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Something's got to give and by that I hope I don't mean my back. I spent the night in a twin bed with both Lily and Virginie as satellites. At any given moment, my legs or feet were off the bed and someone's curly head of hair was under my armpit. I didn't start out the evening like this. In fact, my extremely comfy bed with returned guest star, the hubby, beckoned me pretty early last night. He watched a movie while I read next to him, occasionally glancing at the screen to interrupt and ask what was going on or just to snuggle. The monitor was on in the girls' room and the silence was peaceful. And then...there was Lily screaming into the night, bad dream or night terrors. Whatever it was that sent her into hysteria ended quickly enough and she was back to sleep. Virginie was another story.
Lily's screams woke her and she thought it was morning and time to play. She spent about an hour talking and clapping her hands before she finally passed out. As did I...on the twin mattress on the floor...where I woke up in the morning, my forty year old body begging the question, "What the ^&*% are you doing? And there you go.
(c)copyright 2010. Citymominthejungle
Lest my children think that I don't love them after all these nights without sleep, I got up this morning with the idea that we would do a Sunday breakfast of their choosing. After putting in two loads of laundry before 8:00 am and clearing rooms, sweeping hallways to prepare for their father's return, I asked what they'd like to eat. Virginie is pretty easy. She's had breakfast of eggs, toast, yogurt, Cheerios, muffins, grapes, bananas, pears and other goodies all week. Lily is the one with the very particular appetite, who asks for one meal only to reject it once it has been prepared. This morning, she chose corn pancakes.
Didier has a recipe for corn pancakes that is easy enough for me to follow AND to prepare with Lily making the experience nutritious and fun. Lily helped crack the eggs, pour them into the corn and butter mixture and then stirred in all the other ingredients. As we prepared to make the first pancake, the cleaning company that I had been trying to get to stop in all week made a scheduled visit to assess the shape of our house so as to know what to charge. In fairness, when they called, they said it would be some time between, I thought I heard, 20 to 40 minutes. But what I guess was actually said was, "We will be there immediately!"
I went to the door in a pair of gym shorts, a white t-shirt with no bra, barefoot, hair wild all over my head, sweating profusely from the heat and from the 20 lb bomb known to all as Virginie that I was carting around because EVERY time I set her down she would scream her face off, twisting my tired brain to mush. I am sure these people wondered who the homeless woman showing them around the house was and how she got access to these supercute kiddies. They were wonderful and sweet and will begin cleaning the house once a week starting this week! Yay. I will certainly continue to tidy up, but am now willing to admit I just can't do everything. If there is something I learned this week alone, it is that.
The corn pancakes turned out delicious and I was pretty damned proud of myself. The girls got to eat to their hearts' content. I finished the laundry, made beds, and even got BOTH of them down for a nap before an afternoon birthday party. Surely you don't have to ask if I joined them. That's easy...like Sunday morning.
(c)copyright 2010. Citymominthejungle
Virginie and Lily are using expert tactics on me here in the jungle, something I think all intelligence agencies should consider when hoping to extract information from terrorists and other criminals. I have always said that the interrogators should be three or four year olds and all answers will be revealed by the end of the afternoon. "I want a ballerina doll for my birthday. It will be a ballerina and she will dance. She will wear a ballet costume and she will be a ballerina and I will get it for my birthday. You will have to get it for my birthday when I have my birthday party and I will have a ballerina doll and she is going to be dancing"...you get the picture. That's Lily. And she will actually be playing the role of "good cop." The "bad cop" will be played by Virginie, one year old and teething and somehow pooping in the middle of the night...twice.
Lily and Virginie want to guarantee that I look haggard by the time their father returns from Chicago. I can think of no other reason for the amount of mischief they have been getting into this week. It seems that Virginie chose this week to stand up on tables and chairs and anything really that perches her precariously above the room on two tiny wobbly legs, calling to me, "MAH-mee! MAH-mee!" Lily's dissertations on all subjects run a minimum of 45 minutes, certainly longer if my eyes are closed and I am snoring. I hear her voice in my sleep. "Eden didn't come to school today like she did last-erday. Shaka was home from school today. He is sick but he didn't throw up in the bed like I did or in the car like Virginie. Kenya didn't go to school today. Isa Mandela didn't go to school today. Do you know where he went?" I just found out who he WAS two days ago. How would I know where he was when not in school?
But tonight, Virginie took me to the next level in parenting. Lily never, ever, ever ate anything strange, put anything in her nose or ear or other body cavity, or tried to touch the stove or electrical outlets. She was a model citizen save the excessive talking, but she seemed to want to abide by some set of rules, so she asked for them and we gave them. Tonight, Virginie tried to eat the berries off a plant in the garden. I say tried to eat because I found a chewed up something or other on the ground by her feet and it didn't look like she got anything down.
I called the landlord because she always knows what to do and she is calm. She directed me to a nursery. Good idea. I called them but they closed at 4:00 PM and it was 4:20. I called the gardeners. First the owners, then the team leader, then the second in command to him. Left messages for all. Called Didier at his conference in Chicago where I went to voicemail. Sent him an email. Talked to the landlord again, who spoke to her husband. We watched for signs. Foaming at the mouth. Blisters. Red spots. Vomiting. Dizziness. Nothing. I gave her some water. Ice chips. Antihistamine. She went to sleep. She is asleep.
Turns out the berries are not poisonous, but they probably taste gross. It is the tasting gross that saved us from a night of upset stomach because if there is one thing my piggly wiggly doesn't like is "tastes gross."
So I will have to be more vigilant than I was with Lily. Virginie is an explorer, an adventurer, possibly a foodie. We will have to guide her through this wilderness that we didn't have when Lily was a toddler living in a 2nd floor walk up and encourage her curiosity while avoiding the emergency medical clinic.
(c)copyright 2010. Citymominthejungle
At the entrance to our street is a house called C'est La Vie. Many houses in Barbados are given names as well as street numbers and C'est La Vie throws its hands up, just like the expression and pretty much throws in the towel. This house is abandoned and has begun to be reclaimed by the wild. You can tell from the outside, but my new, adventurous neighbors decided to take a peek...inside, I mean.
I am sure by now you can tell that I don't go into haunted houses. Don't like being outside in the dark. And I for sure am not walking into an abandoned house in Barbados that looks like it has been home to the monkeys, mongoose, drunks and squatters, with vines and overgrowth and a rotting swimming pool. Huge tadpoles and toads swam in the pool; there were swarms of mosquitos; and a birthday cake with candles, streamers and a banner welcomed phantom guests to a party.
We have seen, in the last few weeks, a kitten that resembles our dear Sweetie, long ago kidnapped by Barbados Pest Control. He is small enough to be one of Sweetie's kittens and this makes me love him already. I have been leaving a little food for him after each sighting, only to have it go untouched overnight. I know there is another cat roaming the neighborhood that I do not particularly care for. He has that wild, crazy look of an animal too long uncared for or domesticated. He is on his own and he is, as they say, "crazy from the heat." Even he has not found the food.
When we first arrived in Barbados, Sweetie and her sickly brother Salty, made their way to our home with a pack of feral kittens long abandoned somewhere on the island. (There is a wild dog and cat problem on the island.) Lily saw her first and introduced us to her as her new best friend "Sweetie." This was when the house was unscreened and she and Salty were able to walk in at one point and leave from another. As the weeks progressed, they began to trust us more and more. My love for Sweetie and Salty and the rituals of waiting for them and feeding them and trying to get them to trust us enough to let us pet them made the day to day adjustments bearable. When Salty took ill, even though he would not let us touch him, we tried to do everything we could to make him better. He never made it and is now buried in our garden. All our love was transferred to Sweetie.
Sweetie had to be less than a year old when she got pregnant by one of the neighborhood wild studs. Secretly I hated them for not giving her the chance to grow up a little. Yes, I know it's silly, but she was so young and trusting and we were trying to make her ours. The night she had her kittens, she came to us and ate like a fiend and let me pet her for the first time. She rubbed against me and demanded that I love her...and I did. For weeks after having those kittens we waited for a viewing. We wondered how she was able to spend so much time with us if she had mouths to feed. There was talk that she had abandoned them and we forgave her because she was so young and would have the chance to have more kittens. We hoped to bring her in and take her to the vet and have her treated and made ours.
I hate this part. I am not good at goodbyes or being alone, and certainly not when being alone means taking care of the girls for a week while Didier is on a business trip in Chicago, in the United States of America! He left at 4:30 am, before even I could know he was gone. (We were, of course, up just an hour later.) After my shower last night, I said good night and goodbye and went to sleep in the girls' room. I figured he had to get up so early and take care of the business of leaving that I should just let him have the time to himself to peacefully prepare for his departure.
Now I mightn't need to remind you that I am now in Barbados alone for a week with two little girls, one of whom has to get to and from school and I feel insecure driving, but maybe I should. I tried, I swear I did, to get myself prepared to do this alone. I hate being bad at something, but hate even worse the fear of putting my children in danger. Friends to the rescue. Two friends have agreed to, if nothing else, help me get Lily to and from school every day. I have told them to feel no other obligation to me during the week to entertain me or keep me busy. I do still have the one year old at home and a big house to take care of. I am so grateful.
The true test comes tonight when all the evening's activities are done and everyone has been fed and bathed and tucked in and I find myself alone on the couch, the sole provider and protector for the week. If I am able to sleep a wink then I have been successful. We'll see.
(c)copyright 2010. Citymominthejungle
