I had to make a sleep chart for my 3 3/4 year old child whose interest in conversation and chatterboxing at all hours of the night and early morning was killing my beauty rest, my peace of mind, and was slowly eroding my sanity. I promised a worthy prize at the end of ten nights of uninterrupted sleep. No waking in the night to talk or demand food or play on the iPad allowed, but escorts to the bathroom or checks for illness or bad dreams were permitted. Not one to miss a prize, Lily signed on too. I had to allow it though I knew she'd breeze through this challenge and get the reward. Including her was like allowing an Olympic swimmer to compete against middle school challengers but I had to to be fair...to her. The oldest doesn't quite understand that she's already reached these milestones, been coddled and handled through these obstacles in the very recent past. All she sees is the possibility of a toy and knows immediately that only one of them in this fight ain't right.
We were off to a rough start. Well, Virginie was...and by association so was I. The first night was as miserable as all those before the chart went up. She asked me why she had water in her sippy cup instead of juice. Then asked me to change it. I didn't. There were tears and desperation. She asked about the colors in the rainbow. She wanted me to say them and then she would repeat them. When I did not state them with the right dose of enthusiasm she cried and asked me to do them all again. I did while drifting off to sleep, so she nudged me, poked me in the eye, whispered in my ear., "Mommy, why are your eyes closed? Why do we have to sleep? I don't like to." I foolishly engaged. "We need sleep for our health. We need it to function during the day and do the things we want to do." She asked, "What is function?" I answered, "To be able to do things correctly, do them well." "Why do we have to function?" And it goes on and on like that until I think I am going to fall down the rabbit hole and I start to beg.
We did eventually get to sleep about an hour and a half later, but by then I was nearly willing to give away all the government secrets. The next few days we started to get on track. I kept reminding Virginie that the end goal was a prize and that it wouldn't be something whack from the dollar store. A real prize. Lily got the idea. She was on it. I don't think she even got out of bed to use the bathroom until daybreak. Every morning Lily would ask, "Did you have a good sleep? Can I get a star?" And she could because she'd slept through the night. Seeing that first star go up, Virginie got the fever. She was not about to miss out on a prize. So sleep training commenced.
While I know Virginie was thrilled out of her face to see those stickers go up, no joy could overtake my own. That first morning that I woke up face down with drool on the pillow, I almost didn't recognize where I was. I was so used to sleeping twisted up in a ball of blankets and special lovies in a teeny, tiny toddler bed that the incredible sensation of space and warmth around me nearly had me convinced that I was on an alien abduction operating table. "Oh, glorious sunlight shining into my life!" I thought. WOWZ. This is what everyone was raving about! Another night, then another and another. I was getting hooked on this stuff! I would have bought a Barbie castle and sports car for this wonderfulness! Though I knew a habit took more than four days to form, I was optimistic.
Imagine my shock and surprise when Virginie called for me on that fifth day and wanted to talk about "that thing that Annabel had on her head" and "why Papa and Lily were sleeping and we're not." We stayed up for almost two hours and I felt defeated. Somehow, despite this setback, we made it to ten days, ten stickers, and a present. We walked as a family to the toy store in town where each of the girls got to choose a small toy. I didn't set a price limit but I did tell them that it was not Christmas nor was it their birthdays, that this was a reward, a token to celebrate their achievement. Lily clutched a bug-eyed unicorn named Magic to her chest and, no surprise, Virginie chose a Rapunzel bath toy that could detach from her floating shell and play with the other Rapunzels in her collection.
I know that ten days, ten stickers does not a habit make. Last night, after having received her ten stickers, Lily called me in the night crying about a "bad choice" she'd made that was racking her brain. We sat up for an hour talking about forgiving herself and being kind to herself and with a little snuggling and kissing, all was forgiven. I cuddled up behind her in her little bed and we promptly went to sleep. One hour later I was tip toeing back to my own bed. The chart still hangs and will continue to be loaded with stars and encouragement. I don't really care so much about the number of stickers and stars, don't even mind if we don't really get to ten each time. They feel really proud when they've made it overnight, are jazzed that Mommy has had some rest and has a genuine smile on her face to greet them. And when we all get some sleep? That is the best reward of all.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Brother Man
Back to the Suburban Grind: Brother Man: I am almost six years older than my brother which was just enough distance to see him as a cute and cuddly threat when he was born and a str...
Brother Man
I am almost six years older than my brother which was just enough distance to see him as a cute and cuddly threat when he was born and a strange, little brainiac as he grew into a viciously smart kid and I into a miserable, brooding teenager. I was always so curious about him, intrigued and fascinated. He was a boy and did boy things and was sensitive, inquisitive, and obviously bright. It was understood that he was bright. He "got" things easily, skipped second grade, had a memory for all kinds of information, facts, dates, concepts, and loved exploring them, sometimes talking, talking, talking about them out loud in order to process them. His role in the family was son and heir and "the smart one." Nevermind that he was also a talented musician, it seemed a "shame" for him to go in the direction of the arts when he was clearly gifted with this brain for "something more."
I can only imagine how being my little brother must have traumatized the poor soul. I was all arts and smarts--dance, visual arts, music, then acting later in life-- though the smarts did not reveal itself until years later when intelligence was no longer measured in test taking ability, memorization, and advanced algebra and trigonometry. I foolishly committed the rules to memory and existed only to serve them. Until I became that tortured teen, I ignored my own thoughts and cries and pleas for expression and did what I was told. My bro watched in the shadows of the Speak N-Spell, adding numbers on the calculator to turn it upside down and make funny words, spinning the globe and pouring through maps and Encyclopedia Britannica volumes while I went from people pleaser to sad, angry worm. My sister, two years younger than I am, buffered him from my angst and anxiety, teaching him about hip hop and teenage partying, relationships, and navigating the grey landscape that was our childhood home.
And then I was gone. As I watched from the dorm rooms I inhabited in Boston, my brother became a very cool, super hip, politically passionate dude. I wanted to know him but was long gone and fast disconnecting from the mothership. We'd move in and out of the circle, a little do-see-do, but never quite got to know each other or find ourselves completely comfy in each others' presence. I blamed myself for this. My brooding, emotional, artistic self saw ribbons of energy pushing and pulling and twisting around each other and I could never get my bearings. I recalled bad times where he'd existed only on the periphery, moments that did not sit with the same thud for him as they did for me. I was melancholy, mourning, dark and he was still searching, reaching, seeking. Though we were both artistic, creative, thinkers, though we were both inquisitive, longing,questing, I couldn't see in his success, his hopefulness, how it was that we'd come out of the same house, that he remembered too.
As soon as I saw the trotting horses in the park, I collected myself and got my bearings. I looked down and saw that I was pushing Virginie in our Peg Perego stroller that has survived international travel, beach dunes, and took comfort in seeing my hands gripping the carriage handles. I searched for Lily, looking for her red jacket through the trees and other colored parkas in the park and saw that she was close. Close to me and to the trotting horses. I didn't have to say anything because before I could figure out just what I would shout out about now, my brother rounded up the girls (his and mine) and got them well out of "harm's" way. I looked over at my sister-in-law and said, "He has it too, huh? The Penn panic. The horses aren't bothering you at all, are they?" They weren't. At all. Nor were they bothering my husband.
A smile came to my face and I took comfort in this commonality. My brother is all those wonderful things and he was freaked by the possibility of the "charging," yes, now charging (in my mind) horses. He was prepared for danger, ready. He believed in love and life, had found the most incredible place with his gorgeous wife and girls, successful career, nice home, spoils of a well-lived, well-guided life, and still flashed panicked eyes at obstacles on the road. As I watched him, looked at his face, I saw my baby brother, the little one, and I wanted to reassure him, even though I was pretty on guard myself. Even though, when we were younger, I had no tools to guide or protect or reassure.
Even if this guy wasn't my brother, I would think he was pretty awesome. In the second act, I get to know him for whom he probably always was, but I had no idea, and for the person he continues to develop into. The man, the dad, the husband, and the friend. The artist, the lawyer, the thinker. I can only hope that he recognizes that the broody, moody, emotional girl he witnessed has transformed into a still emotional, spiritual, hopeful, still a bit fearful, caring, creative woman with partially exorcised demons and a map with room for more experiences and destinations. We've been through some of the same places and I now hope we can show each other something new.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I can only imagine how being my little brother must have traumatized the poor soul. I was all arts and smarts--dance, visual arts, music, then acting later in life-- though the smarts did not reveal itself until years later when intelligence was no longer measured in test taking ability, memorization, and advanced algebra and trigonometry. I foolishly committed the rules to memory and existed only to serve them. Until I became that tortured teen, I ignored my own thoughts and cries and pleas for expression and did what I was told. My bro watched in the shadows of the Speak N-Spell, adding numbers on the calculator to turn it upside down and make funny words, spinning the globe and pouring through maps and Encyclopedia Britannica volumes while I went from people pleaser to sad, angry worm. My sister, two years younger than I am, buffered him from my angst and anxiety, teaching him about hip hop and teenage partying, relationships, and navigating the grey landscape that was our childhood home.
And then I was gone. As I watched from the dorm rooms I inhabited in Boston, my brother became a very cool, super hip, politically passionate dude. I wanted to know him but was long gone and fast disconnecting from the mothership. We'd move in and out of the circle, a little do-see-do, but never quite got to know each other or find ourselves completely comfy in each others' presence. I blamed myself for this. My brooding, emotional, artistic self saw ribbons of energy pushing and pulling and twisting around each other and I could never get my bearings. I recalled bad times where he'd existed only on the periphery, moments that did not sit with the same thud for him as they did for me. I was melancholy, mourning, dark and he was still searching, reaching, seeking. Though we were both artistic, creative, thinkers, though we were both inquisitive, longing,questing, I couldn't see in his success, his hopefulness, how it was that we'd come out of the same house, that he remembered too.
As soon as I saw the trotting horses in the park, I collected myself and got my bearings. I looked down and saw that I was pushing Virginie in our Peg Perego stroller that has survived international travel, beach dunes, and took comfort in seeing my hands gripping the carriage handles. I searched for Lily, looking for her red jacket through the trees and other colored parkas in the park and saw that she was close. Close to me and to the trotting horses. I didn't have to say anything because before I could figure out just what I would shout out about now, my brother rounded up the girls (his and mine) and got them well out of "harm's" way. I looked over at my sister-in-law and said, "He has it too, huh? The Penn panic. The horses aren't bothering you at all, are they?" They weren't. At all. Nor were they bothering my husband.
A smile came to my face and I took comfort in this commonality. My brother is all those wonderful things and he was freaked by the possibility of the "charging," yes, now charging (in my mind) horses. He was prepared for danger, ready. He believed in love and life, had found the most incredible place with his gorgeous wife and girls, successful career, nice home, spoils of a well-lived, well-guided life, and still flashed panicked eyes at obstacles on the road. As I watched him, looked at his face, I saw my baby brother, the little one, and I wanted to reassure him, even though I was pretty on guard myself. Even though, when we were younger, I had no tools to guide or protect or reassure.
Even if this guy wasn't my brother, I would think he was pretty awesome. In the second act, I get to know him for whom he probably always was, but I had no idea, and for the person he continues to develop into. The man, the dad, the husband, and the friend. The artist, the lawyer, the thinker. I can only hope that he recognizes that the broody, moody, emotional girl he witnessed has transformed into a still emotional, spiritual, hopeful, still a bit fearful, caring, creative woman with partially exorcised demons and a map with room for more experiences and destinations. We've been through some of the same places and I now hope we can show each other something new.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Ol' Ball and Chain
Back to the Suburban Grind: The Ol' Ball and Chain: For those who refer to their significant other as "the ol' ball and chain" I would like to introduce the three and 3/4 year old girl. My de...
The Ol' Ball and Chain
For those who refer to their significant other as "the ol' ball and chain" I would like to introduce the three and 3/4 year old girl. My dear baby child is exceptionally bright, charismatic, funny, precocious, and loving. On the days when it's good, it's really, really good. But on the days when it's not so, you just might see the terror in my eyes. She's not spoiled, not more than any other suburban American, pre-K girl whose parents are concerned about her not being too selfish or spoiled or self-involved, inconsiderate, bratty, and obnoxious, and she's usually quite thoughtful and open and concerned about those around her. Now I will admit to letting her ride in the stroller rather than having her walk along on longer trips. Mostly because I want to move the program along. And I talk with her and play with her like she's older than her 3 3/4 years because I know that intellectually she needs that challenge.
Both girls are loved and adored. We kiss and hug and listen intently, try to shore up their sense of self-worth before the demands of being a girl and then a woman in the world start to fray the edges of their confidence. Much that we do, like many other parents, is focused on the girls or at least considers them. We are not of the "children should be seen and never heard" belief but my strictly disciplined childhood and Didier's proper French behavior do not allow us to put up with too much nonsense. To us, everyone in the family has a voice, even if some (Mommy's and Papa's) are weighed more heavily.
On the walk to the sledding hill yesterday, Virginie and I followed behind a larger group because I wanted to be sure that she ate a proper lunch. I knew that the sledding would be exhausting and that we would afterwards have dinner and spend some time with our friends, so I wanted to give her a little time on her own with me, going at her own pace, before we caught up with the big girls. She was surely not going to get a nap, not that she has been interested in one of those for quite a while, so I wanted her to move at the little girl's pace and not try to keep up with the older ones. She ate and we dressed to head out. The snow banks and sidewalk corners would have made travel with the stroller rather difficult (besides the fact that it was in the trunk of the car Didier had driven into the city) so I decided we'd walk if we were to go at all. We walked and I carried her and then carried her until she'd walk and then I'd carry her and then carry her and then, once my back was sufficiently twisted and we'd arrived, I put her down. Ball and chain. Sure, I could have stood my ground and waited for her to just walked in out, but seriously, we'd been here before and she can outlast me. I don't want to stand in the cold, miss the action and have THAT meltdown, so I carry her. All in all, she probably walked a third of the trek and that felt like something to me.
The sledding hill, though not particularly steep, was a bit daunting for her, so I agreed to go down with her. I love sledding and it's a good thing. We must have gone at least ten times together. Riding down then walking up the hill holding her hand and carrying the awesome glider and then doing it all again. I'm hardly youngish and the workout provided, though ultimately needed, maybe welcomed, kinda wrecked me and threw off my equilibrium. When we'd all had our fill, everyone began the walk home. On the return there was walking and carrying and dragging on the sled and carrying and crying and fighting and my desperate hope that she just might, somehow, fall asleep in my arms. No such luck. Just a heavy lump of a coal and a crap attitude from an overtired three and 3/4 year old. Ball and chain.
We ate, drank, and were merry. The kiddles ate and played until they were all bug-eyed and weary. I kept saying over and over again that I should leave, leave while the baby girl was still in good spirits. She put on a dance costume, drew pictures, ate a banana and an apple after some pasta. She ran ragged with the other kids upstairs and could be heard laughing and telling pre-K jokes. After an incredibly enjoyable day, sledding and hanging with friends and neighbors, my girl, overtired, exhausted, sunned and snowed, fell out. What I'm talking about is not getting upset or even having a tantrum. I am talking about eyes rolling, screeching, arms flailing, internal clock resetting that happens on such an epic scale, even adults stop and stare at her like, "WTF?"
She fell out on the floor. She cussed me in a way only a tired child can. It's not the words, it's the expression on her face and the knowing glance that somehow it is my fault a little. Or entirely. Though we live just a few houses down, our host volunteered to drive us home and my little person screamed and acted a monkey the entire ride. We got into the house and, unhappy at how I had taken off her boots outside the door, she asked me to reenact the scene with a more pleasant disposition from me. I obliged after standing off for 15 minutes. I tried to walk away a bit, to give myself some distance, and she begged me to hold her. Hold her while she was screaming in my face. I held her, kissed her, whispered that I understood she was tired and tried to lead her to her room. The mention of being tired sent her back to Crazytown and I found myself stumbling down the hallway with a whining, screaming freak show and an older sister trying to ease my soul with kisses to my knees and elbows. Ball and chain.
Dressing Lily, the oldest, for bed, I lay Virginie on her bed propped up so that she felt that she was not going to bed but just talking to Mommy and Lily. She passed out there. Lily fell asleep quickly and I went to sleep shortly thereafter feeling like I had won a small victory. I had. Until 5 am when Virginie came to my room and asked me why I was sleeping there. I told her that it was my room and that it was the middle of the night. She asked if she could sleep with me for a bit and the answer was, of course, yes. We lay together for about 5 minutes when she asked if we could return to her room. Sigh. Sure. So we squeezed into her IKEA bed together where we pretzeled into a sleeping yogini pose. I closed my eyes to rest all of ten minutes when she woke me to tell me that she likes pajamas without feeties too. I told her that I did too and tried to go back to sleep. She then tapped me again. "How about no feeties?"
"Let's sleep, baby," I suggested. But she was having none of it.
"I want the pajamas with no feet."
"I think we should go back to sleep, dear girl."
With tears and increasing volume, "The other pajamas! The other pajamas!" So sue me, I changed her. We went back to sleep for 35 seconds whens he realized that she did not actually want feetless jammies. I mean, who would? So she begged and pleaded to be put back in the others. I changed her and cried and she thanked me and we went back to sleep. Ball and chain.
I got up at 7 am, after one jagged hour of sleep, with Lily and Virginie slept until 8:45 am. I love her to bits. She is gaining independence and growing by leaps and bounds. I know that one year, maybe even six months from now I will look back at these times and just giggle to myself at how ridiculous they were. But right now, with the little one chained to my side, with me, learning from me, the laughter is sharp and occasionally bitter, laced with awe and fatigue. These people are amazing and maddening and they will never feel me releasing my grasp, never feel a jerk in the chain, never be dismissed or shrugged off. I made a commitment to the ball and chain and I'm sticking with it.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Both girls are loved and adored. We kiss and hug and listen intently, try to shore up their sense of self-worth before the demands of being a girl and then a woman in the world start to fray the edges of their confidence. Much that we do, like many other parents, is focused on the girls or at least considers them. We are not of the "children should be seen and never heard" belief but my strictly disciplined childhood and Didier's proper French behavior do not allow us to put up with too much nonsense. To us, everyone in the family has a voice, even if some (Mommy's and Papa's) are weighed more heavily.
On the walk to the sledding hill yesterday, Virginie and I followed behind a larger group because I wanted to be sure that she ate a proper lunch. I knew that the sledding would be exhausting and that we would afterwards have dinner and spend some time with our friends, so I wanted to give her a little time on her own with me, going at her own pace, before we caught up with the big girls. She was surely not going to get a nap, not that she has been interested in one of those for quite a while, so I wanted her to move at the little girl's pace and not try to keep up with the older ones. She ate and we dressed to head out. The snow banks and sidewalk corners would have made travel with the stroller rather difficult (besides the fact that it was in the trunk of the car Didier had driven into the city) so I decided we'd walk if we were to go at all. We walked and I carried her and then carried her until she'd walk and then I'd carry her and then carry her and then, once my back was sufficiently twisted and we'd arrived, I put her down. Ball and chain. Sure, I could have stood my ground and waited for her to just walked in out, but seriously, we'd been here before and she can outlast me. I don't want to stand in the cold, miss the action and have THAT meltdown, so I carry her. All in all, she probably walked a third of the trek and that felt like something to me.
The sledding hill, though not particularly steep, was a bit daunting for her, so I agreed to go down with her. I love sledding and it's a good thing. We must have gone at least ten times together. Riding down then walking up the hill holding her hand and carrying the awesome glider and then doing it all again. I'm hardly youngish and the workout provided, though ultimately needed, maybe welcomed, kinda wrecked me and threw off my equilibrium. When we'd all had our fill, everyone began the walk home. On the return there was walking and carrying and dragging on the sled and carrying and crying and fighting and my desperate hope that she just might, somehow, fall asleep in my arms. No such luck. Just a heavy lump of a coal and a crap attitude from an overtired three and 3/4 year old. Ball and chain.
We ate, drank, and were merry. The kiddles ate and played until they were all bug-eyed and weary. I kept saying over and over again that I should leave, leave while the baby girl was still in good spirits. She put on a dance costume, drew pictures, ate a banana and an apple after some pasta. She ran ragged with the other kids upstairs and could be heard laughing and telling pre-K jokes. After an incredibly enjoyable day, sledding and hanging with friends and neighbors, my girl, overtired, exhausted, sunned and snowed, fell out. What I'm talking about is not getting upset or even having a tantrum. I am talking about eyes rolling, screeching, arms flailing, internal clock resetting that happens on such an epic scale, even adults stop and stare at her like, "WTF?"
She fell out on the floor. She cussed me in a way only a tired child can. It's not the words, it's the expression on her face and the knowing glance that somehow it is my fault a little. Or entirely. Though we live just a few houses down, our host volunteered to drive us home and my little person screamed and acted a monkey the entire ride. We got into the house and, unhappy at how I had taken off her boots outside the door, she asked me to reenact the scene with a more pleasant disposition from me. I obliged after standing off for 15 minutes. I tried to walk away a bit, to give myself some distance, and she begged me to hold her. Hold her while she was screaming in my face. I held her, kissed her, whispered that I understood she was tired and tried to lead her to her room. The mention of being tired sent her back to Crazytown and I found myself stumbling down the hallway with a whining, screaming freak show and an older sister trying to ease my soul with kisses to my knees and elbows. Ball and chain.
Dressing Lily, the oldest, for bed, I lay Virginie on her bed propped up so that she felt that she was not going to bed but just talking to Mommy and Lily. She passed out there. Lily fell asleep quickly and I went to sleep shortly thereafter feeling like I had won a small victory. I had. Until 5 am when Virginie came to my room and asked me why I was sleeping there. I told her that it was my room and that it was the middle of the night. She asked if she could sleep with me for a bit and the answer was, of course, yes. We lay together for about 5 minutes when she asked if we could return to her room. Sigh. Sure. So we squeezed into her IKEA bed together where we pretzeled into a sleeping yogini pose. I closed my eyes to rest all of ten minutes when she woke me to tell me that she likes pajamas without feeties too. I told her that I did too and tried to go back to sleep. She then tapped me again. "How about no feeties?"
"Let's sleep, baby," I suggested. But she was having none of it.
"I want the pajamas with no feet."
"I think we should go back to sleep, dear girl."
With tears and increasing volume, "The other pajamas! The other pajamas!" So sue me, I changed her. We went back to sleep for 35 seconds whens he realized that she did not actually want feetless jammies. I mean, who would? So she begged and pleaded to be put back in the others. I changed her and cried and she thanked me and we went back to sleep. Ball and chain.
I got up at 7 am, after one jagged hour of sleep, with Lily and Virginie slept until 8:45 am. I love her to bits. She is gaining independence and growing by leaps and bounds. I know that one year, maybe even six months from now I will look back at these times and just giggle to myself at how ridiculous they were. But right now, with the little one chained to my side, with me, learning from me, the laughter is sharp and occasionally bitter, laced with awe and fatigue. These people are amazing and maddening and they will never feel me releasing my grasp, never feel a jerk in the chain, never be dismissed or shrugged off. I made a commitment to the ball and chain and I'm sticking with it.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Snow day
Back to the Suburban Grind: 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 ...
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.
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