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.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
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.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Dressed for success
Let me preface this by saying that although I was quite the little conformist as a young child, molding myself to the needs, desires, and expectations of my parents, I have no attachment to what my children wear. none whatsoever, and while I think I choose pretty cool outfits for them, if they don't want to wear them I am cool. Princess costume to the grocery store? Fine. It's more than just picking my battles. I truly believe that what children, and adults for that matter, choose to wear is a reflection of who they are or who they want to be, and I do not see it as my place to hound them into a style that not only does not reflect their own personalities, but forces them into a box not of their choosing. I have experience with that.
I believe my father spent a good five to ten years shaking his head at me, my hairstyles, and my outfits, and only because my will is stronger than he probably ever suspected, I did not capitulate. His judgment and cruel comments did nothing for our relationship, and in the end, I became the picture of all American, albeit African-American, good looks, comportment, and presentation. I guess kind of a fraud. Only the hidden tattoos and occasional rip, tear, or mismatched pattern reveals my subversive style.
It's just not worth it. Not worth our relationship, their blooming independence, my peace of mind and remaining sliver of sanity to fight them, so today my nearly three year old is wearing for the fifth or sixth time this week, her lavender colored leotard with attached ballet skirt and butterfly sequined decolletage. She has worn it to the grocery store, library, school drop off, and her big sister's ballet class. She also wears it as a pajama and a dress up costume. Today she is wearing it with tights, grey with lavender bows on them, and nothing underneath. Sleeveless.
It is drizzling and cold. I saw my breath this morning as I packed the girls into the car for school drop off. Because she would like everyone in the entire universe to see what a beautiful princess-ballerina-queen-Barbie she is, I was unable to get a coat over her look. And this, Houston, is where we have a problem.
I have gotten input from mommies across the spectrum who have endured all sorts of costume changes throughout their children's lifetimes. We are pretty much a flexible lot. But the lack of jacket or other proper outerwear sets us on edge. It's for their health that we have such a concern. How could a mother allow her baby outside in the rain or snow in a sleeveless leotard? I will tell you how. When she has another child who has to get to school or practice or a playdate on time and that child has been behaving nicely all morning or afternoon or night, and is waiting calmly to get into the car while her little sister parades her tiny behind up and down the driveway, shivering but not daring to give in and put on a coat. When five, ten, fifteen, then twenty minutes go by and said ballerina is standing with arms folded and giving her look that says, "I have all day." When it really, truly is time to go or the older child is going to be late for school or practice or that playdate. That's how Momma let's that chil' outside without her coat.
This morning I wrapped the little one in a sweatshirt that she refused to put her arms into and pushed her in the stroller across the school blacktop for morning line up. I don't really care what other people out there think of me. Two years in Barbados with a level of nosiness so stealth and intense it seems like a job for the perpetrators, have given me not only a thick skin in regards to how my kids or I look in public but a "bring it on" attitude. In my first days in Barbados, carrying the then four month old baby in the hot blazing heat, parasol over her head, 70+ sunscreen on her skin, onesie on her little chubby body, going from the car to the unair-conditioned store, I was approached by three separate individuals who told me that my sweaty baby needed socks, a hat, some pants. Yeah right. Thanks for your help, Buttinsky.
Anyone who has ever raised a child knows that negotiating with a nearly three year old is one of the craziest tortures known to man and that winning will cost and will cost big. A dedicated parent can probably tell that I did make the effort. The sweat on the brow, strain on my face, clenched teeth, and pursed lips are usually dead giveaways. While I looked like a crazy person, the little one was all smiles and crossed arms. My oldest too was tough at this age, choosing only jeans and a dress and sneakers every day, and would not allow a comb or brush anywhere near her curly, knotty locks. By the time we were in Barbados there were just three real choices --school uniform, bathing suit, or sun dress. Oh, and naked. Though the four seasons do allow more options for the kiddies, it seems that the only things that appeal to the little one are costumes, crowns,magic wands, and sparkles.
Tonight while eating in her lavender leotard, baby girl spilled yogurt and then spaghetti sauce down her front. I thought I would faint as I anticipated the battle that was sure to ensue when I had to tell her that we would not be wearing that dirty, stinky costume to bed. As expected,that suggestion was not working for her. She put up a hell of a fight. I thought I just might give up and let her wear the damned dirty rag when her big sister stepped in holding a white leotard with turquoise skirt, printed with HELLO KITTY and the face of that mouthless kitten on the chest. Have mercy!
I just peeked in on the sleeping angels and both are snuggled up in their beds. One in her princess pajamas. The other in a soon to be familiar at grocery stores, school drop off, playdates, and nap times outfit that is too cute to even be covered by a coat.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
I believe my father spent a good five to ten years shaking his head at me, my hairstyles, and my outfits, and only because my will is stronger than he probably ever suspected, I did not capitulate. His judgment and cruel comments did nothing for our relationship, and in the end, I became the picture of all American, albeit African-American, good looks, comportment, and presentation. I guess kind of a fraud. Only the hidden tattoos and occasional rip, tear, or mismatched pattern reveals my subversive style.
It's just not worth it. Not worth our relationship, their blooming independence, my peace of mind and remaining sliver of sanity to fight them, so today my nearly three year old is wearing for the fifth or sixth time this week, her lavender colored leotard with attached ballet skirt and butterfly sequined decolletage. She has worn it to the grocery store, library, school drop off, and her big sister's ballet class. She also wears it as a pajama and a dress up costume. Today she is wearing it with tights, grey with lavender bows on them, and nothing underneath. Sleeveless.
It is drizzling and cold. I saw my breath this morning as I packed the girls into the car for school drop off. Because she would like everyone in the entire universe to see what a beautiful princess-ballerina-queen-Barbie she is, I was unable to get a coat over her look. And this, Houston, is where we have a problem.
I have gotten input from mommies across the spectrum who have endured all sorts of costume changes throughout their children's lifetimes. We are pretty much a flexible lot. But the lack of jacket or other proper outerwear sets us on edge. It's for their health that we have such a concern. How could a mother allow her baby outside in the rain or snow in a sleeveless leotard? I will tell you how. When she has another child who has to get to school or practice or a playdate on time and that child has been behaving nicely all morning or afternoon or night, and is waiting calmly to get into the car while her little sister parades her tiny behind up and down the driveway, shivering but not daring to give in and put on a coat. When five, ten, fifteen, then twenty minutes go by and said ballerina is standing with arms folded and giving her look that says, "I have all day." When it really, truly is time to go or the older child is going to be late for school or practice or that playdate. That's how Momma let's that chil' outside without her coat.
This morning I wrapped the little one in a sweatshirt that she refused to put her arms into and pushed her in the stroller across the school blacktop for morning line up. I don't really care what other people out there think of me. Two years in Barbados with a level of nosiness so stealth and intense it seems like a job for the perpetrators, have given me not only a thick skin in regards to how my kids or I look in public but a "bring it on" attitude. In my first days in Barbados, carrying the then four month old baby in the hot blazing heat, parasol over her head, 70+ sunscreen on her skin, onesie on her little chubby body, going from the car to the unair-conditioned store, I was approached by three separate individuals who told me that my sweaty baby needed socks, a hat, some pants. Yeah right. Thanks for your help, Buttinsky.
Anyone who has ever raised a child knows that negotiating with a nearly three year old is one of the craziest tortures known to man and that winning will cost and will cost big. A dedicated parent can probably tell that I did make the effort. The sweat on the brow, strain on my face, clenched teeth, and pursed lips are usually dead giveaways. While I looked like a crazy person, the little one was all smiles and crossed arms. My oldest too was tough at this age, choosing only jeans and a dress and sneakers every day, and would not allow a comb or brush anywhere near her curly, knotty locks. By the time we were in Barbados there were just three real choices --school uniform, bathing suit, or sun dress. Oh, and naked. Though the four seasons do allow more options for the kiddies, it seems that the only things that appeal to the little one are costumes, crowns,magic wands, and sparkles.
Tonight while eating in her lavender leotard, baby girl spilled yogurt and then spaghetti sauce down her front. I thought I would faint as I anticipated the battle that was sure to ensue when I had to tell her that we would not be wearing that dirty, stinky costume to bed. As expected,that suggestion was not working for her. She put up a hell of a fight. I thought I just might give up and let her wear the damned dirty rag when her big sister stepped in holding a white leotard with turquoise skirt, printed with HELLO KITTY and the face of that mouthless kitten on the chest. Have mercy!
I just peeked in on the sleeping angels and both are snuggled up in their beds. One in her princess pajamas. The other in a soon to be familiar at grocery stores, school drop off, playdates, and nap times outfit that is too cute to even be covered by a coat.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Your own personal demon, hearts and stars
Working on a drawing, a little girl meticulously drew hearts all around her picture's heroine. She then put stars in the sky shining down on the scene, tens of stars. The hearts swirled around the girl and the stars twinkled in the sky. When asked why the hearts and the stars didn't overlap or touch, the little girl replied, "Because the hearts keep you right here where you are and the stars take you to your dreams."
Another show business death has the media asking questions and the world in mourning. Whitney Houston was, no question, an international star, a voice, a presence, an icon. She was also a mirage. We saw in her what we wanted and in all the smoke and haze, we'd convinced ourselves (collectively speaking, of course) that she was indeed all that we projected onto her, rather than a mortal like the rest of us. Yes, she was beautiful and alluring. Yes, she had talent beyond measure. Yes, she appeared to have grace and poise and everything else. This was how it all seemed. What we hoped and what we dreamed. Already her physical presence is dissolving from this world, but the haunting sound of her pitch perfect voice, of her mesmerizing beauty, and of her all too common human experience lingers, and has clouded my thinking for days.
It has clouded my thinking because on some level, I identified with the girl that was Whitney Houston, fantasized about what it was like to be the woman, cannot even get my head around what it was to be the superstar. A star so incredible, so bright as to outshine all other stars, which are already pretty bright given that when we finally see them, many in the sky are already dead. The light we see is the flash of light it left behind before fading. There is endless talk that Whitney's star was either fading or had long gone out. And here is where I ache, not just for her, but for all people who have dreamed of stardom, fame, accolades, attention, accomplishment at any cost, destroying themselves to achieve stardom. Stars fade. But in a human life, we have many phases, more like those of the moon. In our lives, we wax and wane, have lean and fat times, and can often see ourselves after long suffering or famine, rejoicing in abundance and joy.
People talk about a meteoric rise as though all of this can be discussed in terms of not just external drives and forces, but outer space, intergalactic travel, otherworldliness. I do believe that artists tap into something, the collective unconscious, the God source, the Divine. And that the energy can be so strong, so intense, so overwhelming, that it can knock even the strongest to their asses if they have not centered or grounded themselves. How do we ground ourselves if the earth under our feet is always moving? If long before we become adults something knocks us off kilter, changes our perfect nature, torments and eats away at us?
When I was a young girl I had fantasies of breaking into show business. I was a dancer, creative type, cocoa-skinned, bright eyed, and eager to please. I didn't talk much, but I often envisioned myself in the chorus of a Broadway show, doing commercials, or even peering from the pages of a magazine or newspaper, local or national. Both my sister and I were egged on by our babysitter whose children, all gorgeous Afro-Cuban talents in dance, music, and acting had each found some success in the big city. We were convinced that on the other side of that bus ride into New York was our future and in it we were celebrated on Broadway, dancing with prominent ballet companies, modeling for Macy's or Abraham and Strauss, or tossing that Nerf football, or helping Barbies peach and tan slide down that windy blue slide into her fabulous pool.
Just one thing stood in our way. My mother was not as interested in our professional pursuits and as she was to be the chauffeur and handler, this was a real obstacle. No stage mother here. Though I believe that her main concern was the long drive and tedium of castings and auditions, there was probably some fear of the entertainment industry. She, like so many others, just did not trust the industry, hangers on, emphasis on appearances, total disconnect from feelings, seemingly unflinchingly involved with making money or selling something, anything, that lesser souls can get crushed.
We weren't buying it and I will confess to being quite upset with her for years after. I was upset because I believed, truly, that she was pulling the plug on my destiny, that she was disallowing me the opportunity to leave my regular, difficult, trying sub-suburban experience and be propelled into the stratosphere. In hindsight, I can see that my desperate, lonely, emotionally challenging life up to that moment would have provided no grounding for me. Completely untethered, I would have failed miserably in protecting myself in a new and alien landscape.
Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction brings us awfully close to the ground. Often lying on the ground and I say that actually and metaphorically. What gets us there are a myriad of circumstances and situations and reaching, climbing, even soaring towards the stars cannot prevent us from hitting the floor on our faces. There has been so much said about who is at fault, what coulda/shoulda/woulda been done, not only in the case of Whitney Houston, but with Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, the folks regularly paraded on Intervention, and in the millions of nameless others around the world who suffer, have suffered, continue to suffer or who have died from this terrible disease.
I was never an addict but have seen too many others close to me torn to pieces, ripped from the inside so that all they had left was the hole from which their own light would have to guide them, a light that was with them all the time, one for which they did not need to climb or launch themselves into oblivion. I have been the friend partying alongside the addict, knowing full well that there was no reason that person needed to be in that situation but having too much of a good time myself to stop them. I have sworn to withdraw contact, if not love, if he/she did not seek help and stop, and then returned. I have had a glass of wine, done a host of other illicit drugs in the presence of an addict who told me that it was cool, knowing full well that it wasn't. I am not proud of that and certainly wouldn't do anything like that now. Thinking about the utter ruthlessness of it fills me with shame and embarassment. In truth, I was a young, naive, dangerously depressed young woman who but by the grace of God really, did not find myself addicted, just attracted to the dark side.
We all carry our own personal demons and some of them are deadset on killing us if we let them. We walk hand in hand with them, believe what we know is crap, think we have any control of the substances that we unleash into our bodies, into our hearts, our families, our lives. Or we look at those who have let those demons in and are unable to kick them out on their own as less than ourselves. We elevate ourselves because reminders of falling on our own faces, the struggle, the climb to salvation and a life worth living break off arrows in our hearts, remind us of how hard and painful it really is to find love and serenity in our own lives.
I am searching for the compassion, in myself and in others. We are all fallable and if we think we have it all figured out, have our demons in check, we are fooling ourselves. Whitney Houston was a star who reached unfathomable heights and I suppose watching her twinkling up there, we believed we could see the flaws, the second chances, the denials more clearly. Because we wanted so badly for her to use her fame, her money, her resources to save herself. Because we saw her demons take her by the hand and crush it in a vice grip, we hoped she realized how serious it all was too and tried to break out.
I have heard it said and believe it to be true that one has to want sobriety, freedom from addiction, a change in their life and lifestyle in order for it to really happen. I have cried for those who could not want it enough for themselves, could not allow it, and have been blessed to rediscover some who found themselves anew. The demons are still there with them as are the stars for which they reached. They are held at bay with the desire to love, to share a life with family and friends, to soar with hearts wide open, to live in light rather than dark.
I am most hurt by the passing of this bright star not so much because I know she could have saved herself and should have abandoned the hangers-on that enabled her destruction, but because she leaves in her comet trail a daughter. A girl who has seen in her short lifetime addiction up close and extremely personal. A girl who no matter how many times was told she was loved, no matter how much she was given, no matter the comfort the spoils of success provided, has earned a demon or two of her own. And without support, guidance, love, and compassion, a burden as big as the falling of a star could very well crush her.
I know that I have harbored secret pains, hurts lesser than those she must feel right now, that nearly killed me. I continue to fight them off for the sake of my girls, for my family, for myself. As the girls get older, I will share and reveal more of my life, of the real me, so that when they walk their own paths, they know that I have been there before they and can walk with them. So that when the demons come close, we can look at them, acknowledge them, and keep it moving while still reaching for the stars.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Another show business death has the media asking questions and the world in mourning. Whitney Houston was, no question, an international star, a voice, a presence, an icon. She was also a mirage. We saw in her what we wanted and in all the smoke and haze, we'd convinced ourselves (collectively speaking, of course) that she was indeed all that we projected onto her, rather than a mortal like the rest of us. Yes, she was beautiful and alluring. Yes, she had talent beyond measure. Yes, she appeared to have grace and poise and everything else. This was how it all seemed. What we hoped and what we dreamed. Already her physical presence is dissolving from this world, but the haunting sound of her pitch perfect voice, of her mesmerizing beauty, and of her all too common human experience lingers, and has clouded my thinking for days.
It has clouded my thinking because on some level, I identified with the girl that was Whitney Houston, fantasized about what it was like to be the woman, cannot even get my head around what it was to be the superstar. A star so incredible, so bright as to outshine all other stars, which are already pretty bright given that when we finally see them, many in the sky are already dead. The light we see is the flash of light it left behind before fading. There is endless talk that Whitney's star was either fading or had long gone out. And here is where I ache, not just for her, but for all people who have dreamed of stardom, fame, accolades, attention, accomplishment at any cost, destroying themselves to achieve stardom. Stars fade. But in a human life, we have many phases, more like those of the moon. In our lives, we wax and wane, have lean and fat times, and can often see ourselves after long suffering or famine, rejoicing in abundance and joy.
People talk about a meteoric rise as though all of this can be discussed in terms of not just external drives and forces, but outer space, intergalactic travel, otherworldliness. I do believe that artists tap into something, the collective unconscious, the God source, the Divine. And that the energy can be so strong, so intense, so overwhelming, that it can knock even the strongest to their asses if they have not centered or grounded themselves. How do we ground ourselves if the earth under our feet is always moving? If long before we become adults something knocks us off kilter, changes our perfect nature, torments and eats away at us?
When I was a young girl I had fantasies of breaking into show business. I was a dancer, creative type, cocoa-skinned, bright eyed, and eager to please. I didn't talk much, but I often envisioned myself in the chorus of a Broadway show, doing commercials, or even peering from the pages of a magazine or newspaper, local or national. Both my sister and I were egged on by our babysitter whose children, all gorgeous Afro-Cuban talents in dance, music, and acting had each found some success in the big city. We were convinced that on the other side of that bus ride into New York was our future and in it we were celebrated on Broadway, dancing with prominent ballet companies, modeling for Macy's or Abraham and Strauss, or tossing that Nerf football, or helping Barbies peach and tan slide down that windy blue slide into her fabulous pool.
Just one thing stood in our way. My mother was not as interested in our professional pursuits and as she was to be the chauffeur and handler, this was a real obstacle. No stage mother here. Though I believe that her main concern was the long drive and tedium of castings and auditions, there was probably some fear of the entertainment industry. She, like so many others, just did not trust the industry, hangers on, emphasis on appearances, total disconnect from feelings, seemingly unflinchingly involved with making money or selling something, anything, that lesser souls can get crushed.
We weren't buying it and I will confess to being quite upset with her for years after. I was upset because I believed, truly, that she was pulling the plug on my destiny, that she was disallowing me the opportunity to leave my regular, difficult, trying sub-suburban experience and be propelled into the stratosphere. In hindsight, I can see that my desperate, lonely, emotionally challenging life up to that moment would have provided no grounding for me. Completely untethered, I would have failed miserably in protecting myself in a new and alien landscape.
Drug and alcohol abuse and addiction brings us awfully close to the ground. Often lying on the ground and I say that actually and metaphorically. What gets us there are a myriad of circumstances and situations and reaching, climbing, even soaring towards the stars cannot prevent us from hitting the floor on our faces. There has been so much said about who is at fault, what coulda/shoulda/woulda been done, not only in the case of Whitney Houston, but with Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, the folks regularly paraded on Intervention, and in the millions of nameless others around the world who suffer, have suffered, continue to suffer or who have died from this terrible disease.
I was never an addict but have seen too many others close to me torn to pieces, ripped from the inside so that all they had left was the hole from which their own light would have to guide them, a light that was with them all the time, one for which they did not need to climb or launch themselves into oblivion. I have been the friend partying alongside the addict, knowing full well that there was no reason that person needed to be in that situation but having too much of a good time myself to stop them. I have sworn to withdraw contact, if not love, if he/she did not seek help and stop, and then returned. I have had a glass of wine, done a host of other illicit drugs in the presence of an addict who told me that it was cool, knowing full well that it wasn't. I am not proud of that and certainly wouldn't do anything like that now. Thinking about the utter ruthlessness of it fills me with shame and embarassment. In truth, I was a young, naive, dangerously depressed young woman who but by the grace of God really, did not find myself addicted, just attracted to the dark side.
We all carry our own personal demons and some of them are deadset on killing us if we let them. We walk hand in hand with them, believe what we know is crap, think we have any control of the substances that we unleash into our bodies, into our hearts, our families, our lives. Or we look at those who have let those demons in and are unable to kick them out on their own as less than ourselves. We elevate ourselves because reminders of falling on our own faces, the struggle, the climb to salvation and a life worth living break off arrows in our hearts, remind us of how hard and painful it really is to find love and serenity in our own lives.
I am searching for the compassion, in myself and in others. We are all fallable and if we think we have it all figured out, have our demons in check, we are fooling ourselves. Whitney Houston was a star who reached unfathomable heights and I suppose watching her twinkling up there, we believed we could see the flaws, the second chances, the denials more clearly. Because we wanted so badly for her to use her fame, her money, her resources to save herself. Because we saw her demons take her by the hand and crush it in a vice grip, we hoped she realized how serious it all was too and tried to break out.
I have heard it said and believe it to be true that one has to want sobriety, freedom from addiction, a change in their life and lifestyle in order for it to really happen. I have cried for those who could not want it enough for themselves, could not allow it, and have been blessed to rediscover some who found themselves anew. The demons are still there with them as are the stars for which they reached. They are held at bay with the desire to love, to share a life with family and friends, to soar with hearts wide open, to live in light rather than dark.
I am most hurt by the passing of this bright star not so much because I know she could have saved herself and should have abandoned the hangers-on that enabled her destruction, but because she leaves in her comet trail a daughter. A girl who has seen in her short lifetime addiction up close and extremely personal. A girl who no matter how many times was told she was loved, no matter how much she was given, no matter the comfort the spoils of success provided, has earned a demon or two of her own. And without support, guidance, love, and compassion, a burden as big as the falling of a star could very well crush her.
I know that I have harbored secret pains, hurts lesser than those she must feel right now, that nearly killed me. I continue to fight them off for the sake of my girls, for my family, for myself. As the girls get older, I will share and reveal more of my life, of the real me, so that when they walk their own paths, they know that I have been there before they and can walk with them. So that when the demons come close, we can look at them, acknowledge them, and keep it moving while still reaching for the stars.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Parting the waters/Cultural divide
My oldest daughter Lily has been invited to a swim party this weekend and in discussing who would be going with her, the conversation about swimsuits came up. You see, I don't want to parade myself around new people in a bathing suit and, should everyone in our family be included in this invite, our youngest is going to want to swim too. She is able (years in Barbados and a wonderful swimming teacher at Cool Splashings in St. George ensured that), but cannot get across the pool alone as she is not yet three years old. This leaves my husband as lifeguard and swim companion and herein lies the dilemma.
The swim trunks. Or really, lack thereof. Banana hammock, striped. Tiny little Speedo style swimwear. Not a lot of material and a pool full of Lily's classmates and their parents. I stepped in even when I knew I should not have, even when I have not yet confirmed with this child's parents that all of us are even invited. I hurt his feelings, which I did not foresee, but my thoughts were on Lily and I could not have allowed him to potentially embarrass our child, maybe even himself.
In fairness, I know that this is not at all fair. I have loved him in his skivvies, think he looks great. But we have been in Barbados, France, the Hamptons in those swim trunks, not at a suburban kid's swim party. "Why are Americans so uptight? It is the body. What is wrong with showing the body? These are for swimming. Who can swim in those giant pants?" And to some extent I have agreed with him, at least supported him in the past. " It's just different this time", I said. Sometimes we just don't get each other, don't understand, though we try.
This morning as my husband was walking out the door, I asked, as I often do, "Do you have your keys?" He walked back up the stairs to me and said, "I gave you one already but here you are," and kissed me one more time.
"Your KEYS. Your KEYS, honey."
"Oh, I thought you said a keez."
That one is cute. Though there are times when it just isn't so, when we not only don't hear each other or understand each other's pronunciations, but our cultural differences, ideas, and perspectives shatter peace in the home as we know it and we are both left staring (or glaring)at each other in disbelief.
My husband is French, REALLY French, though truthfully I have never met a French person who wasn't. I love him and think he and his people get a bad rap. They are presumed by all to be arrogant, humorless (or strangely inflicted with a love of Jerry Lewis), unhip snobs and I think that this truly misses the mark. Arrogance, to me, implies a kind of cruelty, the perception that one is so much more superior and f*** you for not being as I am.
I think the French arrogance is more charming than that. They are proud and very well versed in the successes and achievements of their countrymen, and there have been very many successes. Leaders in philosophy, art, music, fashion, cuisine, culture, politics, literature, war, have come from France. Even favorite children's songs that we all hum along to were composed by French musicians and composers. Love that tune, "Somewhere Beyond the Sea"? A Frenchman called Charles Trenet wrote it originally as La Mer. Trying to explain Sodoku to the husband got me so flustered that I sent him to Wikipedia for a better explanation. As soon as he found it he announced, "Ah, yes. I know this. It is based on a French game. Sodoku in the States was founded by some American in the 60s, but you know the French game is from the 18th century, so..." Neither of us plays sodoku and no, I did not know of its origine francaise either.
Our most frequent conversations revolve around food. Quel surprise! And on nearly every point, I agree with him. And that's the thing, it isn't that he is wrong. It's that it feels so good to him to be right that he smears it like a gorgeous French butter all over the place and I, by nature, have to challenge his smug, "You know I'm right" attitude. One of our favorite topics is le pain quotidien. We love baguette, buy it frequently or he lovingly makes his own in our "substandard oven". (His baguette would be much better, as would his pizza were we to have a more suitable oven.) Where in the United States, a stick of baguette, can run you up to $4 US dollars, a baguette in France, one's daily bread, is inexpensive (approximately one Euro) to ensure that all Frenchmen are able to eat an appropriate serving of their beloved pain.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to tear up a baguette while visiting France and would be hard pressed to share it with a small child, puppy, or nun, the stuff is so fantastic. And I think that it is lovely that the price of a good baguette will never get beyond the means of the average consumer in France. But every.single.time.we eat a baguette,EVERY SINGLE TIME, we talk about how France looks out for "everyman" with this generous offering while the United States could give as crap about the health of the general populace, offering only crap fast food at low cost. I don't think anyone would mistake me as the representative of all that's good in America, but give me a break.
He doesn't wear a beret or a striped shirt, nor does he twist his waxed moustache while peddling a bike with a basket in front. He does love wine and good food (he is a chef after all) and wears his pants up a little too high for a youngish, good-looking man. We have a laugh at our differences and agree that my American black chic mothering style jibes well with the French style being touted at present. He will wait hours for me to get my hair done, listen to me complain about how very few designers, even the beloved French fashion houses do not know how to cut pants for the fuller black behind, has accepted the finger wagging, eye popping, occasional neck roll when he says something that I have found ridiculous, and is genuinely interested in African-American culture, history, and bien sur, cuisine.
I know he finds my attraction to and distrust of the dominant culture a bit confusing and my emotionality, individuality, fast smiles, quick handshakes, and easy handling of social and public situations "very American." He is right to find us (Americans) a bit childish, wide-eyed, self-involved; we are a relatively new country in the grander scheme of things, more like teenagers to the middle life crises of some European nations, and the true kiddies of newer formed nations. We somehow make it work and have managed, as yet, no attempted murders or abandonment.
He is quite logical, head-centered compared to my artistic, organic, heart-centered style. His references are philosophical, historical, intellectual, Wikipedial in nearly ALL conversations. I mean, how many arguments between a husband and wife have this exchange"I am Cartesian! You know this about me." And he is. Square, logical. 1+1=2. But tonight I will appeal to his artistic, creative, and shadow emotional side. Both of us "free to be you and me" except that there is no way I am going to allow him to wear his South of France swimwear to the party. We will try to find a suit before the party with an appropriate length of short and tushie coverage. I know he will capitulate. But I will never hear the end of it.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
The swim trunks. Or really, lack thereof. Banana hammock, striped. Tiny little Speedo style swimwear. Not a lot of material and a pool full of Lily's classmates and their parents. I stepped in even when I knew I should not have, even when I have not yet confirmed with this child's parents that all of us are even invited. I hurt his feelings, which I did not foresee, but my thoughts were on Lily and I could not have allowed him to potentially embarrass our child, maybe even himself.
In fairness, I know that this is not at all fair. I have loved him in his skivvies, think he looks great. But we have been in Barbados, France, the Hamptons in those swim trunks, not at a suburban kid's swim party. "Why are Americans so uptight? It is the body. What is wrong with showing the body? These are for swimming. Who can swim in those giant pants?" And to some extent I have agreed with him, at least supported him in the past. " It's just different this time", I said. Sometimes we just don't get each other, don't understand, though we try.
This morning as my husband was walking out the door, I asked, as I often do, "Do you have your keys?" He walked back up the stairs to me and said, "I gave you one already but here you are," and kissed me one more time.
"Your KEYS. Your KEYS, honey."
"Oh, I thought you said a keez."
That one is cute. Though there are times when it just isn't so, when we not only don't hear each other or understand each other's pronunciations, but our cultural differences, ideas, and perspectives shatter peace in the home as we know it and we are both left staring (or glaring)at each other in disbelief.
My husband is French, REALLY French, though truthfully I have never met a French person who wasn't. I love him and think he and his people get a bad rap. They are presumed by all to be arrogant, humorless (or strangely inflicted with a love of Jerry Lewis), unhip snobs and I think that this truly misses the mark. Arrogance, to me, implies a kind of cruelty, the perception that one is so much more superior and f*** you for not being as I am.
I think the French arrogance is more charming than that. They are proud and very well versed in the successes and achievements of their countrymen, and there have been very many successes. Leaders in philosophy, art, music, fashion, cuisine, culture, politics, literature, war, have come from France. Even favorite children's songs that we all hum along to were composed by French musicians and composers. Love that tune, "Somewhere Beyond the Sea"? A Frenchman called Charles Trenet wrote it originally as La Mer. Trying to explain Sodoku to the husband got me so flustered that I sent him to Wikipedia for a better explanation. As soon as he found it he announced, "Ah, yes. I know this. It is based on a French game. Sodoku in the States was founded by some American in the 60s, but you know the French game is from the 18th century, so..." Neither of us plays sodoku and no, I did not know of its origine francaise either.
Our most frequent conversations revolve around food. Quel surprise! And on nearly every point, I agree with him. And that's the thing, it isn't that he is wrong. It's that it feels so good to him to be right that he smears it like a gorgeous French butter all over the place and I, by nature, have to challenge his smug, "You know I'm right" attitude. One of our favorite topics is le pain quotidien. We love baguette, buy it frequently or he lovingly makes his own in our "substandard oven". (His baguette would be much better, as would his pizza were we to have a more suitable oven.) Where in the United States, a stick of baguette, can run you up to $4 US dollars, a baguette in France, one's daily bread, is inexpensive (approximately one Euro) to ensure that all Frenchmen are able to eat an appropriate serving of their beloved pain.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to tear up a baguette while visiting France and would be hard pressed to share it with a small child, puppy, or nun, the stuff is so fantastic. And I think that it is lovely that the price of a good baguette will never get beyond the means of the average consumer in France. But every.single.time.we eat a baguette,EVERY SINGLE TIME, we talk about how France looks out for "everyman" with this generous offering while the United States could give as crap about the health of the general populace, offering only crap fast food at low cost. I don't think anyone would mistake me as the representative of all that's good in America, but give me a break.
He doesn't wear a beret or a striped shirt, nor does he twist his waxed moustache while peddling a bike with a basket in front. He does love wine and good food (he is a chef after all) and wears his pants up a little too high for a youngish, good-looking man. We have a laugh at our differences and agree that my American black chic mothering style jibes well with the French style being touted at present. He will wait hours for me to get my hair done, listen to me complain about how very few designers, even the beloved French fashion houses do not know how to cut pants for the fuller black behind, has accepted the finger wagging, eye popping, occasional neck roll when he says something that I have found ridiculous, and is genuinely interested in African-American culture, history, and bien sur, cuisine.
I know he finds my attraction to and distrust of the dominant culture a bit confusing and my emotionality, individuality, fast smiles, quick handshakes, and easy handling of social and public situations "very American." He is right to find us (Americans) a bit childish, wide-eyed, self-involved; we are a relatively new country in the grander scheme of things, more like teenagers to the middle life crises of some European nations, and the true kiddies of newer formed nations. We somehow make it work and have managed, as yet, no attempted murders or abandonment.
He is quite logical, head-centered compared to my artistic, organic, heart-centered style. His references are philosophical, historical, intellectual, Wikipedial in nearly ALL conversations. I mean, how many arguments between a husband and wife have this exchange"I am Cartesian! You know this about me." And he is. Square, logical. 1+1=2. But tonight I will appeal to his artistic, creative, and shadow emotional side. Both of us "free to be you and me" except that there is no way I am going to allow him to wear his South of France swimwear to the party. We will try to find a suit before the party with an appropriate length of short and tushie coverage. I know he will capitulate. But I will never hear the end of it.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama:Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Leaving the girls
This may come as a surprise, but I have never left the girls alone. EVER. Well, not ever. Once in Barbados I was sent to the hospital with a miserable kidney stone that caused so much pain and agony, I was refused the opportunity to go home. That was one evening. The girls were small. Virginie has probably long forgotten about that time. Not so this one.
I have been warning the girls all week about my trip to surprise my sister on her 40th birthday, though I have not told them exactly where I am going knowing full well that they will want to go and then my going will be made all the more miserable because they are being left behind, and that Mommy will get to be with Auntie Shayboo, Uncle Jeffrey, and Grandma and Grandpa. They simply know that Mommy will be gone for almost two days, from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning and that “Papa is in charge.” Truth be told, I got my ticket at the last moment, when the airlines, realizing that the Super Bowl was not being held in the city to which I was travelling released all those $1010 tickets and re-priced them to something more reasonable. I cannot say more affordable at this time, because we are on a pretty tight budget and only FREE tickets are affordable right now, but the reduced fare was easier to justify.
Didier was well prepped for his role. I left out clothes for Lily to wear to school on Monday and emailed a list of phone numbers and important “facts.” Like who has the extra set of keys to our house. Where the closest hospital can be found. Recommendations for the sleeping arrangements –“Be prepared to get a tiny sliver of bed whilst the girls enjoy the full use of our king-sized mattress. “ Dinner recommendations. Pizza. No clothes were left for Virginie, but she’s easy. More than likely what she is wearing now, slept in, and wore the previous day, will be what she chooses. If not that, the orange sparkly dress hanging on a door hook also serves. Didier has been adequately trained in hair braiding and actually does a better job at brushing out their hair after a bath than I,since they even let him near their hair at all. It’s the novelty and that he is so loving and gentle with them, so honored to be allowed this intimate act. I can say only that I aim to get the knots out with the least amount of chatter.I have been given lots of advice about leaving the girls with the husband, some of which is sweet and funny and some, less so. “Let him see what’s it’s like to be on your own with the girls 24/7 for two days. That’ll show him.” And it will. And the job is tough. Those people can be ruthless and needy and terribly exhausting when tired or scared. But being with them should not be a punishment and watching him endure what I have been accustomed to for years gives me no pleasure.
“I will take pictures of the girls and send them to you.” After spending two days in the hospital after having Virginie, Lily arrived at the hospital looking like a street urchin, poor soul. Those bright brown eyes were barely visible under a dreadlocked matte of curls and her outfit looked strangely familiar. Like the one I’d last put her in when I’d left for the hospital. I know how it goes. But they will be no worse for the wear.
“Tell him to call us if he needs anything.” No chance. I think Didier’s got this. And I think he can do it better without the excitement of other people, other children, other energy. The hardest part will be at night when Virginie seeks me out for comfort and snuggles, when Lily eagerly awaits story time with funny voices and movements, and Mommy is not there. But “Dad” is great. He gives chocolate cake and movie time and popcorn and all the toys in the tub for bath time. He does not enforce strict clean up rules and lets them draw on 75 pieces of paper an hour instead of Mommy’s rationed three sheet minimum depending on intricacy and detailing of the drawing.I am happy to go and surprise my sister. She will be thrilled and turning forty and remaining fabulous is nothing to slouch about. But I already miss my people. Felt lost and alone in the airport allowed to get a snack for myself, go to the bathroom with no fanfare, go to the ticket counter to ask a question without an entourage. Watching some other poor soul chasing his two year old through the food court brought a smile to my face. Allowing a family of four to regroup before hurrying through security gave me peace.
My husband keeps texting me to tell me to have a good time, to drink, eat, stay up late, celebrate with my family. I will. But I miss my other family too.
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