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The third time is a charm. Yeah, right. After cleaning up urine from the wool carpet in the living room, left by one adorable, but torturous 21 month old darling, followed by a slip and slide on the floor in the girls' room that had Lily in complete fits of laughter, you can imagine the delight, the charm I might even venture, I felt when I sat down on Virginie's bed for a good night nursing session and found my pants drenched.
"I peeped." Thank you. I will be sure to make a note of that. Hold on while I rip the comforter, duvet cover, sheets, mattress pad, feather bed, pillow, and pillowcase from your bed and remake it just minutes before you were to be drifting to toddler La la land. I want to say that this scenario had me in stitches, that the cuteness of her tiny little chattering voice and smiles, offer of a hug and one of her gauzy tissues turned my frown upside down, but alas, I cannot offer that. What's a mother to do? She can talk. She's advanced. Totally. She is so not ready for complete potty training.
But she is able to remove any and all clothing and accessories including diapers and pull ups. Insisting that she keep these things on and let me know before she needs to pee on the potty is beyond ridiculous. The absurdity of the thought has me in stitches, the evening wind down cocktail can do that. I want her to have the freedom to move about. It's hot in Barbados and it is most certainly most comfortable unclothed. Her sister is just as naked as she, in fact, I think Lily's nudity is what precipitated this new interest. I'd had Virginie in diapers and no other clothing for months. She even sported that look in the cooler climates of an Atlanta winter and unseasonably cold Florida. Suddenly a diaper, not even a pull up, is good enough for the gal. Maybe she is preparing to train herself?
When traveling in China, my cousin sent me some pictures of little kids walking around with pants with the crotches cut out. At the time, I was training Lily and telling her often how difficult it was to get Lily to recognize the sensation and then act on it before going in a pull up or other training pant. The photos she sent offered another solution. The children basically just went when it suited them. Right through the hole in the pants. A little pee. A little poo. At the Great Wall. Walking down the street. Until they just got tired of it running down their legs?
I don't know. I think I am better off with Virginie at least being completely naked so I don't have to remove soiled clothing from her little body, but the vigilance, and you know I am not about to have no "stinking up to be damned" pee pee smell warmed up in the Barbados heat all over my house, is just wrecking me. I have to keep my eyes on that little behind and hope I can catch the squat or the grimace or the drip before the spill. I have the mop at the ready and now the laundry soap, ammonia, baking soda potions, Febreze, and paper towels and damp cloths. There are little baggies, plastic gloves, and immediate delivery to the outdoor garbage cans for the #2 pencils and I don't mean pencils.
My sister always said to me when dealing with the developmental milestones of her children, whom she had long before I ever thought I would have any, "You don't see too many six year-olds, doing (and you fill in the blank)." I know this is part of the process and that my baby will end up using the toilet like all the rest of us. That ain't nothing to write home about. And while she mostly just sits on her little potty beaming at me and wiping herself and putting paper in the pot (without actually going, of course), I am charmed.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
It has been raining on and off, pouring actually, for the past few days, which doesn't say much for the dry season but has provided a pleasant break from the scorching hot sun and sweltering afternoons. Some would even say that it has been downright cold here. I am not one of them, let's not get too crazy, but it has been lovely. I wore jeans this morning and kept them on ALL DAY! Returning home from the drop off this morning, a downpour threatened Bridgetown which floods almost immediately with more than five minutes of rain. The sky was navy blue velvet and the palms and other trees glowed neon against that backdrop.
In Barbados, every day is like Sunday. What I mean is, every day on the road is a day for Sunday drivers. Lots of really slow-paced cruising, looking out the window daydreaming, even in morning "rush hour" traffic. It drives Didier nearly to the brink of madness and his fits of rage with outbursts in English with a French accent would be hilarious if he wasn't nearly slamming into the back of whatever it is tiptoe-ing in front of us. "What he's doing, this one? Why he is doing this to me? They love to get a red light these snails!" You get the picture. We are, in general, fast-paced folk, New Yorkers before we ever were and we have not succeeded in the "When in Rome" or more accurately, "When in Barbados, do as the Bajans do" mentality.
But this Sunday, we attempted to do just that. The morning was overcast and though we'd planned a morning trip to Accra Beach or maybe Sandy Lane (with friends of course, otherwise we'd not have been able to get in!) the hours got away from us, so we stayed home and swam in the pool treading through downpours, then sunshine, then more downpours, followed by rainbows. Virginie who had been a bit temperamental of late in the water was swimming like a little fish, and I remarked to myself what an incredible gift we'd given ourselves to have the girls learn to swim at such an early age. Lily, once absolutely terrified of going underwater, was now diving and flipping and "circle and rocketing" across the pool. We were relaxed and carefree, as we'd hoped we'd be when we moved here nearly 18 months ago.
Once we'd realized we would not make it to the sea, we made plans to visit with our friends that afternoon for some drinks, time in the pool, and a visit with their brand new menagerie. After the sudden death of their cat by hit and run, an unfortunately common occurrence on the island, they'd bought their daughters a hamster and a bunny for comfort. After visiting the pet shop for accessories for the new pets, they fell in love with another hamster, another bunny rabbit, and two land tortoises that, though teeny, are said to be quite old. , After the loss of Sweetie and Salty the cats, I don't think I am up to falling in love with any more pets, though we have promised Lily a miniature poodle once we leave Barbados, so I thought vicarious pet ownership through the B's would be great fun for all of us.
The animals did not disappoint. We chased the bunnies up and down the hallway, cuddling with them, feeding them, petting them, and just falling in love minute by minute. There was swimming and chatting and 80s music rocking on the patio. No plan. No program. Just being with each other. This I love about Barbados. Twelve months out of the year there is sun and sea and an easiness like Sunday morning. If we were so easy, it would be perfect.
But we aren't so easy and the circumstances of our being here are starting to weigh on us. Heavily. A relaxed Sunday gives way pretty quickly to long work hours for him and lonely nights of solo child rearing for me. It isn't that we can't find a way to love it here. There are things that we so love. Our friends. The sun and sea, though maybe not always. The garden. The pool. Beautiful rainbows and untouched vistas. Our children are happy. They are sun-kissed and so are we. Kissed is always good.
Sundays are easy. Didier usually has off from the trials and tribulations of his grueling work week. We have nice mornings together with homemade gauffres, no rushing, and two parents doling out kisses and listening to endless conversation from both of our chatty Cathies. I miss the New York Times, but I can endure it for the calm of an afternoon spent in the presence of good friends and loved ones. And Didier, when we are driving close to home at least, can survive the torture of the Sunday drivers long enough to realize that it's nice for us all to be in the car together, going in the same direction, slow-paced cruising, looking out the window. Daydreaming.
(c) Copyright 2011. City Mom in the Jungle.
