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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Upstairs, Downstairs
Back to the Suburban Grind: Upstairs, Downstairs: I love watching Downton Abbey. The relationships and politics of the upper class and their servants are not only intriguing but offer a pee...
Upstairs, Downstairs
I love watching Downton Abbey. The relationships and politics of the upper class and their servants are not only intriguing but offer a peek into the world of folks who depend on others for things that I consider basic adult responsibilities and those that serve their needs upstairs but are dependent on these people for their livelihood. I love seeing how "the other half," as they were once affectionately called, lives though now they are clearly the 1 %, no halfsies about it. This interests me more than most because my husband works as a private chef with many prominent New York families. He is discreet, private, and unassuming so this is no exposé on how the other half lives. No stories about spoiled kids, eccentric parties, or secret societies where some kind of sacrifice is made to the gods that got them all this loot, power, and privilege. He would never divulge information, secrets, tales. That is not his style. This is a confession really, of how it feels to miss him when he is gone, knowing that we depend on the whims of his clients, by choice mind you, and that in between those spaces, we have carved out a lovely existence, a life I love and treasure, but that sometimes leaves me alone for longer than I'd like, exhausted, scared, silent.
My husband took on this gig for our family. Restaurant offers began to come in when we returned from our two year stint in Barbados and for a time we considered them as well as other opportunities in the hotel industry. Our stint in Barbados, that job, that company he worked for nearly did us in and we thought long and hard about returning to a lifestyle like that. We are older parents with small children and neither of us wants to recreate the experiences we had as children with hard-working but distant fathers who missed out on our childhoods and couldn't find a way back to us. So we decided on freelance work at least until the youngest is in kindergarten when we can both get back to work and pursue passions. It's a choice, a privilege, I know, to be able to do this when so many others work and are willing to any way they can or must, but we made it together. His reputation, his skill, his talent helped him find employment quickly both as a full time private chef and as a chef for hire for private parties and events.
When he's working full-time, he gets up like everyone else, has a cup of coffee, packs his things and is off on the morning train. I am home with the girls, getting them ready for school and then getting them to school before I have a few hours to steal for myself before I have to pick up the littlest. It's enough time to do some errands, exercise, and/or write but not enough to put in a real day's work outside the home. My hubby, on the other hand, will not be home any time before 10:30 pm. Once he's out on a full time gig, there is no coming home early for a game, dance recital, dinner date, anything (except for the one time I was taken by ambulance to the hospital convinced I was having a heart attack, which was actually a panic attack. OK, so it was an attack, but it was really my nerves and psyche, not my ticker.) I have gone to conferences, had the stomach flu, severe fever and flu, neighborhood parties on my own with kiddles in tow, missing him, but knowing that this is best for us. I have had the car jumped when the battery died in frigid weather, shoveled the driveway while the kids played inside, and had less than one hour to myself in weeks (due to the winter break when he was out of town for eighteen days), but still slog on. Because his current job is freelance, meaning he is not a full-time staff member, there are days that he can and does choose not to go in.
The private parties are more fun because he often works with another talented chef, a good friend, and they can speak French, talk politics and tell jokes while they work. If he works alone, he is able to design the menu with the client and generally has more freedom to create and express startlingly good dishes. These jobs bring in more money because they are one-offs and special so there is a flat fee and the coverage of food and other expenses. Sometimes he is able to prep at our house, then drive into the city with the goods. It makes the house smell amazing and I get to be with him though he is quite focused and doesn't say much. I love watching him even if he is so lost in his own world that he doesn't see my admiring eyes. His attention to detail, his professionalism, his truly unique talent are such wonderful assets to have, and he has never let himself down nor his clients nor us.
When Didier ran his own restaurants, he answered to his team, worked in tandem with them, but ultimately was the head of the kitchen. Sure, there were customers,some of whom he knew quite well and welcomed a conversation, after shift drink, but nothing as intimate as being in someone's home, their kitchen, standing very near to them while you work and they discuss the day's business with each other in front of you. In a household, no matter how good you are, you are beholden to the whims and fancies of the head of that household. There are many families with whom he has fit in comfortably, seamlessly, able to prepare meals that are creative, delicious, and in their taste and preference. With others, their confusion or lack of preference made it difficult to prepare and though he offered complete, thoughtful, well-considered menus he never felt certain that he'd give them what they wanted. There is little more stressful for a chef than wondering if people like his food!
To many, the travel, the access seems intoxicating. But though he does not live in the residence or take his meals down below, he is by no means a member of the family. And while it seems that traveling via private jet to warm locales and living in the Hamptons for the summer (this time family in tow) are incredible perks, he often does not get to enjoy them fully because he is working. I absolutely loved staying in the Hamptons this summer and was incredibly grateful for the provision made by his employer, even sent a hand sewn thank you card with a picture of the girls wading in the water at the edge of the bay. The house was just lovely and peaceful and offered respite from our suburban lives but we saw Didier so little. We might have run into him at the market after a visit to the playground or the beach, and were happy to be able to park at his employers' in order to swim at one glorious beach with a hefty parking price tag in order to see him on the drive in and out, but it could not be said that he was vacationing there with us. His joyful moments were stolen in between shifts.
He has cooked for many well-known folks, but often does not see them unless they deign to come in to the kitchen. Which some do, he has told me. Often to offer thanks or delight in a particular dish, sometimes just to be a part of it, to have their coffee and talk to a new ear. Some are gracious and remember his name and treat him and others with respect, and some less so. This past weekend, he went away with a family to Florida for an extended weekend which then turned into an additional week. He was asked if this was alright which prompted a call to me straight away. I appreciated both but felt there was no way on earth that I would summon that man home even if I were desperate for him. I never considered saying anything but yes.So there he is, still away and I am home for another week nursing this severe cold I've had since the flu and bronchitis left me.
I love him for the sacrifice, for the humility, for the commitment to us and our dream. I also accept the role that's been made for me as keeper of everything, the guiding star of all that we are and all that we do. For now. We are two artists and have chosen a life a little different than expected and with that comes, quite obviously, the unexpected. This man can cook his ass off and it has given us this place away from the restaurant scene, corporate hotel life, the politics, the game, and brought us to another level of the onion. We've been allowed a stolen pleasure now and again. But as "we" work in service, we are rooted firmly downstairs, able to see the 1% up close and personal, undoubtedly sure that we are not even close. The commitment to our family, the emotional time, energy, and grace we are able to put in is worth more than ever languishing at the window dreaming of nothing because we seemingly have it all. Because we are getting close to having it. All.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
My husband took on this gig for our family. Restaurant offers began to come in when we returned from our two year stint in Barbados and for a time we considered them as well as other opportunities in the hotel industry. Our stint in Barbados, that job, that company he worked for nearly did us in and we thought long and hard about returning to a lifestyle like that. We are older parents with small children and neither of us wants to recreate the experiences we had as children with hard-working but distant fathers who missed out on our childhoods and couldn't find a way back to us. So we decided on freelance work at least until the youngest is in kindergarten when we can both get back to work and pursue passions. It's a choice, a privilege, I know, to be able to do this when so many others work and are willing to any way they can or must, but we made it together. His reputation, his skill, his talent helped him find employment quickly both as a full time private chef and as a chef for hire for private parties and events.
When he's working full-time, he gets up like everyone else, has a cup of coffee, packs his things and is off on the morning train. I am home with the girls, getting them ready for school and then getting them to school before I have a few hours to steal for myself before I have to pick up the littlest. It's enough time to do some errands, exercise, and/or write but not enough to put in a real day's work outside the home. My hubby, on the other hand, will not be home any time before 10:30 pm. Once he's out on a full time gig, there is no coming home early for a game, dance recital, dinner date, anything (except for the one time I was taken by ambulance to the hospital convinced I was having a heart attack, which was actually a panic attack. OK, so it was an attack, but it was really my nerves and psyche, not my ticker.) I have gone to conferences, had the stomach flu, severe fever and flu, neighborhood parties on my own with kiddles in tow, missing him, but knowing that this is best for us. I have had the car jumped when the battery died in frigid weather, shoveled the driveway while the kids played inside, and had less than one hour to myself in weeks (due to the winter break when he was out of town for eighteen days), but still slog on. Because his current job is freelance, meaning he is not a full-time staff member, there are days that he can and does choose not to go in.
The private parties are more fun because he often works with another talented chef, a good friend, and they can speak French, talk politics and tell jokes while they work. If he works alone, he is able to design the menu with the client and generally has more freedom to create and express startlingly good dishes. These jobs bring in more money because they are one-offs and special so there is a flat fee and the coverage of food and other expenses. Sometimes he is able to prep at our house, then drive into the city with the goods. It makes the house smell amazing and I get to be with him though he is quite focused and doesn't say much. I love watching him even if he is so lost in his own world that he doesn't see my admiring eyes. His attention to detail, his professionalism, his truly unique talent are such wonderful assets to have, and he has never let himself down nor his clients nor us.
When Didier ran his own restaurants, he answered to his team, worked in tandem with them, but ultimately was the head of the kitchen. Sure, there were customers,some of whom he knew quite well and welcomed a conversation, after shift drink, but nothing as intimate as being in someone's home, their kitchen, standing very near to them while you work and they discuss the day's business with each other in front of you. In a household, no matter how good you are, you are beholden to the whims and fancies of the head of that household. There are many families with whom he has fit in comfortably, seamlessly, able to prepare meals that are creative, delicious, and in their taste and preference. With others, their confusion or lack of preference made it difficult to prepare and though he offered complete, thoughtful, well-considered menus he never felt certain that he'd give them what they wanted. There is little more stressful for a chef than wondering if people like his food!
To many, the travel, the access seems intoxicating. But though he does not live in the residence or take his meals down below, he is by no means a member of the family. And while it seems that traveling via private jet to warm locales and living in the Hamptons for the summer (this time family in tow) are incredible perks, he often does not get to enjoy them fully because he is working. I absolutely loved staying in the Hamptons this summer and was incredibly grateful for the provision made by his employer, even sent a hand sewn thank you card with a picture of the girls wading in the water at the edge of the bay. The house was just lovely and peaceful and offered respite from our suburban lives but we saw Didier so little. We might have run into him at the market after a visit to the playground or the beach, and were happy to be able to park at his employers' in order to swim at one glorious beach with a hefty parking price tag in order to see him on the drive in and out, but it could not be said that he was vacationing there with us. His joyful moments were stolen in between shifts.
He has cooked for many well-known folks, but often does not see them unless they deign to come in to the kitchen. Which some do, he has told me. Often to offer thanks or delight in a particular dish, sometimes just to be a part of it, to have their coffee and talk to a new ear. Some are gracious and remember his name and treat him and others with respect, and some less so. This past weekend, he went away with a family to Florida for an extended weekend which then turned into an additional week. He was asked if this was alright which prompted a call to me straight away. I appreciated both but felt there was no way on earth that I would summon that man home even if I were desperate for him. I never considered saying anything but yes.So there he is, still away and I am home for another week nursing this severe cold I've had since the flu and bronchitis left me.
I love him for the sacrifice, for the humility, for the commitment to us and our dream. I also accept the role that's been made for me as keeper of everything, the guiding star of all that we are and all that we do. For now. We are two artists and have chosen a life a little different than expected and with that comes, quite obviously, the unexpected. This man can cook his ass off and it has given us this place away from the restaurant scene, corporate hotel life, the politics, the game, and brought us to another level of the onion. We've been allowed a stolen pleasure now and again. But as "we" work in service, we are rooted firmly downstairs, able to see the 1% up close and personal, undoubtedly sure that we are not even close. The commitment to our family, the emotional time, energy, and grace we are able to put in is worth more than ever languishing at the window dreaming of nothing because we seemingly have it all. Because we are getting close to having it. All.
(c) Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Back to the Suburban Grind: Artist Mamas
Back to the Suburban Grind: Artist Mamas: "The planet does not need more successful people. The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and love...
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