skip to main |
skip to sidebar
While they are very hard to discern, there are seasons here in Barbados. This, December, is winter time and it has been a bit cooler. It rains less and is generally less humid than during rainy season. As it is a bit dryer and will only get more so, food, fruit trees and I suppose some other sources, deplete, leaving the monkeys a bit desperate for food. I do feel for the little buggers, but am still not particularly thrilled to find them trolling the garden looking for mangoes, fig bananas, or hand outs. The hand outs, I thought, we had cleared up. Whatever the former tenants and the ones before them had done, ie fed the monkeys, we have not been doing and will continue not to. It has been a year and a half. There will still be no more food coming from my hand to the mouths of wild animals in my yard and I have driven that fact home to all members of the household.
This week alone we have seen the roving band of monkeys, watched the mongoose flit from one wooded section to the next, and had two birds fly in and get stranded in the house. Poor Didier, assigned as the "get animals, whatever they may be out of the house" man, had to pick them up and carry them out, releasing them to the skies, after, of course, a little poo in the hand. A few days ago, while chatting with my landlady in the yard, we both keep turning our heads in response to a tinkling noise that was distracting and curious at the same time, only to discover a group of young monkey kids had taken down a wind chime from one of the patios and were racing back and forth on the rooftop dragging it. Complete silliness. She tried in vain to get them to return it to us. I think I would have just freaked if she'd been able to get them to understand her. Like all little kids, her pleas caused them to run faster and wilder, climbing higher into the trees. Small wonder Lily and Virginie love the monkeys so.
I was certainly not as cavalier about les singes when we first moved in. My first week here I discovered that the sound of the crying baby had them racing to the burglar bars around the house straining for a closer look. I could walk into the living room from the bedroom and there would be heads poking in, eyes darting around the room. Cowering in terror and shrieking at the top of my lungs were pretty much the order of the day, every day, every time I saw those golden tails pass the window. I didn't even like to be outside for too long because I needed to maintain the perimeter and truthfully, it was exhausting.
We have spent more time in the garden walking, playing, sitting on a blanket or lounging on lawn chairs, as we expect that our time here is soon over and we want to enjoy as much of the lushness before we head off to parts unknown. Never did I say that the landscape of Barbados is not beautiful, or that I didn't appreciate, while not-so-quietly fearing the wildlife and its close proximity. There is beauty here. There are moments that are surely mapped in my psyche, maybe even my heart, that I will draw on later in my life.
But the monkeys, the monkeys, the monkeys. Try as I might, I cannot stop watching them and bugging out every time they come close, which is nearly every day. With them, I am like one of those people who are told to act naturally in front of the camera, but as soon as they see the camera they are as stiff and unnatural as can be. I see the monkeys and I am called to attention and watch them until they hop over the wall, climb over the fence, or swing from one tree to another off property.
More than likely, when we leave Barbados, we will leave the girls' swing set behind as it is expensive to ship back and not really fabulous enough not to be replaceable. I think the monkeys will appreciate my parting gift. It will be theirs to use freely and frequently until the next tenants come along and decide how they would like to proceed with monkeys in the garden. I wonder if they will miss me as much as I will (probably) miss them.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
(Last two photos were taken at my friend Wendy's house. She gets lots of monkeys as the cabdrivers hoping to impress tourists with the sight of the monkeys, feed them rather close to her home.)
I've never once considered the rope when watching the game of tug of war. If it is strong enough, it will withstand the pulling and tugging and tearing by the two contested teams and should it not be, it will fray or fall completely apart, snapping in the middle. I have always enjoyed the physics of watching evenly matched teams redistribute their weight and have one team, somehow find more strength, a better position. And win.
Except that now I consider the rope, as the rope is me. I have worked so hard to have both girls see how special they are in my eyes. When one gets a hug, the other does too. I divide snacks evenly and do not offer one if I do not have another for the other. I encourage them both to see the talent, intelligence, beauty, skill, you name it, of the other and make sure that we all applaud achievement, good manners, and politeness. Yet, Lily and Virginie will go to blows over who gets more attention, affection, and the unspoken, love, from Mommy. I say it over and over, "Mommy has love for everyone" and "Mommy loves her two girls so much." But let one of them do more drawing on the dry erase board or one more dive in the pool or stand on the step stool to watch Mommy make toast and all my talk becomes chatter. The pulling starts.
It's strangely humbling when trying to raise children, to find that they are indeed their own individuals and while our job may be to guide them, we can never change their behavior, reactions, what they show is all their own to the core. Virginie is not even 20 months old and whenever Lily even dreams of creeping closer to me, her hawk eye spots it and she shouts, "Move! Move Mimi!" Lily will wake in the middle of the night and whisper, "Mommy, I want you to be in the bed with me. Don't sleep next to Virginie." Even if, miraculously, I am not even in the room with them! They do also tell each other "Good job" and "Yay" and all those encouraging expressions, but there is a lot of "look at me, look at me" in my daily routine.
Some mornings I take Virginie to her swimming lessons and support her as she swims and breathes all across the pool and turn around and do the same thing for Lily hours later in the afternoon. With my minimal driving, I still manage to get them both to these lessons and give them all I have. I have started my "soccer/cheer/dance mom" duties early. On the drive back, the girls inevitably ask me to do something that is nearly impossible. Open a bag of chips. Take something out of the bag in the seat behind me. Pick up Virginie's ear, nose and toe paper from the floor. Never have they asked their father to do anything while driving other than to turn the music up. But they imagine that Mommy is capable, or at least foolish enough to attempt all requests.
I am not sure if the tugging works my nerves more than the following. Both Lily and Virginie follow on my heels wherever I go, even if they had been playing or doing something they love. Once they realize that I have gotten out of their sights, they hightail it. Lily in particular drives me mental on this one, as she also has that character down, the little dog who nips at the feet of the bulldog saying, "Yeah, Spike. You are the best, Spike. No one like you, Spike," much to the consternation of Spike. I am Spike.
With all the responsibilities at home for dinner and bedtime prep, come many opportunities to give one of the girls more attention than the other. One more floret of broccoli, the better washcloth, more juice, one more hug, kiss, glance. I am so conscious and attentive to my own behavior with each of them, that by the time the day is over, I am spent. It would seem that after the girls have fallen asleep I could get a break, but then Didier comes home with his needs and demands. Pull.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
I know some of us like to forget this era as not too many were looking as good as we do now, but when Michael Jackson's Thriller came out, that long jheri curl look rocked by Miss Nola Ray as the object of MJ's affection was quite an inspiring 'do for the young black ladies watching videos late night in the rec room. My mother booked appointments for my sister and me at a Beauty School where we were to have our tired, French braided kid styles transformed into the glow of Nola's shiny long curls. I probably should have realized we were headed for a different kind of curve when those tiny rollers came out, but my young heart was set on the hotness and I was sure, as I'd brought the picture for reference, that they got the vibe I was going for. Maybe it wouldn't be exact, but it would be fresh.
My first glance in the mirror and I knew we hadn't made it. I bore no resemblance to Nola Ray or any love interest of anyone, certainly not Michael Jackson in Thriller. I looked more like Jermaine or some other lesser Jackson. My bad skin and braces were not helping the situation much either and I vowed never to be seen again in public. There was the unfortunate issue of having to attend school for the next few years and the fact that my mother did not sympathize with me in the least. A full weekend of non-stop crying ensued and then Monday morning. I wore a headband and didn't take it off for the next three years. No really. If you can find the photos you will see this is true.
From that moment forward, I wore my hair short. I'd never dreamed I could be a long hair person. The jheri curl gave way to a Denise Huxtable faux punk rock spiked look, then shaved (my dad really loved that one), and then a natural. I kept it short, neat, cool, relaxed.
Now in Barbados, for the first time in 35 years, I find my hair nearing shoulder length and see photos of myself where I am hardly recognizable to myself. This is no easy feat, as any black woman can tell you, as the humidity, salt water, chlorinated pool water, and sun wreak havoc on our hair. But my other alternative is to have to maintain that short look which turns out not to have been so natural. There is lots of conditioning. Wearing leave-ins for days at a time and hot oil treatments. I have thought about cornrows or braids or something kind of "island style." Not me. When I do occasionally blow it out to remind my husband that I was once totally hot, I take the blowdryer out on the patio so as not to get heat trapped in the house. Seriously. My hair has been lightened by the sun and a little squeeze of lime juice in the hair. You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but you can't take Jersey out of the girl. Word.
Here, as in countless locales around the world where reputable and underground salons house women and men who can work some magic with Black hair, I have chosen not to submit. I do not want to be a slave to the salon. Afraid of getting my hair wet, sweating it out, or having my "kitchen" look raggedy. I wear a ponytail or a bun everyday because to wear it down is to sweat and itch more than I can bear. Seems silly to keep it longer and yet it works. I told Didier I would cut it when we moved away from Barbados. Get a style and get back into style, fashion, character. But for now, all this hair signifies my walk off the beaten path, a journey into myself. I am out of the loop. Lost in the jungle. Thick hair growing around my head. Dare I admit, I kind of like it?
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
Two years ago, on an unbelievably rainy morning in New York City, Didier and I, who had secured a marriage license from City Hall one week earlier, trekked down to the Justice of the Peace and got married. We left Lily at home with a sitter, as far as she was concerned we were already married. We'd asked a few friends to meet us, to bear witness, to show support, but we knew we'd celebrate in grander fashion a few weeks later at Didier's best friend's home. I wore a ruffled silk shirt that Didier's mother, Paulette, had given me one Christmas and brown DKNY corduroy pants. They were the only thing that fit me. I was 5 months pregnant. With our second child.
With our friend Dan, whom we both love more than we are even able to admit, we'd gone to the Diamond District and picked out our wedding bands, his a simple platinum, mine simple as well but with a few diamonds interspersed. We'd forgone an engagement ring, joking that our commitment was pretty secure and that Lily, our first, served as our promise ring. That was not really enough for my parents who could barely contain their frustration at my continuing to bear children without sealing the deal on paper. It isn't that we weren't going to marry, but that there was no rush and he'd been married before.
I am not sure why there was no rush on my part. He'd been previously married to a shrew and I think was relieved that I could take it or leave it. I'd hoped to be his wife, but was not really interested in the show. I'm an actress, so I love a good performance, but in matters of the heart and of the spirit, I am often timid to share my true feelings. I couldn't see having lots of colleagues and family members, many of whom had never seen even a glimpse of my heart, come together to celebrate this moment with me and someone that I loved, at the time and now, fights over children and household chores not withstanding, more than anyone I had ever loved in my life up until that point (well, except for Lily). I could hardly articulate it and was often brought to blustery tears as I tried to express my sense of "us" and what we would be to one another. We were already a family with Lily and making it official at that time just suddenly made sense.
There were no traditional vows. I did not say "for better or for worse, in sickness and in health." There was no promise from anyone to obey the other as that certainly could not be fulfilled on any end. But there was love and there was hope and living in New York City and having survived his miserable separation and divorce, we were sure we could weather any storm. And then came Barbados.
With a new baby and two relocations--first to Florida, then to Barbados, we were off to a rocky start. When I arrived and Didier was working ten to twelve hours a day while I stayed at home adjusting to the heat and cultural changes, slowly going mad, I questioned everything. I imagine, if we are truthful, everyone has doubts about their ability to make sacrifices and changes and really make the commitment in marriage. Unless, of course, they are on TV, and it is all pretty easy, Maybe it is just me, but I had serious doubts. Two small kids, one a newborn. A busy husband. A country I could not connect to and did not want to live in. We'd only been married one year. I haven't had the best of luck in relationships. Maybe I really wasn't good at it. I just couldn't see myself hanging on all "real, real housewife style."
But that, that is marriage. And I did hang in there. And I tried to open my heart and myself to the place that we were going to call home for two years. And I stopped blaming him for making me come here. The girls started to grow up and my postpartum depression, which took me down for the count pretty much every single day started to subside some time after the baby turned 15 months. Neither of the girls want me to get any sleep still, but in general, things are looking up. It's hard because I have often not been the greatest team player, having been alone for so long and liking solitude. But I love my family. This is the best team I ever imagined and while I complain about how they are trying to take me down daily, I could not trade them. Any of them.
Today Didier and I spent a wonderful afternoon at the Colony Club on the West Coast having what I think is one of the best brunches on the island. We held hands, drank a cocktail and shared a bottle of wine, while eating to our hearts' content. Our dear landlady watched the girls. Didier and I remembered what it was like when we stole glances, fed each other food and giggled at each others' jokes. We felt like a team, like partners, like lovers, like we knew exactly why we got married.
It was hot as hell yesterday, the actual date of our anniversary. There was no frosty rain or wind to take us back to that moment. But we sat together. Didier. Lily. Virginie. And I. And we celebrated.
Happy Anniversary, my love. Happy Anniversary, family.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
