So now we have come to my favorite part of the night. That would be the time when, having taken anywhere from a 30 minute to 2 hour nap during the day, Virginie finds herself sitting on the couch with me while Lily sleeps. Usually this time is somewhere between 8:45 and 10:30 pm and renders it impossible for me to get a moment to myself before needing to go to sleep. Tonight, Virginie and I are up watching tv while I wait for her to nod off. She is talking my head off.
Yes, I know the rule. Don't change locations or you're dead. But we started off the night in my bed, all three of us, which is a special treat as nine times out of ten I say an emphatic no and wrangle them into their own bed with plushy animals, Barbies, water-filled sippies, tissues tucked under pillows. Lily passed out after rambling on about the unicorns and swan princesses, how much she loves her teacher, her desire for just a bunny, a hamster, a kitten, and a guinea pig and possibly a puppy as a gift for her teacher who loves them (so Lily tells me). I sat there silently, unmoving, hoping that Virginie too was about to drift off. No such luck. In the dark, nearly pitch, I hear the tiniest of voices whisper/whine "but I'm not tired. I want to go out there and stand."
And that's when I came out to the living room. To the second location. Where all bets were off. She saddled up to me on the couch with her Rapunzel Barbie, a blanket, her sippy cup with juice, taken from the fridge to replace "just the water. I don't want water, "and we snuggled together under that blanket watching the final performance night of "The Voice." I know, bonding with my child and yadda yadda yadda but it was 9 pm. I am responsible for the people from sun up to sundown and much later. I just need a few minutes, an hour, a little bit to be with myself and my thoughts and God willing be creative.
So tonight, as Virginie sat big-brown-eyed next to me flashing a level of extreme cuteness so intense even the Grumpy Old Troll would melt, I wrote and thought and thought some more about my life with these people. I love them so. I want to do better by them than was done by me. I let them stay up if they can't sleep and sit with me, snuggle, chat even when all I want is some alone time. I do still believe that I need that time, deserve it, owe it to myself but I don't have to hit them over the head with it. They are still in that "I'm the center of the universe" stage, and even though I do know some adults who have yet to move out of that stage, I know my girls will. It's my job to get them there, as it's my job to let them feel loved, respected, protected, and cared for.
In fairness to dear Virginie, she woke up at 6:45 am and was put down for a nap at school at one o'clock. She really wasn't tired tonight when bedtime rolled around. No matter the schedule I'd dreamed up, that chil' was not goin' nowhere near that bed. I had to change my program, do something other than I'd hoped until she was ready. It's a short time, this. I keep hearing that. All the mommies are out there shoutin' it. I do, I do, I do believe it. I do. But I want to create, to make things, to do. I want to be seen and heard and understood too. I love to talk to the girls about their hopes and dreams and whims and fantasies. But I want to express mine too.
I am staying up late again tonight. It's quiet and I am writing. Here. In a journal. On a manuscript. Everywhere I can get a thought out. And I am crying because this quiet time, night time, is one of my favorites and I am torn between wanting to share it with my girls, mark it on their souls as special time with Mommy or save it for myself as the same.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
2+2=4 but 4 is waaaaaay more than 2
Yesterday afternoon after about thirty minutes on the playground chatting with some of the other mommies, the girls and I were invited to a friend's house to finish off the playdating. M and I met a few months ago when she and her family moved to the area from a few towns over. Her daughter and mine are in the same kindergarten class and when shy G first arrived, Lily found a true mate. Lily, Virginie, and I have since grown to love the entire cast of characters in M's family. There are four of them. Eight and under. And then two parents, a dog (Lab), and a guinea pig. For all my talk about parenting and writing home about it, I have no idea on earth how M does it.
That afternoon, I sat chatting with M in her kitchen while she prepped dinner for her team, at least three times what I would prepare for the girls and myself, and watched her dole out advice, grapes, mixed peppers and carrots, discipline, rules and regulations to a constant stream of kiddies flowing through the kitchen. There were reports of beatdowns, lost iPods and homework, dress up dramas, easy and uneasy alliances, and broken chairs and toys. There was a quick release of the dog from his day room that brought Virginie shrieking and cowering between my legs while dressed as Tinkerbell. There was the return, just minutes later, of Virginie now dressed as Minnie Mouse being chased by O, the little boy bobbing and weaving through the house in the Tinkerbell costume.
When she thought she heard squeals from the guinea pig, M calmly washed her hands (as she was still getting dinner ready) and called upstairs, "Don't hurt the guinea pig!" and then went up to see that the thing was alright. He was fine, just being loved to pieces by six kiddies who wanted to pet him, pick him up, love him down, and repeat. She suggested they give the poor animal a break and put it back in its cage and waited for the next attraction. It came in the form of a construction or deconstruction project that saw four of the six children chipping away at the paint and plaster in an attic room with tiny tools in the hopes of "finding the iPod that was probably buried in the wall." The younger kids had been convinced to help the eldest find her treasured iPod with not one of them considering the absolute impossibility of it actually being in the wall. That one got some real rousing and M stormed upstairs to find small holes, chipped pain, and lots of noise as the busy elves got down to business. With all the kids lined up downstairs in the front foyer, she gave them the "what's what" and all of them, having been through this many times before, hung their heads and peered at each other. Only Lily kept chiming in to agree with her that they should have known better. (Funny that, she too had participated just minutes earlier.)
I tried my best to help straighten up the dress up box and toys in the hallway before rallying my troops to go home. Though we'd been invited to stay, I could not bear to put too much more on this dear woman's plate. I knew that just after dinner time would come homework, baths, teeth brushing, bath time, and all levels of menace and wanted to get her to her Zen place as soon as possible. Just didn't think that two more gals and one momma would help. I was super-grateful for the playdate.
Our week is pretty well planned out in part because I am an anal freakshow, but also because I believe that a basic routine helps guide us all, and by us all I mean the three year old who must have some structure or she will rattle us all to the ground. There are rituals for getting up in the morning, policies and procedures for the basic routine--up, dressed, make the bed, eat, brush teeth, get hair done, take a vitamin, toss back allergy meds, choose a toy for the car ride to school, jackets, backpacks, get in the car, music on as we pull out of the drive. This program runs like this pretty much every morning with the usual argument for a leotard or swimsuit for Virginie, no matter the weather, and an occasional mindfreak when Lily cannot decide which toy of hers should make the five minute ride to school. We just reverse the program for bedtime. I count on both girls sticking with the program. We have lots of time when we can just chill out, play, do whatever we like, but that time is not during the comings and goings from home. That time too is scheduled.
Each morning, like clockwork, as I round the curve that leads me to Lily's school drop off, I see them. M and one, two, three, four kids--three girls and one boy--making their way across the street to the drop off. All are dressed, all with hair combed and teeth brushed, some even on bikes or scooters. just two of the four go to the school, the other two spend much of their time with M with a little bit of pre-school thrown in there for one of them. Three days a week, I have the luxury of sending Virginie to her pre
I know a few other mothers of four. I see them juggling the schedules, the appointments, the homework, and the meal times. When the kids are further apart in age, I see how difficult it is to make everyone happy without either asking too much of the older ones or ignoring the pleas of the youngest. I have seen many either forgo extra activities for fear of having to take the entire family to the practices, games, and fundraising events, or taking everyone and having the littlest meltdown to the ground when staying out too late. I am able to put the two girls in the tub together and get much done with the two of them eating, playing, relaxing, and sleeping together and know it is not often the case with multiples.
In the face of this valiant effort, I must concede that parenting two sweet, curious, chatty little Princess Ballerina soccer-playing Mermaids can be crazy and hectic, exhausting and nuts, but it ain't four. M's kids are awesome. They are funny, intelligent, curious, athletic, adventurous, and creative. And there are four of them. And from what I can see, four is way more than two.
That afternoon, I sat chatting with M in her kitchen while she prepped dinner for her team, at least three times what I would prepare for the girls and myself, and watched her dole out advice, grapes, mixed peppers and carrots, discipline, rules and regulations to a constant stream of kiddies flowing through the kitchen. There were reports of beatdowns, lost iPods and homework, dress up dramas, easy and uneasy alliances, and broken chairs and toys. There was a quick release of the dog from his day room that brought Virginie shrieking and cowering between my legs while dressed as Tinkerbell. There was the return, just minutes later, of Virginie now dressed as Minnie Mouse being chased by O, the little boy bobbing and weaving through the house in the Tinkerbell costume.
When she thought she heard squeals from the guinea pig, M calmly washed her hands (as she was still getting dinner ready) and called upstairs, "Don't hurt the guinea pig!" and then went up to see that the thing was alright. He was fine, just being loved to pieces by six kiddies who wanted to pet him, pick him up, love him down, and repeat. She suggested they give the poor animal a break and put it back in its cage and waited for the next attraction. It came in the form of a construction or deconstruction project that saw four of the six children chipping away at the paint and plaster in an attic room with tiny tools in the hopes of "finding the iPod that was probably buried in the wall." The younger kids had been convinced to help the eldest find her treasured iPod with not one of them considering the absolute impossibility of it actually being in the wall. That one got some real rousing and M stormed upstairs to find small holes, chipped pain, and lots of noise as the busy elves got down to business. With all the kids lined up downstairs in the front foyer, she gave them the "what's what" and all of them, having been through this many times before, hung their heads and peered at each other. Only Lily kept chiming in to agree with her that they should have known better. (Funny that, she too had participated just minutes earlier.)
I tried my best to help straighten up the dress up box and toys in the hallway before rallying my troops to go home. Though we'd been invited to stay, I could not bear to put too much more on this dear woman's plate. I knew that just after dinner time would come homework, baths, teeth brushing, bath time, and all levels of menace and wanted to get her to her Zen place as soon as possible. Just didn't think that two more gals and one momma would help. I was super-grateful for the playdate.
Our week is pretty well planned out in part because I am an anal freakshow, but also because I believe that a basic routine helps guide us all, and by us all I mean the three year old who must have some structure or she will rattle us all to the ground. There are rituals for getting up in the morning, policies and procedures for the basic routine--up, dressed, make the bed, eat, brush teeth, get hair done, take a vitamin, toss back allergy meds, choose a toy for the car ride to school, jackets, backpacks, get in the car, music on as we pull out of the drive. This program runs like this pretty much every morning with the usual argument for a leotard or swimsuit for Virginie, no matter the weather, and an occasional mindfreak when Lily cannot decide which toy of hers should make the five minute ride to school. We just reverse the program for bedtime. I count on both girls sticking with the program. We have lots of time when we can just chill out, play, do whatever we like, but that time is not during the comings and goings from home. That time too is scheduled.
Each morning, like clockwork, as I round the curve that leads me to Lily's school drop off, I see them. M and one, two, three, four kids--three girls and one boy--making their way across the street to the drop off. All are dressed, all with hair combed and teeth brushed, some even on bikes or scooters. just two of the four go to the school, the other two spend much of their time with M with a little bit of pre-school thrown in there for one of them. Three days a week, I have the luxury of sending Virginie to her pre
I know a few other mothers of four. I see them juggling the schedules, the appointments, the homework, and the meal times. When the kids are further apart in age, I see how difficult it is to make everyone happy without either asking too much of the older ones or ignoring the pleas of the youngest. I have seen many either forgo extra activities for fear of having to take the entire family to the practices, games, and fundraising events, or taking everyone and having the littlest meltdown to the ground when staying out too late. I am able to put the two girls in the tub together and get much done with the two of them eating, playing, relaxing, and sleeping together and know it is not often the case with multiples.
In the face of this valiant effort, I must concede that parenting two sweet, curious, chatty little Princess Ballerina soccer-playing Mermaids can be crazy and hectic, exhausting and nuts, but it ain't four. M's kids are awesome. They are funny, intelligent, curious, athletic, adventurous, and creative. And there are four of them. And from what I can see, four is way more than two.
Thursday, April 19, 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.
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.
Monday, April 9, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Of mean girls and little princes
I have thought about at length and with great frequency how incredibly difficult it is to raise children. Not just to have them, but to make a real effort to raise them, teach them, guide them so that they might become upstanding citizens and productive and helpful members of society. My grandmother used to tell us that she told her children, our parents, aunties, and uncles, that she was “always going to love them but that is was [her] job to get others to like them.” We used to laugh at that as we imagined our parents as little children running around, acting a fool, and wreaking havoc on Grandma’s home.
But I have my own two little mermaids splashing all over the house and now that we are a household with four crazy, intense personalities I can see the need on a daily basis, really on a minute by minute, to empower these people to make good decisions, to inspire empathy, and to provide them with a world view in which they are not the sun, the moon, or the stars, but kindhearted people who care about their neighbors and all mankind.
And that, my friends, is the hard part. Because we are living in a culture where telling our children that they are indeed the sun, moon, and stars, little princesses, “my own little man,” oh so special, is so prevalent. I have no argument against allowing children to feel special and good, to celebrate their achievements, true achievements not just forgoing the beating of their little brothers or sisters down to the ground or going to bed finally after begging for three or four reprieves. What I am talking about is the constant drilling, reminding, cajoling while loving, supporting, guiding that helps children find their own way to kindness, to strength, to self-awareness, and awareness of others. I know, I do, that after a long day at work, in the trenches at home with small people, juggling all that life tosses in, that spending that time with a whiny one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, whatever year old not just reminding them to say please, thank you, hello, and goodbye, but ingraining in themselves the sense of community and camaraderie that can make the world a better place.
I have seen absolute terrors on the playground, in the grocery store, and at the public library and wondered, “Do these parents know that they are living with a mean girl? Do they know they have created a little prince with no interest whatsoever in engaging with their peers from anywhere but the throne?” When my oldest suffered some indignity on the playground by a total bitchy brat, an eight year old meanie, I sought out her mother, only to find her nanny chatting away on the telephone, clueless to the girl’s bullying tactics. It got me thinking. Do people leave their children with other people and then assume or hope that the lessons one would hope to instill are being taught? Or do they not even realize that there are lessons to learn at every age and that they are not being learned?
I lived in the Caribbean for two years and while I did see birthday celebrations that rivaled Celine Dion’s stage sets in Vegas, I also learned that Caribbean parents and certainly grandparents “don’t take no mess.” Are the women, many of them Caribbean, left in charge of these unguided cherubs being expected to raise them up as their own? Because I highly doubt that what needs to be done would be allowed. And I am in no way talking about corporal punishment. I do not like spanking or hitting unless it immediately stops an incredibly dangerous act. For example, I have swatted the girls on the bum if they have run into the street. We spend a long time talking about why we do and don’t do things, come up with examples from Mommy and children, think of new ways we could handle situations, and hopefully grow together. But this takes discipline, commitment, sometimes a stern voice, a strong tone, something that it seems many are nervous to take with Little Princess or Wee Prince.
Are we Americans just too lenient with our children? Do we hold them to a standard far below the standards of parents in other countries? Perhaps it's that we hold ourselves to a lesser standard, caring less about compassion, unity, consideration and more about success and winning. It seems that every few months a tome from another culture, community, or country alights where we are, if not failing, faltering. When I am bugging out over some kiddie’s bad behavior on the playground, I always seek out the parent. I want to see them, want to know, want to understand. I know it sounds like judgment, but it isn’t meant to be so. I just know that a little one only does or says or acts in a way that he or she has been allowed. When I stumble upon a parent whose head is buried in a smartphone or ear is turned to a good chat or is not there at all, I wonder if that parent has considered how his or her behavior has affected the child. Sure I know I could be catching them at a bad moment, an necessary phone call, an emergency but very often it is the same few perpetrators.
My girlfriend from El Salvador told me that there is a saying, "Mothers raise their daughters and love their sons." Little boys who are not held accountable for their actions, their words, being told, "You know how boys are" as an excuse for really inappropriate, impolite, disrespectful behavior. Little boys who take no responsibility for their actions, don't say hello or goodbye to others, come into another's home and break toys, open the refrigerator, flop on the couch shoes and all, don't have home chores or responsibilities appropriate for their age make me cringe. Because it stirs in me the fear that this behavior will be perpetuated throughout his life. How could he not feel like the king? The space has been cleared all around him. He will come into contact with people feeling no responsibility for his actions, not recognizing their needs, or the role he might play in making their lives better or worse. Because he will not see himself as part of a community, but as a solo flyer. A sea of solo flyers where everyone is a star ace does not bode well for community-building or peace.
My girls love to dress up like princesses and dance around like ballerinas. They also like making things and playing soccer and drawing. I am taking nothing away from the joy of being young, little, creative, imaginative thinkers when I ask them to help me set the table, clear their plates, clean their playroom, carry their own backpacks. When they are asked to speak to adults, strangers to them but familiar to Mommy, they are happy to speak up. They are certainly excited to talk to their grandparents and aunties and uncles and familiar faces. We have tantrums and meltdowns and crying spells and fights like all families with kiddies, but we are respectful of each other and others. We don't throw our garbage on the floor or out the window. When we drop things, we pick them up. When we hurt someone we apologize and we know before being told that what we have said or done just might have been hurtful. Even if we didn't think it was, we apologize anyway because we can see that we have hurt someone.
My girls have felt the sting of cruel words and shoves and would never want another to suffer them as they have. I suppose I have too which is why this selfish, disconnected behavior bothers me so. It is okay to pretend to be a king or queen for the day, but the fun in that is having the knowledge that most of us live below that exalted line where we just don't have to give a damn. We should give a damn. All of us should give a damn.
My girls love to dress up like princesses and dance around like ballerinas. They also like making things and playing soccer and drawing. I am taking nothing away from the joy of being young, little, creative, imaginative thinkers when I ask them to help me set the table, clear their plates, clean their playroom, carry their own backpacks. When they are asked to speak to adults, strangers to them but familiar to Mommy, they are happy to speak up. They are certainly excited to talk to their grandparents and aunties and uncles and familiar faces. We have tantrums and meltdowns and crying spells and fights like all families with kiddies, but we are respectful of each other and others. We don't throw our garbage on the floor or out the window. When we drop things, we pick them up. When we hurt someone we apologize and we know before being told that what we have said or done just might have been hurtful. Even if we didn't think it was, we apologize anyway because we can see that we have hurt someone.
My girls have felt the sting of cruel words and shoves and would never want another to suffer them as they have. I suppose I have too which is why this selfish, disconnected behavior bothers me so. It is okay to pretend to be a king or queen for the day, but the fun in that is having the knowledge that most of us live below that exalted line where we just don't have to give a damn. We should give a damn. All of us should give a damn.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
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.
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.
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