Variety Show is the Spice of Life

Last year, when Lily was in kindergarten, there would be mornings when the principal and school staff would crank up the tunes and get the kids motivated for school and learning.  There was the Macarena and the Hootie Hoot dance, done for the school's mascot, a crazy looking owl who encouraged the kids to get moving and get in the school and learn something.  And there was often Lily in tears or visibly trembling because I had somehow tried to move her little body into a wiggle or get her to feel the rhythm or the beat.  She was mortified, frightened stiff by the thought of people seeing her dancing.  Though she took ballet, she was rather shy about performing and certainly didn't want the "entire school" as her audience. 

I spent my entire youth from four to seventeen in a dance studio.  At some point in my life I would have told you that I'd hoped to be a dancer.  I loved the freedom of movement, the spiritual and emotional freedom denied me in my home life, the letting go.  Though I was shy to speak publicly (in the early years), I felt safe and comfortable with dance to communicate my connection to people, to everything really.  I loved it and I was good at it, so that helped.  When Lily began to show promise in dance, I assumed she'd want to put it all out there, so to speak, but she really saved it for the dance studio.  I let it go as I didn't want to push my girl into anything that felt uncomfortable for her.

And then at the end of last school year came the drumming concert run by the music department.  Lily stood center stage dancing to the rhythm of the maracas, the bongos, the congas, and a traditional drum kit.  The girl had rhythm and timing and presence.  I was beside myself.  My girl shows her enthusiasm for things in different ways.  Sometimes she does that bouncing off the walls-hitting the ceiling-talking a mile-a-minute craziness that grows grey hair instantaneously on my head and blows my brains out. That's usually reserved for parties, play dates, candy, ice cream.  But other times she just quietly, knowingly feels something and lets it get into her soul.  In those moments I can see the person she is and may become.  I see what moves her and what she loves deeply.

When a friend and mother of one of Lily's former classmates asked if Lily would like to dance in the school's variety show while her son drummed, I said I'd ask her but was sure she was going to shout a resounding "Hell to the nah!"  (in six year old terms, of course.  Only Mommy uses swear words at home.)  To my surprise, Lily not only wanted to participate, but she suggested other friends to join her and Funky Drummer and the Beats was born.

Lily is one of the Beats.  She will be dancing with two girlfriends and a boy who is being dubbed "the Hype man," along to the drumming of their nearly seven year old friend, to De La Soul's track "The Magic Number" from Three Feet High and Rising, the seminal alternative hip hop record from the 80s that changed the game for me!  I loved De La Soul.  They were young guys (then, as I was a young gal), African-American, who had a style and sound that referenced so much, pop culture, black culture, love, harmony, peace, and connection.  It was hip hop and it was fun.  I became all "black medallions, no gold," saggy jeans, short natural, funky shoes and belts, vintage dresses, black rimmed glasses-styley.  I went to the clubs to dance all night long and nothing made me feel more connected to my generation, to my people (and that meant eccentrics, artists, and musicheads and dancers as much as it meant Af-Ams), to my fresh-out-of-the-suburbs style.

The group convened in the drummer's basement for our first rehearsal.  We were all excited and enthusiastic.  And when I say we, I mean the kids and their parents or guardians.  And when I say enthusiastic I mean, the parents were wary and weary but positive if not a little anxious to see how this would go, and the kids were bouncing off the ceiling and the walls.  Every child needed about 75 attempts at the drums before they could get serious and by get serious I mean, look in one direction for more than 5 seconds.  And when I say look in one direction I mean in the direction of the choreographer who, as you may now have guessed, is yours truly.  D, the drummer's mama and S, the mother of one of the Beats, did all we could to corral this group.  In the moment that I was astrally traveling to "anywhere but here" I was also so incredibly awed by the work of the world's educators.  Are you kidding me?  We had five (eight if you count siblings and in this instance they need to be counted) and were out of our minds.  I was sweating before I did even one step.  I snuck over to D's house one late afternoon and banged out the choreography with just D, Lily, the drummer, and myself so we'd have something to share for the next time we all got together.

Our second rehearsal had just the Beats with D and S there for support, encouragement, music tech, and management, and the nanny of one of the Beats who came along for moral support and a show of physical strength (more adults!).  Our drummer, who practices every day, did not need to be with us and his absence forced the girls to get serious.  And when I say serious I mean, they could not play the drums but they could, of course, continue to try to fly off the walls.  We got a lot done that day and were able to put a YouTube video together to share with the other parents who would need to work out the routine and practice with their young dancers.

All the prep was for audition day, well, kind of, as all acts get in, but we were to put it on for the first time.  D secured copies of the recording for all of us before we all met in front of the school for our scheduled 6:05 pm meeting.  A good friend who lives across the street, spared my head more grey hairs by taking Virginie off my hands and letting her run wild with her kids so I could focus on the task at hand.  We practiced in the hallway with all parents looking on.  The Beats had the moves down.  Our Hype man, cuter than anyone should be, was ready with some improvised moves of his own.  Our drummer, skills honed, was ready to unleash.  We made our way to the music room where the auditions were being held and were greeted with smiles, open hearts, kindness.  The girls did not want me to lead them in the dance as they were pretty confident that they had it down on their own.  The music started, the drumming began, and the Funky Drummer and the Beats tore it down.  And when I say tore it down, I mean they were awesome!  After all that sweating and back and forth emails and rehearsing and worrying, the kids were alright.

We'll rehearse once a week, work out our costumes and props, check in once more with a "callback" but we're in.  Driving home last night, hallucinating about the glass of wine I was about to savor (read tear down), I thought of how great it was that this all came together.  How happy I was to get to know these other women, their kids, our styles blending into the management team of this great group.  We've got lots going on, but that's no reason not to add just one more.  The kids are going to have a great time.  The crowd will love them.  And I am thankful that Lily is already willing to try and do new things.  Both Lily and I have discovered new things about ourselves and sharing this experience with her is magic.


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

The Judgment of Solomon

I have had the distinct pleasure of spending the entire cold, rainy Sunday in the presence of Lily and Virginie and Lily and Virginie only.  With five loads of laundry, a dishwasher full of dishes, two beds to strip and remake, play, clean up, play, clean up, it should be obvious that I am beat down like a clown and pretty short on nerves.  After a bath this evening, the girls were trying to decide which pajamas to put on.  For many children I can only imagine that it is not the game show drama and madness that it is over here.  We can't just put on whatever Mommy leaves out for us, no matter that we chose these pajamas at the store ourselves.  We need to make pretty precise decisions about why each pair is appropriate for this particular evening.  Tonight, Lily requested the "princess pajamas."  Okay, the princess pajamas are some pink flannel numbers with all of the Disney bitches on them that both girls used to own.  Used to because the 2T's that were once Virginie's can now fit their doll babies and the 5T's that were once Lily's are creeping high on her leg.  Her tiny bum fits snugly but the pajamas really are too short.  There is now just one pair of jammies and it doesn't really fit either of them.

When the people discovered that there were princesses to be had, they each went pretty much out of their minds and demanded that they be given the jammies to wear.  Neither gave a damn about the other's feelings.  "She can wear the reindeer.   She can wear the penguins.  I want the princesses."  It's been a long day and Mommy's brain was just not up for the closing arguments that both girls were about to offer so your judgeship came up with this.  "You wear the bottoms and you wear the tops.  Find what you are missing and let's keep it moving."

Virginie is now wearing the top of the pajamas with her naked booty wiggling free and Lily is topless with some highwaters on her legs.  Tonight the fight is over pajamas; other nights, it's over the television or a Polly Pocket or me.  Can I be split in two?  Lily would like me to snuggle with her before bed in her room (the room shared with Virginie).  Virginie would like to stay up and watch TV, or argue about it at least, in my room.  They both plead their cases with pretty lame arguments, "because I want you to" is a pretty popular one, and then I am forced to stand before them and hand down a verdict.  I try to do so with a lot of kisses and reassuring "You know I love you's" but my decision usually comes down with one of them melted onto the floor in a jiggly puddle of tears, the other, near gloating, which shows itself as insane motormouthing and explaining about some trivial little girl nonsense like whatever the heck Twilight Sparkle has up her sleeve or have I heard of these beyond fantastic slippers called Stompies.

What's funny is that they do not think I am on to them.  They somehow believe that this game, this competition is going to end with one of them on top and the other vanquished.  We go back and forth.  I threaten to destroy the toy, project, playdough, book that is being wrestled over rather than hand it over to just one, only to find that they are quite capable of sharing and working it out.  Four out of five times Virginie just wants to see Lily squirm.  She just wants to hold the baby snow tiger plushy for thirty seconds and is then perfectly willing to give it to Lily to love down to the ground.  But not tonight.  Nothing comes between a girl and her Princesses.  Nothing.


(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.

Brown girl in the ring

I grew up in an all-white community in the 70s and 80s.  It was surely a different time than now.  No one was looking out for me or loving on me.  This is before images of beautiful black and brown people were served up as part of the mainstream.  Before Naomi Campbell, Alek Wek, Beyonce, and Rihanna. This is before anyone would speak of a black president without nervous laughter or fear that it could never happen.  This is a time when blackness was still subversive and underground and though there were some bright spots that poked out, we had ours and they had theirs.  I listened to WBLS and 92KTU which played disco and old school black music until it was more than apparent that this was not popular/pop music and that that sound was not going to help me fit in.  I realized that the pink tights I wore for ballet were meant to simulate my pink legs and my pink slippers, my pink toes, except that my legs and toes were brown.  I'm from Jersey and all that it entails, Springsteen, Bon Jovi, muscle cars, Jersey Freeze, the shore.  Girls could fight here and did, while still looking awesome with feathered hair and satin jackets, combs tucked neatly into their back pockets.  I watched from far away, hoping, wishing, praying, but that just wasn't me.

I never got to know "black culture" as it was known.  Never got my hair did every Saturday and listened to the ladies talk smack and prep for Sunday's chuch.  My church was white.  I loved the Lord, but he was white and had us singing slow, wack songs . There were no drums or bass guitar played.  I didn't get to get LIVE and feel the spirit coursing through me.  I never heard people play the dozens or just groove to the cool sounds on a summer night sitting in the car blasting the radio.  I never saw a black mayor, police chief, lawyers, doctors, television stars, beauty queens, anyone really.  I saw it all on TV.  I wanted it.  There were other black kids in my community and I saw their longing just like mine.  They each tried to fill that space somehow, somewhere.


I write this because I have, for the last four weeks, dropped my girls off at a camp filled with young, 3 to 13 year old African-American kids.   I am thrilled for my people to be experiencing the black community in a way they just wouldn't where we live and yet I am highly disturbed by some of the things I see happening around them.  Lily and Virginie are being adored like little princesses.  It scares and confuses me.  In a sea of beautiful black and brown faces, I see few who recognize their own loveliness, their own beauty, their own strength.  But when Lily and Virginie enter the room, the girls run to them, want to touch them, brush their hair, hold them (mostly Virginie, but even girls from Lily's own group, which would make them the same age as she, want to carry her around).  I have heard them tell my girls how pretty, lovely, whatever it is they are.

My children are young, three and almost six.  While we have talked about differences in race, culture, experience, looks, identity, it has been rudimentary at best.  They are not at a stage where they could possibly fathom that some people, based on these characteristics, could be and are treated differently.  Lily believes everyone has something beautiful about them and I agree with her.  She describes her friends by the things they like, the things they do, and the way they make her feel.  She loves these little girls at camp and cannot see what I see when I watch the interaction. 

My girls are black and French and they know it and feel proud to be both.  Though I find them to be stunning, it is certainly not something we stress at home.  How they look is surely not more important than the content of their character or that they have good manners and are kind and considerate girls.  We stress their achievements and their accomplishments, encouraging them to try things they are afraid of and keep trying until they succeed.  I have taught them to trust themselves in new situations and to find the good person, the kind person in the group and Lily has often done just that.  Walked into unfamiliar territory and come out with a good, kind soul to befriend.  Never has she chosen one or another based on their race or their background.

She has seen many examples of women, black, mixed, Hispanic, Asian, white, straight, lesbian in our community and through the little media she has access to and has accepted our strengths, our power, and our beauty in a way that took me more than half my life to discover.  She has never told me that she wished she were white, quite the opposite, hoped that she could be more like me.  I am so happy that she, thus far, seems to care little about the outside world's perception of her and yet, there she is.  A cute, little, light-skinned baby girl with a bouncy ponytail.  I would have adored her had we been contemporaries.  Except for Kim Fields who played Tootie on the Facts of Life, there was no one else to show me or believe in my loveliness.  That bouncy ponytail alone would have given me a thousand fantasies.  But the braids, Afro puffs, twists, and low 'fros I see at camp are just as stunning.  I want the girls who sport them to know this too.

This is a complicated issue, weighed heavily by the racism and perceptions of beauty, importance, and relevance of people of color that have marred this country from its inception.  I don't have an answer here, don't know how to show these beautiful, intelligent brown girls their value.  I know that since she was a baby, I used to sing the song, "Brown Girl in the Ring" to Lily and she knew that she was that brown girl.  So did Virginie when I sang it to her.  So do I feel the connection when I hear it now.  It took a lifetime for me to learn to love myself, not to compare myself to a standard that wasn't even considering me, in which I had no chance of being beautiful or special. 

I'd hoped these little brown girls had started to find role models, at least people who looked like them, talked like them, shared their dreams with them, to make them feel proud of who they are.  I look into their warm, brown eyes and see my little self feeling less than and hope they feel, when I put my hand on their cheeks or cup their chins in my hand to tilt their heads to mine that I can see they are special.  Don't get me wrong.  I love, love, love my beautiful babies.  Don't consider them less than or greater than, just beautiful brown babes navigating this craziness.  They will have a guide through this mucky muck.  But I pray the same for all the brown girls too.


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

The Weaning

Time Magazine was working hard to increase readership by choosing a supermodel nursing her enormous three year old son in a somewhat perverse photo meant to provoke and entice as its cover photo months ago.  The photo serves as an entree into an article on attachment parenting.  I would hope that all parents are in many ways attached to their children, working hard at forming bonds, considering the needs and development of the children in most decision-making.  But I know what really gets people's goat.  And that is the breastfeeding of big kids.  I was not turned off by the photo for the same reason that many others were.  I didn't think nursing a three year old was such a big deal but I did think it was a private, even secret act.  You see, I had been harboring such a secret.  I was still nursing my three year old.
Had I been chosen as TIME's cover model, I think the outrage/interest/press would have been much different.  Firstly, I am a 40-something, black woman, hardly a subject to get everyone's hair standing on end.  Images of brown people nursing their babies have been prevalent in National Geographic, and other anthropological stories for years, and have clearly been deemed not as enticing, intriguing, or seductive as a twenty-something, leggy blond with a big boy hanging from her breast. Secondly, I have a little girl, so the sexualizing of this act would be completely negated.   And there wouldn't be, as there has never been, a moment where my dear Virginie would be standing on a stool reaching up for my open breast.  She nursed at night as a way to fall asleep, to feel comforted and secure.  She did not nurse in the day time and certainly not in public.

For years living in Barbados, I would talk to people in different mommy groups about weaning the peanut.  So much so that one woman would always ask upon seeing me if "she was off yet."  I don't know why I offered it up, why I continued to engage in the dialogue as I cannot say with any conviction that I was actually trying that hard to get her off.  I talked to her doctor about putting aloe, which grew in abundance in our garden, on my nipples as a deterrent.  Apparently it is non-toxic but the taste is bitter and offensive which would leave my baby feeling disgusted by my breasts and force her to stop nursing.  Vinegar and soy sauce were also recommended.  I didn't want Virginie to find me disgusting and therefore turn from a true, tangible representation of nurturing.

I was offered "scientific" data by my landlord in Barbados that breastmilk actually wasn't so great for babies after all, with all the toxins and airborne particles and chemicals I'd breathed in and then passed on to the wee one.  I'd heard that her teeth would be misshapen if she ever fell asleep still nursing and that I would never get a good night's sleep until she stopped.  (This last one might be true as I cannot recall having a good night's sleep since 2005, before the first person arrived!)

Perhaps I was too sensitive to the feeling of neglect and the need for children to feel nurtured, cared for or maybe I just really felt she would move on when she was ready, but I just didn't push it. It was private, personal, and unless I mentioned it or someone spent the night, no one would ever have known.  I cannot say that it did not drive my husband insane, feeling like his boob time was being taken over by a toddler or fearing that somehow this attachment would make her, well, too attached.  But anyone who has met Virginie will attest to the fact that she pretty much runs her own and everyone else's show for that matter.  There was some concern that we couldn't ever go anywhere or be away for too long as she would only fall asleep with me, but we really hadn't gotten there yet.  To the leaving them with other people place, I mean.

There were plenty of people, mostly, well, only mothers, who discovered our little secret and wished me well, congratulated me, cheered me on for my choice.  I was often told that "I wish I could still nurse.  I wish I'd had the stamina.  It's so good for them."  And I felt good.  The shame and embarrassment subsiding and the pride of taking good care, being seen as a good mother for my "sacrifice" flushing my cheeks.

 I wasn't making a political choice, did not push my methods on anyone else, never lectured about how good the breast is for kids, or quoted statistics about the good health of kids who were nursed longer than one year.  I couldn't know if these statements were true and actually didn't care.  I know that Virginie was not ready to stop.  I was too tired to sit up with her for the days required to break her.  (I did actually try for one two-night period to just deny her and offer juice or water.  After the five hour stand off on the second night I figured she could nurse the tatas to my knees, I just could not spend another night like that.)

We would reach milestones--eighteen months, two years, two and a half years--and I would say, I am going to stop nursing this child.  She is fully conversant for goodness sake!  She will eat a slice of pizza and then ask for boo boo's. At her daycare center, the teachers convinced Virginie to give up the paci by telling her that she was now a big girl and no longer needed it.  I am grateful for their help, truly, but I'd hoped to let the paci placate her as I moved her off the boobs.  Once the paci was gone, it was just a question of willpower, and though I consider myself pretty strong, a warrior-mama even, I am no match for this thing.

And then came the antibiotics.  I needed to take them for an infection and nursed Virginie one night without even thinking.  She called me in the middle of the night and asked me "not to see her" which is a euphemism for "I am pooing, please give me some privacy."  It was 2 AM.  By 2:50, she had gone and been changed four more times.  I could not figure out what the heck was up with this child as she'd eaten as she did every day, had not complained of a stomachache or any pain or discomfort, but was here with diarrhea in the middle of the night.  I gave her some Pedialyte which, believe me, is nearly impossible to administer as it is miserably disgusting to drink, and some Cheerios and tucked her back into bed.  She finally went to sleep without another episode.  In the morning, my stomach felt as hers had all night and I remembered my reaction to antibiotics.  Ahhhh.  The upset stomach, pain, cramping, diarrhea.  Then the light went off.

Virginie, like most of us, hates having diarrhea and like most little ones, too much "going" gives a little rash which made her feel worse.  When she asked why she had to feel this way I told her that I feared it was Mommy's medicine making her feel badly.  She asked, "How am I getting Mommy's medicine?" to which I replied, "From Mommy's boo boo's."  And then I knew.  We were going to stop here.  I felt a real sadness for her and for myself.   We were close.  I had this one comfort to offer her that no one else could offer.  She could fall asleep, have her fears allayed when she was with Mommy.  Then I wondered, is she healthier because I have been nursing her? Am I throwing her out into germ-infested territory without her armor?  My heart broke.  But I knew that she would have to stop one day and this seemed like the perfect time.

The first nights were tough.  The poor soul just didn't know where to go, what to do to fall asleep.  We would snuggle, Lily, Virginie, and I, huddled together in their bed.  I would pet Virginie's cheek and she would hold my hair.  With my free hand, I would reach behind me and hug Lily.  Lily would tell Virginie, "You are a big girl.  You don't need boo boo's."  And we would not break the chain until they had fallen asleep. 

It has been nine days.  Early this morning, Virginie asked for boo boo's as she groggily rolled over.  (Yes, I was in the bed with them, having gotten up and out, up and out about three times, I finally decided to just stay put.)  I told her, "No, girl baby, you are a big girl.  Would you like your water?"  She took that, drank mightily and snuggled into my arms where she slept until Lily kissed us both awake.

The weaning is complete.  She won't go back and my body is reclaiming itself.  My breasts are tight and sore as the milk dries up.  When I am able I put cold compresses on them to give some relief.  I feel like Virginie has suddenly embraced going to the potty with gusto and has been empowered to be her own big girl.  I don't really know though.  It's my job to lead her through these moments and to keep her close until she can stand on her own and then stay nearby to steady her.  She might not take my milk, but everything else I have to give is hers.  I have two big girls now and Mommy's sense of self is returning as well.


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

Tight quarters

We've had guests for weeks and though there is nothing personal, I look forward to the return of my space and the spaces of the people.  Lily and Virginie are this week sleeping in the bedroom with Didier and me as every occupyable space is indeed occupied.  On the first, foolishly unplanned evening, I thought we might all sleep in our king-sized bed.  We've surely done it many times before, but usually as a "staggering, almost six year old, after night time potty break wandering into the room" followed by "wailing three year old bolting upright alone in the bed, come and get me and let me in with you" kind of way.  No, the first evening, I tucked the girls into our bed, told them that Mommy and Papa would be in shortly, and closed the door on the sleeping cherubs.  When the hubby and I retired for the evening we found that those tiny people had morphed into life sized X marks that left only slits and slivers of sleeping space for the two adult sized folks.  I put six pillows on the floor and fancied a mattress.  When I say fancied I really mean that with no cushion or comfort whatsoever, I put my 40-something ass on the hardwood floor and tried to go to sleep.  There was no success that night and my neck, back, and hip still hurt.

My friend and neighbor has since loaned us an Aero bed.  I received it with delight, enthusiasm, and hope.  Easy enough for a completely untech savvy person like myself to inflate, that floating paradise on the floor next to our bed looked exciting enough for the girls to declare every night Aero bed night.  Yay.  But that was until it was actually time to go to bed.  At bedtime they were eager to jump on it to catapult themselves onto our bed (which I did not let them do, the catapulting I mean).  So I let them start out in our bed and vowed silently to move them in the middle of the night.  And I did, easily, then passed out in the incredibly comfortable bed in which I have slept too little. 

I was thrown from the bed, actually shot to the ceiling at the shrieking three year old on the floor mattress who declared herself hungry and asked me to go make her a hot dog at 3 am.  All the energy in the room woke the almost six year old who immediately climbed into our bed with her Papa.  I went to the kitchen to get a bag of honey wheat pretzels, as I had no intentions of cooking a hot dog, and got onto the air mattress with the three year old with the middle night munchies.  I spent another night contorted and twisted.  My knee is giving out a little when I walk.

Last night I had the pleasure of both girls waking some time around 3 or 4 am and fighting over whose side it indeed was where they were snuggled in our bed, so I forced them both to get off said bed and go to the mattress.  Both began to wail (awesome) so I told Lily to shut it and got down onto the mattress with her and cuddled her, laying kisses at her ear.  Just as we were both drifting, Virginie slid down from the master bed onto the mattress with us.  "I want to be with you, Mommy."  Yay.  With Lily pressed against me at the front and Virginie wedged behind me at the back, I felt as though I were sleeping in a human body cast, completely unable to take full breaths and when attempting even the slightest movement getting a mouthful of hair or a knee to the stomach.  I woke at 7 am not sure I'd actually slept.

We've four more days living our lives in one room.  The novelty has worn off even for the girls and though they love their guests, they long for their own bed, their own room, their own things.  Sneaking into Mommy and Papa's bed is only fun when you get to do it on your own terms, not when forced to stay.  We are all weary and stretched thin by our tight quarters, some of us a little too old, and some a little too young to be as flexible as we might be.  While I rarely spend a full night in my own bed, often making a space in the girls' bed to cuddle up with those wiggly yummies, I look forward to even the idea of my own space again.


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

There is a Light that Shines

Last week at school pick up, an older black, Caribbean woman came to me and put her arm around my waist and asked me to walk in with her.  She was always kind with a sweet smile, so I gladly gripped my arm around her and walked with her.  She said to me, "You have such a wonderful spirit.  Coming from you is such a radiant light and it makes everyone around you feel so warm and welcomed."  I thanked her rather sheepishly, trying to duck her, so uncomfortable am I with any kind of praise or compliment.  She held me closer and said, "No really."  I brushed her hand gently and told her to have a wonderful weekend as I ran off to collect Lily. 

This morning, an older woman from Morocco who speaks only "hello and goodbye"English met me at the car as I was unloading Lily and scrambling with her sister.  She said to me, "For you." and gave me a package with yummy cinnamon crepe-type pancakes.  She smiled and pressed them into my hands and then spoke to me in an Arabic language that I was sadly unable to understand.  We both smiled at each other and I hugged her and thanked her, smiling and bowing to her as I strapped Virginie in her stroller to go meet Lily before the bell rang.

I write this not to tell the world how special I am.  I believe that anyone who really knows me understands that I have not gotten there yet.  I share these stories because I have realized that I have made wonderful, beautiful friends in women who also do not see their light, their strength, their value.  People are telling me that I am gold while I still feel like shit and these other women do too.  In fact, I know far too many incredible, talented, artistic, creative women, single, married, with children, and without who struggle every day with who they are, not only to other people, but to themselves.

In recent weeks, I have become close with a young woman who is beautiful, smart, generous, and who is raising two young boys.  Before the children, she had a job outside of the home, loved to travel, was curious about other cultures, thrived on new experiences.  She loved fashion and dancing, music, pop culture, all of which still get her excited.  From looking at her, you would not know what she endured to make it to this place in her life, a place where she still juggles her sense of worth.  Her husband who is quite generous of spirit and very loving is emotionally available and supportive, but there are times when her past fears, abuses, and hurts are triggered and she is sent reeling.  In those moments, she is brought back to a time, not just mentally, but physically (tremors, sweats, panic), when she was alone and abandoned.  In spite of all the good in her life at present, she recalls that time when she fought the fight for her life alone.

I call her my "Baby Doppelganger" because I think we have similar traits and in younger photos, we look alike.  I also call her this because I too have a dark life in the shadows of all that sunshine that threatens my rather shaky foundation.  I have built my family, my community on the me that radiates and loves.  The me that I was when I arrived on the planet, the true me.  But the blackness, the loneliness, the terrifying isolation that feeds on the underside seems to threaten.  The cruel voice in my head that tells me that I need to give more, that I am not enough, that I am lovable for what I have done for people, not who I am, that the abuses I suffered were somehow deserved forms a weak firmament.  As a young girl and teenager bleeding for some comfort, some compassion to ease my aches, I could not imagine that there were others who felt this miserably.  I would certainly never have gone to a girlfriend and shared.

Another friend, a talented professional, also raising two boys, practically glowed the first time I saw her.  She is a beauty but you would be foolish to tell her.  There is no chance she would ever believe you.  I ran into her today at the playground and she was clearly in pain.  Her life was changing fast and she felt herself a failure.  Holding up the facade for so long, trying to outrun a difficult, painful childhood had caught up to her and everything she thought she knew about herself was called into question.  She felt like she was starting over and in some ways she will be.  That is actually a gift and in the long run I think she will see that.  My heart aches for this kindred spirit and I know that it must be nearly impossible for her to envision a positive outcome.

Ignored and insulted little girls become women who must navigate the world without the proper tools.  In a patriarchal, chauvinistic culture, they have already been short changed and ill prepared for all that will befall them.  They will become lovers, girlfriends, wives, and mothers who never stop to speak for themselves, who work tirelessly to make others happy, who serve endlessly, and some of us will smile through it while others will cower and hiss, lash out before they can be hurt.  When you add some sort of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse to their development and then as a society ask them not to speak about it, not to acknowledge it, attach a full dose of shame to it, it becomes very hard to unlock the pure light and pleasure of being alive.

I feel lucky in that there has always been a voice that told me that I was more than the sum of those shit experiences.  I have always attributed this to God.  I have always felt that without a divine presence, without a sense that real, pure love was available for me, I should just give up (and I mean that in the darkest, coal black, desperate way).  There is healing in being able to give love to Lily and Virginie, but quite frankly, I still have so much work to do to heal my broken heart and spirit.  I am not sure my partnership can support this process as it was built on what I'd hoped I was and not on who I truly am.  So much unspoken, so much unforgiven, so much unacknowledged hurt and pain.  I will not pass that on to them directly but if I do not seek to speak the truth and let my own light shine, they just may very well learn from my cowering.  Easier said, than done.  First we must reach out to each other and acknowledge each other.  See and be the light.


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

Turbulence

Coming back from Spring Break, another trip taken by the just girls and me, this time to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, only minutes from take off, we unexpectedly and without warning hit a dangerous moment of turbulence that sent the plane into a sudden free fall.  Passengers were screaming, some crying, and anyone not belted in, anything not bolted down, went flying about the cabin.  My girls, thanks to a paranoid mama were tightly secured, but I still felt compelled to throw myself across their laps to be ensure their safety.  Lily looked me in my eyes, almost through me and said, "This is bad, really bad."  She was terrified.  She understood on some soul level that we were outside of an everyday human experience.  I felt her in that moment.  With senses heightened I saw the bright light of the sun reflecting off of the clouds.  I felt the air go cold and purple and I was absolutely terrified.  I said a silent prayer to my Creator and begged him not to "take us from my husband after he just lost his mother."  Never had I been so fearful for my life or the lives of my children.  I told them so.  "I love you so, girls, and Mommy is a little scared.  Let's just hold onto each other." 


 Moments later there was control, I will not say that it was smooth sailing because the entire flight was rough, but I felt that we were out of imminent danger.  I watched the girls a little longer than usual after that, looked into their faces, saw their interaction and prayed for as much time as any mother could hope for with them.  I smelled them, really breathed them in, and let my love for them fill me.   It stopped the tears. 


Out of nowhere the atmosphere was rough, with no safe place, nowhere to hide or go for safety.  There was turbulence and all was knocked off balance.  In that moment, I reached for my family, for those I loved.  I prayed for us, cried a little, and thought and believed that at least we were together.  Would that I could do the same when the shakiness is just a metaphor, when it is just the uncertainty of life's tiny stink bombs and funhouse mirrors distorting the truth that have me off kilter.  In just the split second of the free fall all I could think about was life in the grandest sense not in its miserably small and pathetic details of wrongs, slights,misdeeds, and mistakes. 


I have often defined myself in relation to fear.  Whether I considered myself fearless, fearful, terrified, frightened, scared, or freaked,it has been the thought of fear that dominated and overwhelmed.   Even when I loved, fear lurked in the shadows causing me to doubt that love could ever be mine, in all scenarios and circumstances.  Even in love I wondered if it were truly possible that it wouldn't be taken away.  It's not easy to say that, but it is true.  Right now, as the people are young and close and tethered to me at the heart, I have no doubt of my love for them nor theirs for me.  The shaky, uncertain, terrifying turbulence of our flight showed me this.  Here is hoping that in the shaky, uncertain, terrifying turbulence of my life  it can be the same.

My children, thoughts after Trayvon Martin

Before having the ultrasound that would tell us the sex of our second child, I watched and wondered with amazement and curiosity my misshapened belly swelling and contorting in ways that it did not during the first pregnancy.  "It's definitely a boy!" family members, friends, and strangers would point out, giving me all sorts of "proof" of this.  "A boy for your husband.  Good job."  At this, I would cringe.  The thought, the expectation that I might need to keep popping out people until a boy was handed over to my Cheshire grinning husband made me nervous and frankly quite sick.  I wasn't sure I would be the best mother for a boy and worried about raising a biracial little boy who would want to take the lead from his father who had not at any time during this lifetime been a black man.

Yes, such is the way my brain works.  I thought of my uncircumcised (My husband is French and would find circumcision completely barbaric and ridiculous.  I actually agree, but all the other kids would be circumcised which would further alienate and complicate.), bi-cultural, bi-racial, brown-skinned boy trying to navigate the world of American boyhood.   Baseball, football, ultimate Frisbee, basketball, all games my husband has never played nor enjoyed watching. I wondered if I would have to stand in front of the house teaching this child how to do and love these things, maybe even coach so that he just might have a fighting chance on the playground.  Untucked shirts, pants hanging low (even if low-ish that's pretty low for a French guy who pulls his pants up close to his chest), and unkempt hair just might be too much for this Euro metrosexual who loves cologne as much as wine. 
I panicked before I even had any idea the sex of the baby.  Would I be the one to have "the talk" with our son?  About how he was sweet and lovely with curls and an eager smile until he went into the local convenience store at twelve for some wholly unhealthy snack, until he and his friends sauntered home from school laughing and talking loudly about whatever it is teenage boys talk about, until he turned too quickly at a stop sign while driving a car full of his friends, until he wanted to date one of his lifetime playmates and then became "the black boy."  I hated the thought of explaining that though he loved space and astronauts, science, art, music, girls, and skateboarding, people would look at him suspiciously because of the color of his skin, just waiting for him to do something wrong.  I cringed thinking about explaining how "no matter what your white friends are doing, don't you get caught out there doing any of it!"  The same message that, even as a young girl, I received.  

All these things gave me pause, but none like needing to teach my little brown boy that though his parents were a mixed couple with a European father and an African-American mother, in the eyes of the United States of America he would be a little black child, a black boy, and that being a black boy was somehow "less than" no matter what we'd taught him.  I agonized over having to explain to him and to his father that while yes he was indeed a boy of mixed heritage, in the United States definitions and criteria for Americanship are nebulous, and that here one is often forced to "choose a side", to simplistically label, and that  black, no matter what popular culture (music, games, sports) would tell him, was not cool on the street, in your car, in the store, on a date.

How would I explain that even our president, the leader of the modern, free world still had to spend more time than necessary explaining who he was and where he came from, so much so that it often seemed like that was the only question anyone wanted answered, nevermind a sluggish economy and serious world issues to tackle.  I woke up many nights in terror as I heard my husband describing our children as "metisse" or "Creole" with all the sincerity in the world, really having no idea what a young son of ours would endure. My husband is an altruist when it comes to race and culture, expecting that all should be open and curious about our differences and excited by our similarities.  I hated to be the acid rain on the parade, but after all my years in this country I was not so optimistic about people.  I was prepared if I needed to be, but extraordinarily grateful when the ultrasound told us that, once again, we were having a girl. 

I am not proud of this.  In truth there is a lot of shame for me that I just did not think I could bear it, could not live up to what a little black boy would need to become a strong, dignified, self-respecting black man in the face of overt and covert racism and discrimination.  I knew that because of my fears and my inexperience with boys and males, that I would be a strict, aggressively clingy, overprotective mother.  And that that could be possibly emasculating and harmful to the boy who  just might not ever learn how to defend himself because at every turn, there I would be.  I just knew that I was not great with boys and would take the responsibility of leading him and showing him a path through our racist, hypocritical culture as though it were a life and death matter.  Already, my girls know that Mommy holds them accountable for more than many of their friends are held.  They know that there are rules about self-respect, public behaviors, how we treat others, what we call them, and how we judge. 

This afternoon, after a walk with a friend in a local reservation, we stopped into a Starbucks in a neighboring town.  We were dressed in athletic gear.  She with a fanny pack (very cute LeSportsSac) and I with a small, shoulder-slung backpack.  She suggested we browse at a cute shoe store and also a little dress shop that looked promising.  I bristled but not noticeably.  We perused together and were met at the door by the shopkeeper who was kind and all smiles.  We did not buy anything.  I actually did not have any money with me, but we muttered to one another something about the shoes being cute and hoping to get back soon.  On the sidewalk I mentioned to her that I don't usually go into small shops or boutiques, malls, department stores, anywhere really, dressed like I was for fear of being followed.  "Shopping while black" I told her.  She was quite surprised.  I have known her nearly all my life.  She is astute, incredibly intelligent, fair, open, very liberal (maybe even more so than myself) and had never considered this at all.

How I wish Lily and Virginie will not have to learn this.  And I hope that they will not have to defend themselves against people who believe them to be sexually promiscuous, aggressive, emasculating,  or less attractive or intelligent than their white counterparts.  I hope that they are not given more to bear, too much to carry while others are given less to handle.  I hope that they will not have to be representatives from the Planet Black or Planet Biracial explaining all the time who they are and what moves them.  Can we still not find common ground? 

When I hear the story of Trayvon Martin unfolding, when I see the injustice, when I see the hypocrisy, and the laissez-faire attitude with which a black life is considered, when I see how easy it is to describe a tall, lanky, unarmed black boy as suspicious with little disagreement or worse, ignored concern of good neighbors,  my heart bleeds for us all.

Trayvon Martin could have been our child and but for the grace of God he could have been yours too.  Hold your children close tonight.  Whisper in their ears how they are loved, how you will honor them, how you want with them to make the world a better place.  Then tell them how even in the leading country in the world, a citizen can be gunned down on the street, a child,a playmate, a friend,  by a vigilante who thought that he, dressed like all the other teenaged boys in the world, looked suspicious.  Let your kids know this, so they can feel it and help us change the world.

Full on Full-time

I get up each morning and start the girls' lunches for school, after making the girls' beds and ours.  There is breakfast, if anyone has any interest in eating it, making beds--the girls' and ours, selecting clothes for the girls and myself, getting those clothes on (the girls and myself), combing hair (which, don't be fooled, is not anything like you have seen on a NO MORE TANGLES commercial and more like tooth removal with no anesthetic and no restraints), packing backpacks, supervising the selection of toys that will be privileged enough to come along for the ride (the less than five minute ride that sometimes sees a full zoo of escorts in the backseat), supervising the five 1/2 year old's tooth brushing and brushing the nearly three year old's teeth without her realizing that I am, in fact, brushing them so that we do not have to start over. Somewhere in there I try to put on clothes that match, are not pajamas, sweatpants and flannel and brush my hair, dust on some powder, glide on a bit of lip stain, get on my shoes, theirs, make sure all are tied, get on jackets, hats, backpacks, pack gloves, tissues, and an extra paci for Virginie.  Get the car warmed up, everything meant to travel with us in the car, and everyone down the stairs and out the door before the school bell rings at 8:45 am.  I must also note that Virginie, almost three years old, has no interest in wearing a jacket and favors sleeveless leotards, swimsuits, and summer tops during these winter months.  Getting to the car, in the car, on the road, and to the school before the bell rings is pretty much an accomplishment that requires congratulations and YES, some sort of medallion telling me that I am awesome. 

Once both girls are in school (and that is only three days a week for Virginie, the other two I get to cart her around with me ALL day) I race home to drink a glass of water (finally), get something to eat, pay bills, sign up for this or that class, straighten up, and hopefully sit down for a while to write or possibly exercise.  This does not always happen as I often find myself needing to return library books or run to the grocery store, pick up something from the cleaners, or some other household related task that takes precious moments away from my down time.

Just hours later I am back on the road picking up the little one from school and either bringing her back home for a little lunch (though she's just had lunch at school) and puzzle making, Strawberry Shortcake playing, My Little Pony dancing, drawing, total entertaining or I am driving all over the area trying to lull this tired little monster to sleep, though she would argue that she is not a monster, nor is she tired.  Ever.  Even when her eyes are rolling to the back of her head and she is drooling, her paci falling to her chest.  When she does fall asleep, I just pull up in front of Lily's school and wait the hour and change for school to get out.  I use that time to catch up on Sound Board on NPR, read, and occasionally carry my laptop with me to try to write.  If I have not well prepared myself with books or magazines, I send text messages and answer emails on my phone.  Maybe I'll get out and stretch my legs and back, but more often than not I don't want to even stir lest the little cracken awake.

Lily's release from school does not allow us time to go home and just chill as I sit or stand at the playground for thirty minutes to an hour almost every day, even longer if it is unseasonably warm, chatting with the other parents who have stayed to allow their little cherubs to let off steam.  When we do finally leave it is a race to get home before someone has to either use the bathroom or is near starvation in the backseat.  We have music (Yo Gabba Gabba), gum chewing (everybody), and meltdowns (any one of the three of us).  At home we start the process of getting ready for bed.  There is the review of all in the backpack, two or three assignments on the monthly homework chart, emptying of the lunch boxes and packs, tossing of dirty clothes in the hamper, an unwind for the girlies in the playroom or in front of the tv while Mommy changes into sweats, takes off makeup, and begins the dinner prep. 

Dinner prep usually involves asking the girls what they want, making it, and having them take the next two hours to eat it or move it around their plates.  The only thing about which they are certain is the popsicle or ice cream sandwich and thank God for that.  Because of these treats, I am able to get them to eat the other food!  While they eat, I run the bath, choose clothes that they will reject in the morning, prep the kitchen so that dishes can be put away quickly and easily.  There is bathing, lotioning, dressing in pajamas, braiding hair, brushing teeth, storytime, one last trip to the bathroom, choosing stuffed animals or Barbies to sleep with, snuggling in, and finally a quick story acted out by Mommy before lights out.  With the lights out we offer up five things a piece that we want to dream about so as to prevent nightmares.  We spray good dream potion (water with a bit of glitter in a pink spray bottle) twice and then cuddle, all three of us, in the girls' big bed, say our "I love you's" and I watch and wait for them to go to sleep before I do, sometimes failing in this miserably.

Then it's repeat.  For five days.  The variations either provide extreme highs, a ballet recital, playdate, sunny afternoon where everyone revels in the sunlight falling on our faces or the breeze in our hair, or beyond miserable lows, a midnight vomiting session that keeps me and the little one up all night, only to finally slumber the last hour before the morning's alarm or again, the little one refusing to get dressed in the morning and wandering naked to the front door expecting to sit in her car seat completely in the buff.  In the midst of this full time life, I am trying to complete the first drafts of two books, go back to work in voiceover, print, and on-camera acting, and have something that resembles a life, an effort at which I am not exactly succeeding. 

I have spent over two weeks trying to write even this blog post, so tight am I on time and energy.  There have been other starts and stops too, ideas that I did not have the commitment for, voice recordings to remind me of things to attempt later, scribbled notes here and there, apologies to friends, colleagues, family for my lack of availability, tears shed for myself when I catch sight of myself in the car window or store mirror and see the shell of me wandering from A to B in the hazy maze of young childrearing.

It's a lonely job this full- time full on caregiving.  There is no one to complain to, no one to appeal to.  The work is for the pure joy of raising beautiful, well adjusted, confident, able children and each day's little indignities are not even worth sharing, so fleeting and expected they are that all parents have them.  But in giving full time, pouring out for the delight, pleasure, and well-being of others, one just might sometimes forget to receive the small gifts that life offers.  I am still touched by the sweet gestures of my girls.  When they read, dance, say hilarious things, tell me how they love me, remind me of being young and curious, I am moved.  When I look at their faces, bright eyed, sweet lipped, flush cheeked, listen to their voices, breathe in their breath and scent of their hair and skin, I am stilled.  But in the monotony of the day to day, I am frozen and I don't dare dream of my life before I had a family and hope only to find myself again when we pass this lap.

I know this level of intensity and involvement will give way to other responsibilities and concerns.  That there will be mean girls and clothing wars, driving, SATs, team try outs and boys!  But I hope the physical stress, the fatigue, the sheer exhaustion of being a mother all the time, full time, full on can relax a bit so that I might share this life with them and have a little for myself.


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

Your own personal demon, hearts and stars

Working on a drawing, a little girl meticulously drew hearts all around her picture's heroine.  She then put stars in the sky shining down on the scene, tens of stars.  The hearts swirled around the girl and the stars twinkled in the sky.  When asked why the hearts and the stars didn't overlap or touch, the little girl replied, "Because the hearts keep you right here where you are and the stars take you to your dreams."

Another show business death has the media asking questions and the world in mourning.  Whitney Houston was, no question, an international star, a voice, a presence, an icon.  She was also a mirage.  We saw in her what we wanted and in all the smoke and haze, we'd convinced ourselves (collectively speaking, of course) that she was indeed all that we projected onto her, rather than a mortal like the rest of us.  Yes, she was beautiful and alluring.  Yes, she had talent beyond measure.  Yes, she appeared to have grace and poise and everything else.  This was how it all seemed.  What we hoped and what we dreamed.  Already her physical presence is dissolving from this world, but the haunting sound of her pitch perfect voice, of her mesmerizing beauty, and of her all too common human experience lingers, and has clouded my thinking for days.

It has clouded my thinking because on some level, I identified with the girl that was Whitney Houston, fantasized about what it was like to be the woman, cannot even get my head around what it was to be the superstar.  A star so incredible, so bright as to outshine all other stars, which are already pretty bright given that when we finally see them, many in the sky are already dead.  The light we see is the flash of light it left behind before fading.  There is endless talk that Whitney's star was either fading or had long gone out.  And here is where I ache, not just for her, but for all people who have dreamed of stardom, fame, accolades, attention, accomplishment at any cost, destroying themselves to achieve stardom.  Stars fade.  But in a human life, we have many phases, more like those of the moon.  In our lives, we wax and wane, have lean and fat times, and can often see ourselves after long suffering or famine, rejoicing in abundance and joy.

People talk about a meteoric rise as though all of this can be discussed in terms of not just external drives and forces, but outer space, intergalactic travel, otherworldliness.  I do believe that artists tap into something, the collective unconscious, the God source, the Divine.  And that the energy can be so strong, so intense, so overwhelming, that it can knock even the strongest to their asses if they have not centered or grounded themselves.  How do we ground ourselves if the earth under our feet is always moving?  If long before we become adults something knocks us off kilter, changes our perfect nature, torments and eats away at us?

When I was a young girl I had fantasies of breaking into show business.  I was a dancer, creative type, cocoa-skinned, bright eyed, and eager to please.  I didn't talk much, but I often envisioned myself in the chorus of a Broadway show, doing commercials, or even peering from the pages of a magazine or newspaper, local or national.   Both my sister and I were egged on by our babysitter whose children, all gorgeous Afro-Cuban talents in dance, music, and acting had each found some success in the big city.  We were convinced that on the other side of that bus ride into New York was our future and in it we were celebrated on Broadway, dancing with prominent ballet companies, modeling for Macy's or Abraham and Strauss, or tossing that Nerf football, or helping Barbies peach and tan slide down that windy blue slide into her fabulous pool. 

Just one thing stood in our way.  My mother was not as interested in our professional pursuits and as she was to be the chauffeur and handler, this was a real obstacle.  No stage mother here.  Though I believe that her main concern was the long drive and tedium of castings and auditions, there was probably some fear of the entertainment industry.  She, like so many others, just did not trust the industry, hangers on, emphasis on appearances, total disconnect from feelings, seemingly unflinchingly involved with making money or selling something, anything, that lesser souls can get crushed. 

We weren't buying it and I will confess to being quite upset with her for years after.  I was upset because I believed, truly, that she was pulling the plug on my destiny, that she was disallowing me the opportunity to leave my regular, difficult, trying sub-suburban experience and be propelled into the stratosphere.  In hindsight, I can see that my desperate, lonely, emotionally challenging life up to that moment would have provided no grounding for me.  Completely untethered, I would have failed miserably in protecting myself in a new and alien landscape.

Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction brings us awfully close to the ground.  Often lying on the ground and I say that actually and metaphorically.  What gets us there are a myriad of circumstances and situations and reaching, climbing, even soaring towards the stars cannot prevent us from hitting the floor on our faces.  There has been so much said about who is at fault, what coulda/shoulda/woulda been done, not only in the case of Whitney Houston, but with Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, the folks regularly paraded on Intervention, and in the millions of nameless others around the world who suffer, have suffered, continue to suffer or who have died from this terrible disease. 

I was never an addict but have seen too many others close to me torn to pieces, ripped from the inside so that all they had left was the hole from which their own light would have to guide them, a light that was with them all the time, one for which they did not need to climb or launch themselves into oblivion.  I have been the friend partying alongside the addict, knowing full well that there was no reason that person needed to be in that situation but having too much of a good time myself to stop them.  I have sworn to withdraw contact, if not love, if he/she did not seek help and stop, and then returned.  I have had a glass of wine, done a host of other illicit drugs in the presence of an addict who told me that it was cool, knowing full well that it wasn't. I am not proud of that and certainly wouldn't do anything like that now.  Thinking about the utter ruthlessness of it fills me with shame and embarassment.  In truth, I was a young, naive, dangerously depressed young woman who but by the grace of God really, did not find myself addicted, just attracted to the dark side.

We all carry our own personal demons and some of them are deadset on killing us if we let them.   We walk hand in hand with them,  believe what we know is crap, think we have any control of the substances that we unleash into our bodies, into our hearts, our families, our lives.  Or we look at those who have let those demons in and are unable to kick them out on their own as less than ourselves.  We elevate ourselves because reminders of falling on our own faces, the struggle, the climb to salvation and a life worth living break off arrows in our hearts, remind us of how hard and painful it really is to find love and serenity in our own lives. 

I am searching for the compassion, in myself and in others.  We are all fallable and if we think we have it all figured out, have our demons in check, we are fooling ourselves.  Whitney Houston was a star who reached unfathomable heights and I suppose watching her twinkling up there, we believed we could see the flaws, the second chances, the denials more clearly.  Because we wanted so badly for her to use her fame, her money, her resources to save herself.  Because we saw her demons take her by the hand and crush it in a vice grip, we hoped she realized how serious it all was too and tried to break out. 

 I have heard it said and believe it to be true that one has to want sobriety, freedom from addiction, a change in their life and lifestyle in order for it to really happen.  I have cried for those who could not want it enough for themselves, could not allow it, and have been blessed to rediscover some who found themselves anew.  The demons are still there with them as are the stars for which they reached.  They are held at bay with the desire to love, to share a life with family and friends, to soar with hearts wide open, to live in light rather than dark.

I am most hurt by the passing of this bright star not so much because I know she could have saved herself and should have abandoned the hangers-on that enabled her destruction, but because she leaves in her comet trail a daughter.  A girl who has seen in her short lifetime addiction up close and extremely personal.  A girl who no matter how many times was told she was loved, no matter how much she was given, no matter the comfort the spoils of success provided, has earned a demon or two of her own.  And without support, guidance, love, and compassion, a burden as big as the falling of a star could very well crush her.

I know that I have harbored secret pains, hurts lesser than those she must feel right now, that nearly killed me.  I continue to fight them off for the sake of my girls, for my family, for myself.  As the girls get older, I will share and reveal more of my life, of the real me, so that when they walk their own paths, they know that I have been there before they and can walk with them.  So that when the demons come close, we can look at them, acknowledge them, and keep it moving while still reaching for the stars. 


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