joy to others, that we care in order than no one feels unimportant or alienated, and that doing so brings joy back to us. 


I recall months back a commencement speaker who told a class of graduating seniors in Wellesley, Massachusetts that they were not special.  Mr. David McCullough, Jr. was not just telling these kids that they were not special, that they were not important, that they did not count.  In fact, he was telling them that they had a responsibility to live up to all they'd been given as a privileged lot "pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped."  He also encouraged living life for one's self, not for the approval or accolades from others, to find inner strength and guidance.  It was, to many minds, long overdue and a good dose of reality for the best and brightest of just one community.  As Mr. McCullough stated, even if you are one in a million, there are still nearly 7000 just like you.  Do something.  Get out there and prove it.  Get out of your own head, out of your fantasy, and get out there.


Though I could have used a bit of a pump up at times as a kid and maybe a "Whoot, whoot!" when I achieved something beyond my sense of myself, I respect and appreciate this message.  The commendations and celebratory gestures cannot come with such frequency as to render them moot.  We pay a lot of lip service but often shy away from the complete commitment to teaching, leading, and guiding our people.  Every act isn't stellar, every attempt is not a win.  Encouragement is meant to point our children in the direction of achieving in whatever arena.  Identifying others' feelings and perspectives is tantamount to eventually giving a shit about anyone but one's self.  Watching Lily patiently wait for a friend to learn a new skill, egging her on, offering her words of support makes me so proud.  She wants success not only for herself, but for a friend.


We need to start thinking about the messages we send kids and how we send them.  Words of encouragement like, "You can do it," "you can do anything you put your mind to," or "Keep it up, keep it up.  Practice makes perfect," let kids see that there is work to put into things they want to achieve in life.  Then we have to let them strive for the goal on their own.  We are there for support, but the goal should be theirs to reach.  When Lily was shy to read aloud, I caught myself willing her to do it so desperately that my energy around her and this issue felt overwhelming and pushy.  I stopped and asked myself, "What if she is not the best reader in the kindergarten?  Do I really think this is going to affect the entire outcome of her life?"  I remember being pushed in school to achieve and excel, even in areas in which I had little interest.  I want Lily and Virginie to get a sense of themselves and what they like, to do it with safe parameters, and with my guidance.  But I do want them to feel that sense of achievement when all the right tools, guidance, and their intelligence and efforts come together.  That is special. 


We need to encourage our children to consider the other people around them, especially when they are getting snot-nosed, indignant, aggressive, and bratty.  I hear lots of conversation about "how do you think that makes so and so feel?" but I don't see the commitment to helping the child understand.  They get lip-service and they absolutely understand when you are committed to what you are saying, what you mean.   We cannot be surprised if our kids are disrespectful, bored, entitled, and spoiled without taking a look at how we are engaging with them, how we talk to them, and what we expect of them.  If we expect nothing, other than that they be special, then we will have to live with the outcome.  If they are telling us to shut up, that they are mad at us for any "indiscretion", or if we let them dictate how they would like us to behave in their presence without explaining the differences between adults and children, the expectations of adults and children, what is required to have peace in one's home replete with respect for self and others, we can only imagine how they are treating others.  And we should feel responsible.


An impressively intelligent, precocious child, a prodigy, an athletically gifted youngster should still know that his or her gifts are a wonderful blessing but do not excuse him from the rules of kindness and decency.  Everyone is indeed special.  And a compassionate, loving, and gifted person can change the world.


(C) Copyright 2012.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.