Tattoo You

It is hard to accept that sometimes in life, the people and places and things that drive us the most batty are set there to teach us and probably teach us more than we ever thought possible.  Barbados, for sure, has shown me more than I ever expected.  There were many dark nights of the soul, many wrenching, painful hours where just being me emotionally and spiritually, hurt me physically.  Sure, a little dramatically stated, something I have been accused of before, but truly a time when questioning myself, my experience, my capacity as a human being, was the leitmotif of my existence.

This was not the first time and I suspect it will not be the last that I got on a path fraught with perils, trials, tribulations and found my way again to joy, to love, to understanding.  At the end of the tunnel, light.  And for me, at the end of the journey, tattoos.
Jonathan Foster at Soul Touch on the South Coast of Barbados was recommended by pretty much everyone on the island who had a tattoo that I liked.  He is a surfin', tall drink of water with a sleeve of tattoos on one arm and some others on his neck and hand, with a soft White Bajan accent, different than the Black Bajan accent, dreamy blue eyes, and a references for any and all cultures, designs, fonts, you name it, that you might want.  I'd planned for months to get in to his shop, but during surf season his little blue car was nowhere to be found.  He was out on the waves.
Driving one afternoon with my friend KC I saw that OPEN sign and we went in immediately, even though it would soon be time to pick up Virginie from school.  I talked with Jonathan about lots of images, things that were swirling in my head, ink I knew I would get either with him or in the future.  We talked a lot about the Hand of Fatima, an image I am still considering though finding the perfect design has proven difficult.  Perhaps I will have to create one of my own.  I am interested in protection symbols, not only for tatts but in art, design, culture, images or amulets that ward off the Evil Eye, evil spirits, bad energy and juju.  The world I live in is full of magic realism and I can use all the guidance, protection, and light I can get.

After scheduling with Jonathan, I sent him my images via email so we would both be prepared.  I wanted something to signify my relationship to my girls, in whom I have begun to heal some of the wounds of my childhood and for whom I have chosen life in the clearest, cleanest possible way.  I am superstitious about names written on the body unless it's Jesus, Buddha, Zarathustra, something along those lines to remind you of something greater than just the name.  I think once a name is on your body you are either doomed to break up with whomever's name it is you have inked or you will lose them, like they will die. I know, magic realism.  I told you.

So in the crook of my arm it now says MAMAN, French for Mommy, with two stylized butterflies on each side for each of my little girls.  They both come to check out their butterflies regularly and feel pretty special to have a touchstone right on Mommy's arm to show them how magical they are to me.

The Eye of Horus on the inside of my wrist under the symbol for infinity (already there 2002?) and the word DIVINITY above it gave me not only protection, but a reminder of our souls' infinite journey and of the divinity, God's breath, in all of us.  I wanted to remind myself to be aware of all the divine moments in life, places where signs were offered, where angels came to guide me, where the path, sometimes obscured was revealed.  I have felt blessed and well guided on my journey, even when life was fraught with craziness.  Inner peace and tranquility prevailed.  Divinity.


(c) Copyright 2011.  City Mom in the Jungle.

Hoots, bells, and whistles

While we agree to disagree, my husband is one of the world's crazy drivers.  Something of a debonair, European, I-had-to-take-the-engine-apart-to-get-my-license French, 2 days of stubble crazy, Versace sunglasses from 1991, driving gloves if it wasn't so hot crazy.  Seriously.  For Didier, Barbados is driving hell and he really has good reason to feel so.  Believe me. 

When we moved here almost two years ago, our 2004 Passat GLX with 4-wheel drive was deemed too old to be on the road here and we sold it.  For much less than it was worth, but what car seller ever says they got what they should have.  Get on the road in our Suzuki circa who knows when with the screeching brakes and shoddy shock absorbers and, except for the super-rich or trendy in their Range Rovers, BMWs, Mercedes, or (for the really extravagant) Ferraris or Jaguars, there is nothing but a hodge-podge of parts puttering on the roads here.  Black clouds of smoke from the "re-tooled" engines, part boat motor, part tinker toy, all kind of asthma-inducing insanity, come from cars, trucks, buses, motorbikes.  One wonders in what way, with what kind of hush money paid, did these vehicles pass inspection.  Any kind of inspection.  Some are just hard to look at.

Though our rental car, also known as an "H" or hired car, known as such by the H at the front of the license plate numbers which gives everyone on the island the impression that we are tourists, has no kick, Didier will gladly attempt to overtake the following:  slow drivers, Sunday drivers, motorcycle riding mail carriers (They drive motorcycles here in Barbados.), garbage trucks, people dropping off friends, family, or co-workers on the side of the road (or middle of the road), other H car drivers (aka tourists, probably American because only people who do not know how to drive on the left side would go so slowly )and "snails (slow drivers) who annoy him."  Makes sitting in the passenger seat torture and sitting in the back of the car an exercise in motion sickness.  My poor Lily gets sick at least three times a week.

But the truth is, it is annoying.  Where we are on the West Coast there is one road, the West Coast Road, that has two lanes, each going in the opposite direction.  So if, when, you find yourself stuck behind one of the aforementioned slowpokes, the entire coast finds itself in a traffic jam.  Don't let there be an accident.  Unlike in the States, should an accident occur, all parties must stop exactly where they are and not move their vehicles until law enforcement arrives to review and take measurements.  Imagine an accident at rush hour that blocks both lanes, without cones, road signs, etc to divert traffic.  We have lived a number of these accidents, once even considering abandoning our car and walking with each child on our backs in the dark for at least a mile without a flashlight after driving in circles trying to find an alternate route to no avail.

The main highways have not been in existence very long, about 4-5 years, so it is still common to see people crossing the highway at the most inopportune times.  Rush hour.  In the dark of early morning or late night with no reflectors and almost always in a curve or blind spot.  Strangely, many of the crosswalks are situated just before or after the curve in or out of a roundabout. For foreign drivers this is incredibly shortsighted planning.  For Bajans, eh.  It doesn't matter as slow driving is par for the course and a series of hand signals, flashing lights, and basically stopping for everyone at the side of the road to cross keeps some level of consistency.  Didier and I joke that a woman with a big juicy behind at 20 paces will stop traffic even before she even considers crossing.  She might not even be crossing at all but just in case, everyone smooths down their hair, straightens up their collar in the hopes that she may choose to cross in front of their car. 

Funny enough, I like the signals (unlike Didier who, if committed after we leave Barbados you will know why, goes berserk every time someone brings him to a halt with a hand signal a little like biking hand signals mixed with the Snake and Walk-like-an-Egyptian dance moves).  I think they are sweet and hearken back to an easier time when driving around the island was like driving on country roads.  Where letting the little old ladies, goats, chickens, laborers with trucks stacked with untethered machines in the truck bed, moms and children, hot chicks, and B-boys was the neighborly thing to do.  I will miss car honking that means "How you doin'?" or "Say hi to your Momma," instead of, "Get the f*&$ out of my way, you moron!"  I like that flashing high beams means, "Go ahead," or "Thank you," and that passers by on foot will tell you that there is an accident ahead so look for a diversion.

It took a lot of getting used to, but it is quite quaint and sweet and small town.  It was nice to feel part of a little community of drivers, though the emissions test could use a little improvement.

(c)  Copyright 2011.  City Mom in the Jungle.

In the middle of the night

It's often in the middle of the night that I finally get to stop and think about things in my life.  Usually I get the motors churning after one or both of the girls has called out to me and I find myself snuggling, cuddling, changing diapers, Pull ups or sheets, searching for nighttime medications or lost snuggly toys.  I have a dictaphone in which to chatter on so I don't have to keep the thoughts turning in my head, but for some reason that is most often tucked away in a drawer full of phone chargers, iPod cords, cables, and other wires that connect only to the Matrix as far as I know.  Last night was no different as poor Virginie who suffered a severe bronchial infection brought on by allergies and the Bajan tendency to burn everything--paper, plastic, rubber tires, sugar cane, garbage, you name it--and disregard emissions standards from all over the world, putting out some of the blackest smoke from cars and trucks, called out to me some time around 3 am.
The bronchial infection set off a chain of events--antibiotics for the infection caused severe diarrhea, which in turn made my baby's bum so raw I had to cover her in diaper cream just to get her standing.  She became so afraid of going to the bathroom because she knew it would cause pain and stinging.  I couldn't allow her to run free without a diaper as after one too many runny accidents I just couldn't handle it anymore.  She was so sore she didn't want to be touched at all, which made changing her close to impossible.  Because she talks so much, we also had to endure screams and cries of, "Please don't wipe me, Mommy!  It hurts my butt butt!  No do it!"  It was torture.  For all of us.  Really, Didier, Lily, and I tried frantically to ease her pain, to distract her with kisses, with toys, with songs, anything to give her peace.

When she called to me last night, she screamed like an animal caught in a trap.  There was a whimper that just ripped at my heart.  Her little face showed terror when I arrived and I had to coax her into letting me even look at her.  I just wanted to open her little diaper and clean off her parts, put some cream on them, and get back to sleep.  She fought every move I made.  I went left, she went left.  I moved right, she did too.  I tried to pull back one of the tabs of the diaper, she kicked me in my chin, my chest, my arm.  She screamed, "No! No! No!"  I found myself clutched her arm and starting to pin her when I caught myself.  Wait, wait, wait.  She is two years old.  Scared out of her wits and now even more so at this frantic banshee who looks a bit like Mommy but is surely a lunatic, clawing at her, fighting her.  I looked at her wide eyes, wiggling little body.  She was in pain.  She was scared.  She was tired.  So was I.  But these are the moments that Mommies are made. 

I picked her up and snuggled with her, dancing slowly in front of the wall mounted air conditioner, letting it cool us both down.  I whispered in her tiny ear, "I know it hurts, Pumpkinseed.  I want to help you so you can sleep.  Will you let Mommy help you?  Mommy will give you some medicine and put some cream on you so it doesn't hurt.  Will you let Mommy do that?"  She pulled away, frightened I would do it without her consent.  I told her I wouldn't.  But that I knew this would make it better.  We got some Meltaways for the pain and some wipes and lots and lots of diaper cream.  Her tiny behind was coated like a cupcake when I was finished.  I put baby powder on her back as I massaged her to sleep.  I heard her start to purr and then snore softly and I knew she had found some comfort.  As I gently lay her back down on her bed with her paci and tissue in hand, I curled my body around hers to be sure she felt safe and secure and truthfully, to be sure she was asleep before my planned getaway.

But I didn't leave.  Lying in the bed with Virginie, Lily just feet away in her little bed breathing softly, I wondered if these people felt safe with me.  If they realized all that I would do so that they felt secure, cared for, loved.  I thought about the countless mornings these two girls have awakened to find Mommy drooling in their room, twisted in their blankies with animals, tissues, and pacis plastered onto her body.  I have no memories of sleeping, napping, cuddling with either of my parents.  It was a different time.  The level of intimacy required to allow your children to see you as loving, open, vulnerable individuals was just not something that was considered by the mainstream.  Embracing and nurturing the emotional, psychological, spiritual lives of children probably seemed ridiculous.  But for me, it is something I think about constantly.

When I meet people, I often consider the little child that lives in them, often somehow recognizing the moment in which their hearts were pushed to closing, the moment they felt unsafe or threatened.  I find my kindred spirits in those broken souls and yet, what I wouldn't give for my kids to at least feel that they are, were, will be loved always.  There will be enough in the world to give them doubts.  My love or devotion or willingness to accept them, support them, be with them as they are and not as I want them to be just should not be one of them.  After putting Virginie to sleep, tired as I was, I couldn't get back myself.  In the dark room with my two little girls, both of them asleep, both of them tucked in, both of them loved and adored, I tried to tuck my little self in and go back to that moment in my life when my little heart started to close.  When the fear overtook me and I no longer felt I could call out for anyone to help me because I just wasn't convinced that anyone would come.


(c)  Copyright 2011.  City Mom in the Jungle.