I have been on my own with the girls for a long ten days thus far. While we do get into a rhythm that serves us well, I am beat down like a clown tending to absolutely everything in our lives with an insane amount of precision, efficiency, and organization. That is my proto-OCD at work. I have but one safe place, and it is just relatively so. Sleep, night time, my dreams. Unfortunately, even that has been encroached upon. First by my obsessive desire to catch up on two seasons of Game of Thrones and Homeland in just a matter of days (Yes, I know, my brain is nearly ready to explode.) and second, by the almost four year old's sniffling and coughing. Again.
There are few things more difficult to teach a child (for me anyway) than how to blow her nose. I am still not sure to this day how Lily learned how to do it, but she is a pro. She does take gruesome interest in whatever is in that tissue once she's done it, but that is another matter. She can blow her nose, clear out the mucus and other gunk, and generally keep herself free of the dreaded ear infections that seem to plague the under six set. Virginie, not so much. And when I say not so much, I mean not at all. Her nose blowing consists entirely of sucking that mucus all the way to the back of her brain and then rubbing a tissue over her dry nose. Both in Barbados and here in the States, this little person suffers from some sort of reaction to allergens, cold viruses, tickles in the throat, lungs, and nasal passages. It feels like we get a free week or so and then we're back at it. But this time around there is no need for her prescribed inhaler. What she needs is to blow that nose!
I woke up this morning (extremely early for me) to a sniffling, sucking, chattering Virginie sitting upright in my bed (when Papa's away...) picking away at the boogies crusting her little nose. I tried, in my sleepy stupor, to teach her to blow, threatening her with saline drops and the aspirator. I acted like a crazy person. I was desperate to clear her face and steal a few more minutes. I am sure any relatively astute television viewer or complete idiot could see what I couldn't. We were never going back to sleep. She was not going to blow her nose. I needed to finish the last two episodes of Homeland so that I could go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight...because we were about to be up and ready to start the day.
Poor, little soul. She is sniffling away as she parades around the house in her "princess coat," a tiny leopard print, swing coat that she is wearing over her princess pajamas. Lily is sitting in front of her trying to show her how to "smell a flower and blow out the candles" with her nose. I hear a lot of sniffle sucking and then blowing out the candles with her mouth. Up early and ready to do things. We will have to go to bed early anyway. Perhaps there will be some sort of antihistamine administered to aid in her sleeping. Plus, the "Easter bunny" is going it alone this time and has to get up to that attic and construct the monster baskets that are popular these days. LalaLoopsies, Barbies, candy, and maybe a little Jesus in there, you know, for Easter. God willing, there will be some nose blowing in our future or maybe I will just never sleep again.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Showing posts with label suburbs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suburbs. Show all posts
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Snow day
One of my favorite sounds the people make is that last sigh before they pass out in this world and cross over to dreams. I put them to bed every evening and wait for that release to make my creeping tip toe out of their room and into my own peace and quiet. Tonight, after what for me was an absolutely incredible day, save the final Metallica blast freak out performance by my overtired, overwrought, juiced up three and 3/4 year old, I put the girls in their beds and waited. The youngest, she of epic meltdown fame, passed out so quickly I was still talking to her. She fell asleep sitting up, propped by pillows and lulled by the sound of the Miami sound machine (of course it wasn't Miami Sound Machine, that stuff is too high energy, but I cannot help but call the white noise nature sounds the MSM) but Lily, the oldest sweet pea wanted to recount the details of her glorious day and reassure me that, after the earlier insanity, I was indeed a decent mother. (Thank you, Lily.)
The day really had been incredible. After waiting out the blizzard inside watching Barbie videos, doing massive craft projects, and coloring book marathons, we were finally free this morning to get out and dip into the powdery white stuff. I can't lie. It was awesome and took me right back to the Blizzard of '78. I remember walking in my backyard and saddling up to the five foot fence that protected the yard and standing over it. The reflection of the light on all that white snow made it look and feel like we were all on some luminescent planet. I thought to say the moon, but I suspected that it was too dark, like all the grainy photos showed. Jumping into those snow drifts with the girls made me giddy out of my mind and seeing the joy on their faces, their rosy cheeks, their elation was contagious.
I am often asked, especially when faced with crummy weather, too much rain or snow or cold, if I miss my life in the Caribbean. Frankly, the answer is resoundingly NO! I have always loved the seasons. I think it's what we all say when faced with the furthest corner, pointiest angle on the weather dial in each season--too much rain or snow or cold, no one ever gets crazy about the heat asking if I'd rather be in Barbados, maybe because they recall that I told them it could be stiflingly hot on fire and disarmingly humid. But I do so love a change of season and even more to live in each one of them and feel fully what each has to offer. Whether that is the hottest hot summer, allergy-provoking spring with rain, rain, rain, and more rain, chilly falls with those deliciously colored leaves, apple picking, and outdoor sporting events where it's just a tiny bit too cold, and then this. Powdery, fluffy, scary, freaking-everyone-the-fuck-out snow!
As it's falling, there is that nervous energy, expectation, hope, fear that it just might get too much to handle. Once we're safely inside the house watching it from the window, it makes everything around us look so peaceful, so calm, so still. After, there is the shoveling, the removal, the clearing away, when the air takes over your lungs, and it breathes in so clean and blue, and everyone looks beautiful in that light. It feels like that freezing cold water you jump into after sweating it out in the steam room. It hurts a little bit, is completely shocking, and then you feel incredible that you dared do it, handled it, and can get back up and sweat it out again. Falling into a pile of snow, a huge bank of it, feels like falling into the clouds. It makes you giggle and that silliness is infectious. The girls and I spent the morning making snow forts and chairs and throwing snowballs, marching our tracks into the deep banks, and (for those two) eating, eating, and eating snow!
The highlight of today had to be the sledding. Lily walked over with some friends and Virginie and I followed behind. Following behind meant Virginie walking a little, being carried a little or a lot, then walking or trudging through the snow, being carried, walking and arriving at a hill across from the town hall where dozens of kids were sledding their faces off. Really. Everyone was red and ruddy-cheeked, all smiles, and laughter. Lily must have gone down that hill twenty times, forwards, backwards, spinning around, over bumps and hills, flat terrain. Virginie and I worked as a team and went down probably ten times on our own. Each time we got to the bottom, we laughed and smiled, jumped up and raced back to the top of the hill. When we'd finally had our fill, the three of us walked home with our good friends and had an early dinner, beer, wine, wicked conversation, full on play for the girls. All of which ended with the terrorizing, "I'm so crazy I am going to make you wonder if you are a good mother" fall out proffered by the three and 3/4 year old tired out of her brain.
By the time I was back in my own room, make up off, snuggled in the bed, reading on line, writing, and watching TV, all was forgiven because really, nothing could take away the joy from this beautiful, snowy day.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The day really had been incredible. After waiting out the blizzard inside watching Barbie videos, doing massive craft projects, and coloring book marathons, we were finally free this morning to get out and dip into the powdery white stuff. I can't lie. It was awesome and took me right back to the Blizzard of '78. I remember walking in my backyard and saddling up to the five foot fence that protected the yard and standing over it. The reflection of the light on all that white snow made it look and feel like we were all on some luminescent planet. I thought to say the moon, but I suspected that it was too dark, like all the grainy photos showed. Jumping into those snow drifts with the girls made me giddy out of my mind and seeing the joy on their faces, their rosy cheeks, their elation was contagious.
I am often asked, especially when faced with crummy weather, too much rain or snow or cold, if I miss my life in the Caribbean. Frankly, the answer is resoundingly NO! I have always loved the seasons. I think it's what we all say when faced with the furthest corner, pointiest angle on the weather dial in each season--too much rain or snow or cold, no one ever gets crazy about the heat asking if I'd rather be in Barbados, maybe because they recall that I told them it could be stiflingly hot on fire and disarmingly humid. But I do so love a change of season and even more to live in each one of them and feel fully what each has to offer. Whether that is the hottest hot summer, allergy-provoking spring with rain, rain, rain, and more rain, chilly falls with those deliciously colored leaves, apple picking, and outdoor sporting events where it's just a tiny bit too cold, and then this. Powdery, fluffy, scary, freaking-everyone-the-fuck-out snow!
As it's falling, there is that nervous energy, expectation, hope, fear that it just might get too much to handle. Once we're safely inside the house watching it from the window, it makes everything around us look so peaceful, so calm, so still. After, there is the shoveling, the removal, the clearing away, when the air takes over your lungs, and it breathes in so clean and blue, and everyone looks beautiful in that light. It feels like that freezing cold water you jump into after sweating it out in the steam room. It hurts a little bit, is completely shocking, and then you feel incredible that you dared do it, handled it, and can get back up and sweat it out again. Falling into a pile of snow, a huge bank of it, feels like falling into the clouds. It makes you giggle and that silliness is infectious. The girls and I spent the morning making snow forts and chairs and throwing snowballs, marching our tracks into the deep banks, and (for those two) eating, eating, and eating snow!
The highlight of today had to be the sledding. Lily walked over with some friends and Virginie and I followed behind. Following behind meant Virginie walking a little, being carried a little or a lot, then walking or trudging through the snow, being carried, walking and arriving at a hill across from the town hall where dozens of kids were sledding their faces off. Really. Everyone was red and ruddy-cheeked, all smiles, and laughter. Lily must have gone down that hill twenty times, forwards, backwards, spinning around, over bumps and hills, flat terrain. Virginie and I worked as a team and went down probably ten times on our own. Each time we got to the bottom, we laughed and smiled, jumped up and raced back to the top of the hill. When we'd finally had our fill, the three of us walked home with our good friends and had an early dinner, beer, wine, wicked conversation, full on play for the girls. All of which ended with the terrorizing, "I'm so crazy I am going to make you wonder if you are a good mother" fall out proffered by the three and 3/4 year old tired out of her brain.
By the time I was back in my own room, make up off, snuggled in the bed, reading on line, writing, and watching TV, all was forgiven because really, nothing could take away the joy from this beautiful, snowy day.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Playing the "we"
When I was younger, I had a few boyfriends that just didn't make the grade with my friends. They always invited "us" but then would find a moment to corner "me" and mention that our "we" was kinda getting on their nerves. There were all kinds of different reasons why my beau just didn't cut it, often reasons that I, blinded by love and secret schmoopy-doop whisperings, just couldn't see. Either he was stand-offish, selfish, self-involved, boring, judgmental, smothering, cruel, belligerent, exhausting, needy, whatever and just made the people in my life wonder how and when I would come to my senses and release the fool from my team. Before I settled down with the Frenchy who is charming and funny and a little arrogant but also self-depreciating and of course, French and adorable, I really had no idea how putting together a good "we" could allow "me" to have and keep good friends and relations close.
I have witnessed more than a few relationships fall apart because of this situation, but wondered, what happens when the partner in question is not a boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or pal who can be cut from the squad without legal strings, but is a husband, wife, or business partner? Can a friendship survive if the number 2 always has to tag along? Can you tell your friend that you just can't get down with her man? Out here in the suburbs, people tend to travel in clans. It's not like my former life in the city where packs of roving artists, actors, writers, and single types, often without children could move in and out of circles, trying on different personas, ideas, and accents. In the burbs, you and your partner and sometimes your kiddles move as a subset and merge with other subsets. It's awesome when the wives, the husbands, and the children get along on their own accord, when you don't have to remind someone to be on their best behavior, give them pointers on good conversation, worry that while you are having the time of your life, your partner or your kids are picking lint out of their belly buttons or worse, starting a war.
Political blowhards, lecherous Lotharios, Snoopy marshmallows (as my Frenchy calls the less interesting), inappropriate jokers, and flirty kittens can ruin any night out, dinner, or mixed family gathering. I often wonder, if before heading out the couples have a chat about how to behave. "Please honey, don't tell so and so how gorgeous you thought she was last time. I think it made her uncomfortable." or "Can you just try to add something to the conversation, babe? You have lots to talk about when we are together." I love my Frenchy and I must tell you he is damned funny in French and in English! But truth be told, sometimes I ask him if he wouldn't mind chiming in, sharing a little bit of himself, letting people see how good, funny, intelligent he is. I know that often, we fall for our friends and are so excited by them that we don't imagine that their partners will wilt our flowers, bore us to tears, piss us off to raging blindness. Maybe we don't have to always come as a package. Perhaps it's best to define that role before we force our others on the group and find the space between us grow. Perhaps "we" is too much when all we want is "you" and "me."
If someone told me that they loved hanging with me, but would I mind leaving my Gaul at home, I think I would take that as an assault on my taste and style. Really? You don't want the good stuff? Or worse, you think I don't have the good stuff? Sometimes, it's true, husbands dampen the conversation. Especially when that convo is meant to be about them individually or collectively or about sex or about running away with the trainer (even in jest) or something so private you only want to share it with a good girlfriend, not her husband. But other times, a lively repartee between couples, discourse, new ideas, funny tales can solidify a friendship, make scheduling and entertaining that much easier. And when time is limited, babysitters are scarce, and a good get-together is just what you are looking for, it's nice to know that we can all get along.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I have witnessed more than a few relationships fall apart because of this situation, but wondered, what happens when the partner in question is not a boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, or pal who can be cut from the squad without legal strings, but is a husband, wife, or business partner? Can a friendship survive if the number 2 always has to tag along? Can you tell your friend that you just can't get down with her man? Out here in the suburbs, people tend to travel in clans. It's not like my former life in the city where packs of roving artists, actors, writers, and single types, often without children could move in and out of circles, trying on different personas, ideas, and accents. In the burbs, you and your partner and sometimes your kiddles move as a subset and merge with other subsets. It's awesome when the wives, the husbands, and the children get along on their own accord, when you don't have to remind someone to be on their best behavior, give them pointers on good conversation, worry that while you are having the time of your life, your partner or your kids are picking lint out of their belly buttons or worse, starting a war.
Political blowhards, lecherous Lotharios, Snoopy marshmallows (as my Frenchy calls the less interesting), inappropriate jokers, and flirty kittens can ruin any night out, dinner, or mixed family gathering. I often wonder, if before heading out the couples have a chat about how to behave. "Please honey, don't tell so and so how gorgeous you thought she was last time. I think it made her uncomfortable." or "Can you just try to add something to the conversation, babe? You have lots to talk about when we are together." I love my Frenchy and I must tell you he is damned funny in French and in English! But truth be told, sometimes I ask him if he wouldn't mind chiming in, sharing a little bit of himself, letting people see how good, funny, intelligent he is. I know that often, we fall for our friends and are so excited by them that we don't imagine that their partners will wilt our flowers, bore us to tears, piss us off to raging blindness. Maybe we don't have to always come as a package. Perhaps it's best to define that role before we force our others on the group and find the space between us grow. Perhaps "we" is too much when all we want is "you" and "me."
If someone told me that they loved hanging with me, but would I mind leaving my Gaul at home, I think I would take that as an assault on my taste and style. Really? You don't want the good stuff? Or worse, you think I don't have the good stuff? Sometimes, it's true, husbands dampen the conversation. Especially when that convo is meant to be about them individually or collectively or about sex or about running away with the trainer (even in jest) or something so private you only want to share it with a good girlfriend, not her husband. But other times, a lively repartee between couples, discourse, new ideas, funny tales can solidify a friendship, make scheduling and entertaining that much easier. And when time is limited, babysitters are scarce, and a good get-together is just what you are looking for, it's nice to know that we can all get along.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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