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I know it does. I haven't had a healthy relationship with vanity, but I did pretty much give her whatever she wanted. Since I was twelve years old, I have been lying on my side on the floor doing leg lifts while watching TV, talking on the phone, having a family meeting about the next vacation or why no one is talking to each other, whatever. I have done sit ups my entire life and have slathered my face with pimple creams and potions every single night, even at the end of baccanalian celebration of the arrival of Friday or Thursday or hell, Monday. I have done squats at my desk, squeezed my glutes while riding on the subway, and hauled six bags of groceries ten blocks rather than pull them in a wagon or cart. What I am saying is that, if there was something I could do to control the way I looked, I was doing it and a lot of it.
Even after having Lily, when a whopping 25 pounds remained committed to my frame, I would get up at 5:30 am before Didier or the wee one roused and sneak out for 45 minutes to one hour in the gym. I felt great even though I was bone tired and rewarded myself with an aloe and pete moss smoothie or something like that, I cannot remember. You get the picture. I took care of myself . There was a tiny bit of punishment involved, but the results were worth it. Detoxes and cleanses two to three times per year. Walking all over the city pushing the stroller rather than taking the subway or shut-your-mouth, a cab! I ate sushi and seaweed, lots of salads, lean meat. I believed I looked better naked than with clothes on. Now who even thinks that who is not vying for a position in a magazine with a staple going through her goodies or some other zone?! Really.
Well, not me anymore. I am really tired. And it is too damned hot! After Virginie and my 55 pound weight gain, I had little time to even think of taking care of me, let alone getting into fighting shape. We moved pretty quickly from the apartment to my parents' house where my main source of exercise was walking across the spacious foyer to a comfortable couch to nurse the baby. I might get in some real lifting picking up Lily who at that time weighed in at a whopping 25 pounds. When we got to Barbados, the sheer intensity of the heat and humidity stunned me into my best freeze tag position and I am just now beginning to snap out of it.
Don't get me wrong. I know it could be worse. My general shape is still there. But I am softer, as I think is kinder to say, in some areas than I'd previously been. My darling husband said something along the lines of, "You might, perhaps, have a coating or something and not even know it." Hmmmm. So, what should I take from that? It's not just about the cellulite or the jiggly tummy when I brush my teeth, I am surprisingly over those. It's the mommyness of my whole look right now. I don't wear mom jeans bc it is too damned hot here but I have started to see a look on my face that looks a lot like my mother circa 1979. Cute inside of there but unable to set that lady free.
Ponytail or bun. T-shirt with shorts. Flip flops. No jewelry (other than the wedding ring as a buffer to the freaks who hit on everyone with boobs and to prevent losing my earlobe to a hard tug by Virginie). Soft, mushy spots where, as they say, the shit was once tight! There are no leglifts here. No sit ups except for the just finished watching a makeover show I can do this reps followed by weeks of Twix cookie bars in bed and the leftover chicken hotdog chunks from Virginie's snack tray. Sigh.
I promised myself I would try a little harder. Get on the elliptical more. Stop using it as a playground for the girls or a clothing rack. Snack less. But mostly I just visualize. And then go to sleep. I can't do it all. Lily and Virginie definitely think I am pretty. That's what I am going for right now. So I am totally hot in an alternate universe kind of way.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
I once saw an episode of Oprah Winfrey's show where working moms and stay at home moms were doing battle over who had made the right choice. This could have been any season as it seems this conversation comes up in some form every year. Because I cannot work here in Barbados, by default I have fallen into the stay at home category. I am home with Virginie 7days a week, helping her in her development, playing with her and cleaning up behind her, while also being entirely responsible for the household. On the weekends, we just add Lily and hope that Didier has two days off in a row. I certainly listened intently while watching that episode of Oprah, but I don't think I'd really taken a position either way. Back in New York, I had a job where I could audition, even work for just a couple hours a day and still spend quality time with Lily, so I thought I had it all worked out.
It seemed natural carrying Lily with me everywhere I went in the city either in the Bjorn, the Hip Hammock, or the stroller. New York is a walking city or at least easily accessible on foot, by subway, or by taxi, and I still felt that I had a certain amount of freedom even though she was with me all the time. I took her to many of my auditions whether for print, commercial or voiceover and the kindness of my fellow actors was always astonishing. We could get in, get out, and get on with our day without too much fanfare. Sometimes Lily would want to be with me while I was in the room or in the booth, but she had a portable DVD player with her and lots of actors around her to make faces, sing songs, or just chat. However small, I did feel like I was making a contribution to my family's financial situation and I felt a sense of self and place.
The move to Barbados changed all of that. I was suddenly a stay at home mother with two children, no freedom of movement, and really nowhere I needed to go, without even the possibility of working. Not only is the market for my business minuscule, but I have no permit to participate anyway. Overnight, I became the household maven for a three-bedroom house with a garden, guesthouse, and lots of heat and dust AND two children.
Respect. This job sucks. Well, not all the time, but I can assure you that this job is tough and endless and often thankless. (Yes, I know, thanks comes in different forms and the hugs, smiles of your children blah blah blah. People, that is the stuff that makes you think it is easy! I ain't gonna lie to you!) Before working as an actor, I worked in non-profit arts management which is a fancy way of saying that I worked for organizations that regranted government money to different arts organizations in both New York City and before that, in Atlanta. There were reviews of organizations, both artistically and fiscally, site visits, peer panel reviews, sometimes long days. I have been a hostess in a restaurant, manager, maitre d'. All jobs required multitasking, thinking on my feet, dealing with difficult clients or guests. Yet none prepared me for this job. Motherhood.
We have been so preoccupied with Lily's foray into big school, the tears and panics, that I have all but forgotten my dear Virginie. She's been going along for the ride and taking it all in stride, that apart from not being able to wean her, she has been easy. I must have said it aloud, as it seems the fates were tempted and Virginie let out a huge roar! Well, more of a whine and a scream and a constant hum like the air leaking from a stretchy, animal making balloon. Our girl has six teeth coming in, four of them molars. Oh the joy.
It had been a while since those first eight teeth in the front came in, so my memory of that torture seems to have faded. When she started waking in the middle of the night screaming and nothing I'd offered could soothe her, I remembered. For the past few nights I've tried all sorts of remedies--ice on the gums, Oragel, massive amounts of nursing (Say nothing. I know.), serving soft foods--yogurt, oatmeal, hot dog chunks, ripe cantaloupe. None of this has cured her from what appears to be immeasurable suffering. And so I have returned to the amber necklace.
I know it sounds like hocus pocus, but it works. Apparently, amber has some sort of healing property and when Virginie is wearing this necklace, she is at peace. Or at least not screaming the paint off the walls and the hearing capabilities from all within a 10 kilometer radius. I have three necklaces. She might wear two tonight.
Lily too was a monster teether and I remember our neighbor in Manhattan banging on the paper wall between us in the middle of the night begging us to abandon Lily and leave her on the subway. I don't know what she really expected, but I did feel her pain. Actually, it was my pain. Lily too was an ear shredder. In Barbados, we have relative peace and quite. I have only to worry that the monkeys will find her screams enticing and coming running to see what all the commotion is about. And I don't think I need to tell you again where I stand on the monkeys running over to the house.
Virginie is meant to be our last child, and as she passes each milestone of babyhood, I do feel teary-eyed and nostalgic. Her teeth will all soon be in and she will continue her chattering away and the sleepless nights sitting with her while she screamed in pain will be in the past. I see how the youngest child can get spoiled with love. When you know there is not another tiny baby coming, that this is it, you hold on a little tighter, indulge them a little more, endure screaming fits of terror and torture in the middle of the night with a tiny little smile at the corners of your lips, heart filling with love.
Lily continues to struggle with the morning drop off. I know she likes it at school and keeps up with the work, but saying goodbye is proving too difficult for her. And for me too. I can stay in a funk for hours after the separation because I wonder and I worry. Any suggestions or recommendations leave me more confused than just minutes earlier. I wish I knew what would be best for her. Should I take her in alone, without Didier and Virginie? Should I forgo the trip altogether and let Didier drop her off? Is she crying for me or is she truly scared and overwhelmed?
This hits me at my stuff. Psychiatry speak for "this feels really familiar and I am being triggered by the entire experience, reflecting back to myself." I feel shame and fear around Lily's crying. I never felt safe as a child to cry or show my feelings, especially sadness or fear. There was something about not feeling strong enough, tough enough to "take it like a man," which of course I was not and, as should be noted, am still not. I was silent a lot, difficult to imagine now, but I would bite the inside of my cheek and try not to let tears or a shaky voice reveal my fright. I know the loneliness, the feeling of alienation that makes crying involuntary. It just wants to burst out. When I see Lily's little quivering face, I already know what's coming. I feel it too.
So is it my fault if I have a four year old preschooler who is tearful? Who responds to criticism and teasing with sadness, even shame? Who doesn't want to leave me and tells me she misses me already before we have even let go of hands outside the classroom? Apparently, yes. It is always the mother's fault. Have I been overindulgent because when she feels sad or hurt I hug her and let her express her feelings? I wonder, should I have told her to buck up and hold it together?
After a great first week, save Friday's teasing episode, Lily has been melting into tears before we even walk away from her at the drop off. She got the gene. And she got it from me...and Didier. We are sensitive. I am often emotional when I am frustrated or moved by love or beauty or fatigue. I try my damnedest not to cry in front of the girls, but they know that Mommy has feelings. I suppose this is a choice to let them see me as a human being and not an automaton/autopilot mommy. My mother was quite stoic, still is, and rarely showed any emotion other than a slight smile and blank eyes. I think she was taught that this would actually protect her from feeling her feelings. My father, try as he might, has puppy dog eyes, much like Lily, and his hurt showed in his eyes, so he barked loud and fast so you would never see the tears. I want Lily to know that all emotions are fine. That they are part of our human experience. I love that she can tell me how she feels, but hate that I often can do nothing but hug her and tell her how I love her.
I cannot take the sting of being lonely from her. I cannot show her that she is loved even when she is not the center of a group telling jokes and getting all the attention. I cannot convince her that clinging to someone else, even a teacher or aide, will not ease an unsteady heart. She must learn, like we all must to trust herself and love herself in the midst of the teasing and ignoring and loneliness and stillness. When the eyes of my beautiful girl well up with tears, I want to drink them away, to take the pain on myself, but I can't. She is entering the race and the soft fuzziness of babyhood is getting rough from wear and tear. Reality is meeting Lily on the school yard and in the classroom and it is a shock to her tiny little system.
The first day of school came with such drama and fanfare, frustration and fatigue that it seemed only fair to consider the week as a whole. After a twenty minute drive to the school orientation one week before, on the first day, we found ourselves boxed into hellish traffic unable to move as we were on a tiny road with only one lane in each direction. What we'd prepared to be a forty-five minute drive at max, turned into an hour and fifteen minute stress-builder that included a crying baby, frustrated pre-schooler, near to exploding driver (Didier), and to my embarrassment, a just released from hospital kidney stone survivor forced to pee in a cup in the standstill. All of this before Lily had stepped one foot on campus that morning.
When we finally arrived at school, some of the kids in Reception (which is basically a pre-school, kindergarten combo) were in their games/PE/gym tshirts and Lily, like many others, was in her full uniform. Turns out the weekly schedule had been changed without notification to half the class's parents. Due to some interesting scheduling, half of the class had started school the Wednesday before to prevent mass hysteria amongst the 4 to 5 year old set not used to spending the day away from their parents. Those parents were told of the schedule change. The rest of us, not. As the kids are required to participate in activities with a tshirt, the remaining parents were forced to purchase tshirts with the school crest. Uh huh. Those, as one can imagine, cost quite a bit more than a regular tshirt from Woolworth's.
Lily loves big school and her teachers. Her full time job as a student at Blossoms Nursery School prepared her well for the long hours and her teachers were just as sweet and caring as they could be. They are enthusiastic about Lily, which makes me happy, and she is excited about learning. I can ignore the whole uniform thing which I really am not into and tolerate the excessive religious indoctrination. There's a lot of praying and singing and talking about the Lord. I was raised in the Christian church and have a healthy relationship with my God, but my little four year old is like "Jesus's love is bubbling over." OK.
God bless him. Didier was responsible for the two monsters while I twisted and turned on the bed at Sandy Crest and was now to care for them overnight while I stayed at Bayview Hospital. While drifting in and out of consciousness waiting for the pain and vomiting to end, I was asked by the doctor if I would prefer a public or private hospital. Never presented with this before, I remember hearing something about having to bring your own toilet paper to the public hospital. I knew I could not be responsible for that kind of business, so I chose private. When posed the same question, Didier was advised by our doctor to preserve our marriage and book me into Bayview.
We came home to get some things. I was hopped up on drugs so at least able to give a good face to the girls. I told Lily that silly Mommy had eaten something bad and hurt her tummy and would have to go stay with the doctor until we figured it out. Her watery brown eyes were so concerned. She was terrified of seeing me in pain. I was tortured by her seeing me that way. Virginie, on the other hand, just kept calling my name. "Mommy! Mommy? Maman. Mommy, mommy, mommy." She smiled at me and reassured me everything would be alright. That is how I chose to read her chatter. I worried for her. We'd meant to start weaning her, but this would be rather abrupt and I worried about Didier handling her screams in the night. She is so small, no matter that she talks our faces off, and it brought tears to my eyes to think of her alone in the night missing me. And my boobs.
When we arrived at Bayview Hospital, they were indeed waiting for me. It seems there were very few people on the ward and I was new and exotic. I got tucked into bed, hooked up to an IV, kissed my beautiful family goodbye and was left staring out the window at a rainy Barbados, wondering just how the hell I ended up here. I have never been a fan of hospitals, since being left for two weeks as a five year old at Freehold Area Hospital with an undiagnosed gastrointestinal disorder, and this situation was no different. I missed my family before they'd left the parking lot. As I hit the call button to get someone to quickly give me a barf bowl, I had to admit that there really was no other place for me that night. I needed to be there. My IVP (intravenous pyelogram) was scheduled for the morning some time and I was to just catch up on rest and prep for the test.
I watched TV. I read my book. I read the pamphlets about the hospital and all the things they'd expected me to bring along with me. My own towel, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, pajamas/gown, clothes. I'd done OK with most of the list, but my own gown and towels? soap? I used my facial soap to wash my body and had some breathsaver brushes in my pocketbook that, though designed for a night out at the club and a quick tooth brushing before making out with a stranger, did the trick. Dinner of clear broth, jello, and juice was brought to me and was quickly vomited. This was exhausting. Sleep came in fits and starts, as I was a little afraid and lonely and wondered what was happening back at the ranch.
I'd experienced being away from Didier before and that is hard enough. But being away from the girls was just too much, especially Virginie because she is the baby. We'd never been apart and I missed her soft fat little knees and baby curls. I laughed when I thought of the only time I'd ever been away from Lily and that was when Virginie was born! She'd come to see me the next day in the same outfit as the day before with her hair looking positively wild. I missed her. I wanted her to tell me something funny.
The next morning there was breakfast. Followed by a quick vomit and then the scheduled IVP. For the IVP, a dye is injected into the IV that highlights any obstructions in the ureters, kidneys, or bladder and helps determine the size, shape, and then next course of action. For all that falling down, twisted eyebrow, continuous vomiting, my stone was found to be the size of the head of a ballpoint pen. Say what? I thought I was dying. What the heck would I have done if the thing had calcified and was as big as a marble? I am determined not to find out.
When my family came to visit with me that afternoon, Lily dressed in the clothes from the previous day and Virginie dressed as Heidi with green jellies on her feet, I called the doctor to find out our plan, get some results. He told me that I would have to pass the thing myself and that there was nothing more he could do for me other than review the slides from the IVP and give me some details and prescriptions for pain. So I went home. And though in pain and hopped up on drugs, still unable to nurse or really be of any help to Didier, I packed up my little suitcase, said goodbye to the ladies who had taken such good care of me and the orderly who checked me out since I walked in even though I wreaked of vomit and was swollen like a balloon, and rolled on home.
