911, what's your emergency?

It's not just the spiritual or existential crises that can get you down, move you to tears, or to action.  Last night, the littlest one, dancing and swirling in a costume much too big for her, tripped over her feet and fell backwards like a plank onto the floor, hitting her head and knocking herself out.  This is what I was able to surmise by talking to Lily, looking around the scene of the crime, and piecing it all together, as I had been in the kitchen cooking dinner and singing to myself, happy that we had made it back to the States, found a place to live, a good school for Lily, where she would start tomorrow, and that we were on target to get to bed on time.  Even after sidewalk chalk and hopscotch at the front of the house. 

And then, THUD.  I check every thud.  I am that mom.  And glad I did, because I arrived to find Virginie in a pink ballet costume lying completely still on the floor, lids half opened, eyes glassy and no rise in her chest.  As in not breathing on the floor.  In a panic I grabbed her, turned off the television, started calling to her, "Virginie!  Virginie!  Look at Mommy!" and she just rolled her eyes into the back of her head and fluttered her eyelashes.  Now past the edge of hysteria I was crying and dialing my sister.  Right, not 911.  I don't know why.  The conversation was brief.  I told her that Virginie seemed completely out of it, unconscious.  She said call 911.  I hung up and called. 

The paramedics, firemen, and police officers arrived as I was filling the husband in on the goings-on over the phone.  He'd had to ask me three times to slow down as I was barely coherent and talk fast anyway, but this was just gibberish.  He heard the male voices in the house and wondered what the heck was going on over here until I was able to speak clearly.  The officers turned off the food on the stove that I had immediately forgotten about and sat with me, examining Virginie who had since come to and was screaming like a banshee.  Lily was crying and worried that (1) we were going to have to go the hospital in an ambulance and (2) we would be turning off the television and would not see how the Backyardigans episode ended.  Honestly, I am not sure in which order her concerns ranked.

Virginie's eyes were checked as was her pulse, her heartbeat, her blood pressure, which made her giggle and remark to her examiner, "You squeezed me.  That tickles."  I declined a trip to the hospital in the back of the ambulance waiting in front of the house, but confirmed that I would monitor her every few hours and call right away if she vomited, looked or acted lethargic or different that usual, or passed out.  And just like that, they were gone.  We had chicken fingers and broccoli for dinner with popsicles for dessert.  I finished putting Lily's clothes out for the first day of school, bathed them, and tucked them into bed.  When the husband came home from work, having been reassured via text that all was well, I fell into his chest heaving and sobbing.  I had been scared to death, beside myself, but didn't want the girls to see my fear.  Just once Lily asked, "Why do you have that sad face?"  And I responded, "Because I knew Virginie was hurt and I didn't know what to do to help her.  I love you and Virginie more than anything in the world and I was afraid."

She stared at me blinking, blinking, as if realizing all the truth in that statement for the first time.  "You love us."  I do.

Virginie is fine.

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

Consumption, consumption, what's your function?

Because the satellite system we had in Barbados was based in Venezuela, we were able to get many of the American programs we wanted to see but with Spanish-language commercials.  Though many of the Pollyannas in my life mentioned frequently what a wonderful opportunity this was to make the girls trilingual, yeah right, it did give us one advantage that I am only now realizing.  My children, Lily in particular, could not get the message being delivered right into her tiny, influential soul that she needed something, lots of somethings, to make her life complete.  Yeah, she saw the toys and things being advertised, but she had no idea where we could get these things.  I used to remark how amazing it was that Lily didn't long for anything, didn't beg for toys, games, anything really, and was always happy with whatever came her way.


For the past few weeks, Lily has been sharing with me little secrets and tidbits that seemed to come out of nowhere.  "You know, Huggies are good for squirmy babies."  "Did you know that this dog can talk and he has the secret family recipe for baked beans?"  While pretty hilarious, funny enough to make me turn my head so as not to seem like I am laughing at her in her face, it is also a little scary.  The advertising messages are strong enough to convince even savvy adults that some product with the same ingredients as another is better based on the marketing, packaging, commercial.  How can any child stand a chance?


There is a lot out there.  A lot.  And it is awfully distracting.  I have never been into mall shopping, at least not since I was a pre-teen going to Spencer Gifts looking for Duran Duran pins, but our trip to Sawgrass Mills one rainy Saturday, regular visits to Target to stock our house, and drop-ins at CVS/Duane Reade/Rite Aid were a real shock to the system.  One thing I am sure America exports is consumption, consumerism, buying, buying, and buying lots of stuff.  I say this as I have spent nearly every weekend and every other day in the stores to furnish our home, so I am not exactly condemning or judging, just realizing.  Every single time I've been out, I have remarked to anyone within earshot how easy it is to buy things here in the States.  It's the access, the availability, and absolute inexpense of Made In China-take-over-the-world products.  The choices, options, sheer volume is overwhelming.  The choice makes me want to get something a little better, make the house a little nicer, get a better serving tray, glassware, hot pair of shoes, another pair of black pants.  I get it.  But watching the effect of this bombardment on my girls is so sad and painful.

While we were living abroad, there were fewer opportunities to buy as everything on the island was imported and therefore taxed and dutied beyond reason.  A pair of shoes from Old Navy could cost upwards of four times its worth (which is already arguable) and toys, clothes, room decor, mattresses, and nearly all things for children were marked up beyond even the interest of expatriates and rich locals.  Things just cost too much more than they were worth, so we were able to avoid purchasing all together.  But in the States, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, Littlest Pet Shop, crayons, Play-Doh, paints, coloring books, pretty much everything, is so inexpensive that saying yes is as easy as saying no.  And saying yes all the time will send the wrong message.


Tonight, Lily, who was completely exhausted and barely able to string two words together, let alone a coherent thought, started bawling hysterically about a My Little Pony doll which probably has a brush or castle or sparkly something that comes with it.  She repeated like a mantra, "I need it.  I need it.  I need it to be special.  I need it."  First, I was floored.  Was she kidding me?  I told her as firmly, as clearly, as I could that nothing, nothing in the world would make her more special than she already is.  That everything about her that was special came from the person that she was and not from a toy, clothes, jewelry, friends, anything other than the peanut that she is.  Second, I remembered wanting something more than I could explain and wondered what it was about this pony.  Was she just insisting on a toy, any old toy, or was this that special thing.  She has asked for it at least twice a week and I have given her the "we can't get everything we want" talk.  With so many other things, she seems to get it and move on.  But this pony, I just don't know.

We are at a standstill and will not be visiting Target today, though I do need some bath mats for the master bedroom.  I just cannot meet that conflict right now and don't know that I have a solution.  I, of course, want to get her the pony to give to her at another time and my husband wants to impress upon her the true fact that she cannot have whatever she wants and we will not give it.  While I wish we were soon done with this topic, I am sure our return to the States and overindulged playmates, classmates, and friends will provide us all many more trials, errors, and successes. 

The subject is so important to me because my years away from home showed me how much we were carrying with us already.  How many pairs of jeans, pants, dresses, shoes, designer soaps, washes, beauty products, toys, games, bikes, paper towels, videos, movies are enough?  When are we enough?  I don't want the girls to take with them the message "You are what you have."  I don't want them to give in to retail therapy, buying for the thrill, feeling special or better or superior because they have material things surrounding them.  I want them to acknowledge what connects each of us, the joy in their hearts, a strong sense of self, a love for themselves and others.  While I know we will not be able to avoid buying things or participating to some degree in the consumer culture, I don't want what we buy and how we buy to define us.  I don't want to cross over from need to complete greed and gluttony, something I think many have lost sight of.  It is a daunting lesson to learn, even to teach, in this culture.  It is my wish that we will use money saved to spend time visiting places we've always wanted to go, doing things that cost more than we'd like, and trying new activities that take more investment.  That's a legacy I'd feel good about.
 






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