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While they are very hard to discern, there are seasons here in Barbados. This, December, is winter time and it has been a bit cooler. It rains less and is generally less humid than during rainy season. As it is a bit dryer and will only get more so, food, fruit trees and I suppose some other sources, deplete, leaving the monkeys a bit desperate for food. I do feel for the little buggers, but am still not particularly thrilled to find them trolling the garden looking for mangoes, fig bananas, or hand outs. The hand outs, I thought, we had cleared up. Whatever the former tenants and the ones before them had done, ie fed the monkeys, we have not been doing and will continue not to. It has been a year and a half. There will still be no more food coming from my hand to the mouths of wild animals in my yard and I have driven that fact home to all members of the household.
This week alone we have seen the roving band of monkeys, watched the mongoose flit from one wooded section to the next, and had two birds fly in and get stranded in the house. Poor Didier, assigned as the "get animals, whatever they may be out of the house" man, had to pick them up and carry them out, releasing them to the skies, after, of course, a little poo in the hand. A few days ago, while chatting with my landlady in the yard, we both keep turning our heads in response to a tinkling noise that was distracting and curious at the same time, only to discover a group of young monkey kids had taken down a wind chime from one of the patios and were racing back and forth on the rooftop dragging it. Complete silliness. She tried in vain to get them to return it to us. I think I would have just freaked if she'd been able to get them to understand her. Like all little kids, her pleas caused them to run faster and wilder, climbing higher into the trees. Small wonder Lily and Virginie love the monkeys so.
I was certainly not as cavalier about les singes when we first moved in. My first week here I discovered that the sound of the crying baby had them racing to the burglar bars around the house straining for a closer look. I could walk into the living room from the bedroom and there would be heads poking in, eyes darting around the room. Cowering in terror and shrieking at the top of my lungs were pretty much the order of the day, every day, every time I saw those golden tails pass the window. I didn't even like to be outside for too long because I needed to maintain the perimeter and truthfully, it was exhausting.
We have spent more time in the garden walking, playing, sitting on a blanket or lounging on lawn chairs, as we expect that our time here is soon over and we want to enjoy as much of the lushness before we head off to parts unknown. Never did I say that the landscape of Barbados is not beautiful, or that I didn't appreciate, while not-so-quietly fearing the wildlife and its close proximity. There is beauty here. There are moments that are surely mapped in my psyche, maybe even my heart, that I will draw on later in my life.
But the monkeys, the monkeys, the monkeys. Try as I might, I cannot stop watching them and bugging out every time they come close, which is nearly every day. With them, I am like one of those people who are told to act naturally in front of the camera, but as soon as they see the camera they are as stiff and unnatural as can be. I see the monkeys and I am called to attention and watch them until they hop over the wall, climb over the fence, or swing from one tree to another off property.
More than likely, when we leave Barbados, we will leave the girls' swing set behind as it is expensive to ship back and not really fabulous enough not to be replaceable. I think the monkeys will appreciate my parting gift. It will be theirs to use freely and frequently until the next tenants come along and decide how they would like to proceed with monkeys in the garden. I wonder if they will miss me as much as I will (probably) miss them.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
(Last two photos were taken at my friend Wendy's house. She gets lots of monkeys as the cabdrivers hoping to impress tourists with the sight of the monkeys, feed them rather close to her home.)
I've never once considered the rope when watching the game of tug of war. If it is strong enough, it will withstand the pulling and tugging and tearing by the two contested teams and should it not be, it will fray or fall completely apart, snapping in the middle. I have always enjoyed the physics of watching evenly matched teams redistribute their weight and have one team, somehow find more strength, a better position. And win.
Except that now I consider the rope, as the rope is me. I have worked so hard to have both girls see how special they are in my eyes. When one gets a hug, the other does too. I divide snacks evenly and do not offer one if I do not have another for the other. I encourage them both to see the talent, intelligence, beauty, skill, you name it, of the other and make sure that we all applaud achievement, good manners, and politeness. Yet, Lily and Virginie will go to blows over who gets more attention, affection, and the unspoken, love, from Mommy. I say it over and over, "Mommy has love for everyone" and "Mommy loves her two girls so much." But let one of them do more drawing on the dry erase board or one more dive in the pool or stand on the step stool to watch Mommy make toast and all my talk becomes chatter. The pulling starts.
It's strangely humbling when trying to raise children, to find that they are indeed their own individuals and while our job may be to guide them, we can never change their behavior, reactions, what they show is all their own to the core. Virginie is not even 20 months old and whenever Lily even dreams of creeping closer to me, her hawk eye spots it and she shouts, "Move! Move Mimi!" Lily will wake in the middle of the night and whisper, "Mommy, I want you to be in the bed with me. Don't sleep next to Virginie." Even if, miraculously, I am not even in the room with them! They do also tell each other "Good job" and "Yay" and all those encouraging expressions, but there is a lot of "look at me, look at me" in my daily routine.
Some mornings I take Virginie to her swimming lessons and support her as she swims and breathes all across the pool and turn around and do the same thing for Lily hours later in the afternoon. With my minimal driving, I still manage to get them both to these lessons and give them all I have. I have started my "soccer/cheer/dance mom" duties early. On the drive back, the girls inevitably ask me to do something that is nearly impossible. Open a bag of chips. Take something out of the bag in the seat behind me. Pick up Virginie's ear, nose and toe paper from the floor. Never have they asked their father to do anything while driving other than to turn the music up. But they imagine that Mommy is capable, or at least foolish enough to attempt all requests.
I am not sure if the tugging works my nerves more than the following. Both Lily and Virginie follow on my heels wherever I go, even if they had been playing or doing something they love. Once they realize that I have gotten out of their sights, they hightail it. Lily in particular drives me mental on this one, as she also has that character down, the little dog who nips at the feet of the bulldog saying, "Yeah, Spike. You are the best, Spike. No one like you, Spike," much to the consternation of Spike. I am Spike.
With all the responsibilities at home for dinner and bedtime prep, come many opportunities to give one of the girls more attention than the other. One more floret of broccoli, the better washcloth, more juice, one more hug, kiss, glance. I am so conscious and attentive to my own behavior with each of them, that by the time the day is over, I am spent. It would seem that after the girls have fallen asleep I could get a break, but then Didier comes home with his needs and demands. Pull.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
I know some of us like to forget this era as not too many were looking as good as we do now, but when Michael Jackson's Thriller came out, that long jheri curl look rocked by Miss Nola Ray as the object of MJ's affection was quite an inspiring 'do for the young black ladies watching videos late night in the rec room. My mother booked appointments for my sister and me at a Beauty School where we were to have our tired, French braided kid styles transformed into the glow of Nola's shiny long curls. I probably should have realized we were headed for a different kind of curve when those tiny rollers came out, but my young heart was set on the hotness and I was sure, as I'd brought the picture for reference, that they got the vibe I was going for. Maybe it wouldn't be exact, but it would be fresh.
My first glance in the mirror and I knew we hadn't made it. I bore no resemblance to Nola Ray or any love interest of anyone, certainly not Michael Jackson in Thriller. I looked more like Jermaine or some other lesser Jackson. My bad skin and braces were not helping the situation much either and I vowed never to be seen again in public. There was the unfortunate issue of having to attend school for the next few years and the fact that my mother did not sympathize with me in the least. A full weekend of non-stop crying ensued and then Monday morning. I wore a headband and didn't take it off for the next three years. No really. If you can find the photos you will see this is true.
From that moment forward, I wore my hair short. I'd never dreamed I could be a long hair person. The jheri curl gave way to a Denise Huxtable faux punk rock spiked look, then shaved (my dad really loved that one), and then a natural. I kept it short, neat, cool, relaxed.
Now in Barbados, for the first time in 35 years, I find my hair nearing shoulder length and see photos of myself where I am hardly recognizable to myself. This is no easy feat, as any black woman can tell you, as the humidity, salt water, chlorinated pool water, and sun wreak havoc on our hair. But my other alternative is to have to maintain that short look which turns out not to have been so natural. There is lots of conditioning. Wearing leave-ins for days at a time and hot oil treatments. I have thought about cornrows or braids or something kind of "island style." Not me. When I do occasionally blow it out to remind my husband that I was once totally hot, I take the blowdryer out on the patio so as not to get heat trapped in the house. Seriously. My hair has been lightened by the sun and a little squeeze of lime juice in the hair. You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but you can't take Jersey out of the girl. Word.
Here, as in countless locales around the world where reputable and underground salons house women and men who can work some magic with Black hair, I have chosen not to submit. I do not want to be a slave to the salon. Afraid of getting my hair wet, sweating it out, or having my "kitchen" look raggedy. I wear a ponytail or a bun everyday because to wear it down is to sweat and itch more than I can bear. Seems silly to keep it longer and yet it works. I told Didier I would cut it when we moved away from Barbados. Get a style and get back into style, fashion, character. But for now, all this hair signifies my walk off the beaten path, a journey into myself. I am out of the loop. Lost in the jungle. Thick hair growing around my head. Dare I admit, I kind of like it?
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
Two years ago, on an unbelievably rainy morning in New York City, Didier and I, who had secured a marriage license from City Hall one week earlier, trekked down to the Justice of the Peace and got married. We left Lily at home with a sitter, as far as she was concerned we were already married. We'd asked a few friends to meet us, to bear witness, to show support, but we knew we'd celebrate in grander fashion a few weeks later at Didier's best friend's home. I wore a ruffled silk shirt that Didier's mother, Paulette, had given me one Christmas and brown DKNY corduroy pants. They were the only thing that fit me. I was 5 months pregnant. With our second child.
With our friend Dan, whom we both love more than we are even able to admit, we'd gone to the Diamond District and picked out our wedding bands, his a simple platinum, mine simple as well but with a few diamonds interspersed. We'd forgone an engagement ring, joking that our commitment was pretty secure and that Lily, our first, served as our promise ring. That was not really enough for my parents who could barely contain their frustration at my continuing to bear children without sealing the deal on paper. It isn't that we weren't going to marry, but that there was no rush and he'd been married before.
I am not sure why there was no rush on my part. He'd been previously married to a shrew and I think was relieved that I could take it or leave it. I'd hoped to be his wife, but was not really interested in the show. I'm an actress, so I love a good performance, but in matters of the heart and of the spirit, I am often timid to share my true feelings. I couldn't see having lots of colleagues and family members, many of whom had never seen even a glimpse of my heart, come together to celebrate this moment with me and someone that I loved, at the time and now, fights over children and household chores not withstanding, more than anyone I had ever loved in my life up until that point (well, except for Lily). I could hardly articulate it and was often brought to blustery tears as I tried to express my sense of "us" and what we would be to one another. We were already a family with Lily and making it official at that time just suddenly made sense.
There were no traditional vows. I did not say "for better or for worse, in sickness and in health." There was no promise from anyone to obey the other as that certainly could not be fulfilled on any end. But there was love and there was hope and living in New York City and having survived his miserable separation and divorce, we were sure we could weather any storm. And then came Barbados.
With a new baby and two relocations--first to Florida, then to Barbados, we were off to a rocky start. When I arrived and Didier was working ten to twelve hours a day while I stayed at home adjusting to the heat and cultural changes, slowly going mad, I questioned everything. I imagine, if we are truthful, everyone has doubts about their ability to make sacrifices and changes and really make the commitment in marriage. Unless, of course, they are on TV, and it is all pretty easy, Maybe it is just me, but I had serious doubts. Two small kids, one a newborn. A busy husband. A country I could not connect to and did not want to live in. We'd only been married one year. I haven't had the best of luck in relationships. Maybe I really wasn't good at it. I just couldn't see myself hanging on all "real, real housewife style."
But that, that is marriage. And I did hang in there. And I tried to open my heart and myself to the place that we were going to call home for two years. And I stopped blaming him for making me come here. The girls started to grow up and my postpartum depression, which took me down for the count pretty much every single day started to subside some time after the baby turned 15 months. Neither of the girls want me to get any sleep still, but in general, things are looking up. It's hard because I have often not been the greatest team player, having been alone for so long and liking solitude. But I love my family. This is the best team I ever imagined and while I complain about how they are trying to take me down daily, I could not trade them. Any of them.
Today Didier and I spent a wonderful afternoon at the Colony Club on the West Coast having what I think is one of the best brunches on the island. We held hands, drank a cocktail and shared a bottle of wine, while eating to our hearts' content. Our dear landlady watched the girls. Didier and I remembered what it was like when we stole glances, fed each other food and giggled at each others' jokes. We felt like a team, like partners, like lovers, like we knew exactly why we got married.
It was hot as hell yesterday, the actual date of our anniversary. There was no frosty rain or wind to take us back to that moment. But we sat together. Didier. Lily. Virginie. And I. And we celebrated.
Happy Anniversary, my love. Happy Anniversary, family.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
Tonight I gave Lily a pink bracelet with little silver studs entwined as a reward for not throwing up in the car for five days in a row. We have also done stickers and made a rewards chart that is posted on her wall because I want to honor her process in every way that I can. For nearly two weeks, Lily would vomit in the car somewhere en route from our house to her primary school in St.Michael, a thirty minute drive on good days, an eternity on the bad ones. And there had been plenty of bad ones due to a traffic detour set up on the bumpy, semi-paved roads of Bridgetown for the past few weeks.
I did consider car sickness and searched the house frantically for the motion sickness bracelets I wore while pregnant with Virginie who had me spinning like I was on a dingy in the middle of the ocean in a hurricane, but to no avail. I gave her Gravol, a motion-sickness medication before we left for school, but got concerned that she would have to take it indefinitely. Finally, we went to the doctor to have her ears checked because I was sure that either her equilibrium was off, that her not eating enough, or eating too much, or drinking too much citrus on an empty stomach (a glass of OJ), or inner ear damage, was the culprit. But as I kept talking to the doctor I realized that the vomiting episodes happened only in the morning, never in the afternoon. That we never had the problem on weekends or if someone else besides her loving parents was taking her to school. I had thought perhaps I should not go on the school run, as maybe I was the catalyst for the show, Mommy always being the best audience for illness or freak out or loud singing, burping, farting. But she'd begged me to come with her every morning and I liked the idea of the family going together in support of Lily, however she needed it.
Lily was in completely good physical health, but emotionally, mentally, she was feeling down. It seems that, though she loves school, she thought that when she was dropped off, Virginie and I were at home sealing the deal on being best friends in the world and that she, Lily, was being left out completely. When the attention was sent back in her direction, via the no throw up countdown, with the potential for prizes and gifts if all was well played, she stopped. For the last five morning school runs there has been no vomit. No Mommy jumping over her seat to grab the hurl sack and pin it under her neck. No more rides in ratty t-shirts to prevent her uniform from getting stained.
When I gave her the bracelet tonight, wrapped in pink tissue paper and sealed with a sticker, her eyes lit up. She was so excited that I had remembered and honored my promise. As her little fingers peeled back the paper and she saw the bracelet, she smiled so wide and deliciously. A little something special. Just for her. Opened in front of Virginie who exclaimed, "Oh Mimi (the name she calls Lily)!" She wore it to bed and curled her arms around it so as not to lose it and for a brief moment, maybe just even for tonight, Lily felt good and secure. I will keep trying.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
Having grown up in the Northeastern United States (New Jersey and New York) and gone to undergrad and grad school in Boston no less, my expectations for Christmas and anything considered a "winter wonderland" are admittedly high. A "Winter Wonderland" conjures images of snowcapped everything with rolling hills of snow and candy canes with snow on top. Elves walking in the snow to and from Santa's workshop as reindeer practice their flying and landing in the SNOW for their special night, well really their ONLY night out, of the year. With my parents now residing in Florida and having had an occasional, OK, one Christmas, spent in Mexico, I do accept that snow does not have to be present for a wonderland to be created. But that snowless wonderland had better be damned good.
Alas, such was not the case this evening at the "Winter Wonderland" event at the Kensington Oval, a cricket stadium near Bridgetown, where magic and spectacle was to be the order of the evening. My expectations were not high. I hate to admit it, but I had little faith, but wanted Lily and her girlfriends with whom we'd made the journey, to feel the sense of Christmas and joy that I'd had as a kid. While I know it is impossible to compare the presentations of say, the Icecapades or Radio City Music Hall or one of the New York ballet company's Nutcracker, to any cultural event in a developing country, I was trying to remain open and leave my staggering expectations at the door. I did get a little nervous when no alcohol was available for consumption in a country where you can buy a beer or rum and Coke at the fast food joint, but I thought, hey, this is for the kids. I don't need no stinking alcohol! Right.
I cheered for a school choir who got the crowd in the mood with some holiday songs and really got into a steel band called Mosaic who seriously could have been the only act on the docket and it would have been enough for me. When the sun tucked itself in for a long night of sleep, the parade began. We started with a gingerbread house lit up like the best house on the block and a wee Hansel and Gretel walking along side it. Cute. I mean, nothing for me to write home about, but it was quite lovely for the kids. It took a really long time for the golf-cart driven float to make its way around the stadium and I started to wonder if it was just keeping Bajan time or where they just trying to get the crowd excited with a slow crawl. Dora and Diego came next and got the kiddies in the audience on their feet! People were cheering and screaming and running onto the field! Oh, OK, no security then, just an announcement to please return to their seats so that all could enjoy the parade.
Turns out there wasn't too much to the parade. Some characters from Nickelodeon, a black Santa (of course, he can be whatever you want him to be!), some elves and sexy cheerleaders. I said it. Sexy Caribbean cheerleaders at a kids' show. Who even knew there were cheerleaders in Barbados? What the heck do they usually cheer for? Tonight, it was for Santa and Diego. There was a little jumping up and some serious dance hall moves, but all in good fun, right? That's as far as we got. After the shabby little parade, a few musical acts took the stage one by one. Looking, at best, like hopeful recording acts at an industry event, they had even the locals screaming for Santa and trying to boo them off the stage. While I don't condone that sort of behavior (I can't handle American Idol reject shows and ice skaters falling because they have so much faith in themselves, even if we don't.), I could see the point. This was a childrens' show and I didn't see much else for the kids to see.
As we left the stadium, we saw throngs of audience members racing to their cars. Lily was none the wiser. She didn't even know there was more to see and enjoyed the characters in the parade, however paltry the offering. My dear friend Wendy and her family stayed to report that eventually, Dora returned to the stage. Stage. Envision the stage at your primary school sitting in the middle of a football field and that will provide you with the visuals. She sang a couple of songs and Diego dirty danced with a cheerleader. Wendy and family rolled out at about 8:30, nearly 5 hours after we'd arrived. She is a trooper and I thank her for staying so long to prove to me that I must seek my cultural events, if a Christmas Spectacular can be called such, elsewhere.
(I hope to have some pictures soon.) It seems that I psychically knew this would be rubbish and I left my camera at home for the first time in weeks. Apparently, with no lighting on the field, the only way to get a decent photo was if multiple flashes were going off at once. Brilliant.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
So one week after breathing a sigh, however brief, in Florida, we are back in Barbados. Didier's allergies have rendered him, quite literally speechless, Lily continues to vomit in the car ride to school, and Virginie is suffering from some gastrointestinal issue that is truly causing me more stress than it is her. I am doing my best to prep us for the Christmas holiday, buying gifts for school teachers and assistants, for the gardening team, for the pool guy, for the garbage pick up men, for the cleaning lady and her crew, for our landlady and her husband, for Lily's friends and classmates, for Didier's team and Executive Committee, and eventually, for our actual families and close friends. I have 21 days.
We will, as last year, spend the holiday apart. The girls and I will travel again to Florida, yes, for one million dollars (done with the Dr. Evil pinky ponder to the mouth), and Didier will stay to cook, serve, and entertain the spoiled guests at his hotel. He will be so busy that on Christmas morning he will be on the beach at 6 am serving champagne to the hotel patrons while his wife and children open the gifts that Santa was so kind enough to leave with Grandma and Grandpa, in the living room of their home. We will SKYPE him to send our love and well wishes some time in the afternoon and then spend a week with my parents. In their home. Where I will be 17 again. Except this time with two children who are truly loved and adored when they are adorable but who need to go behind Door Number 2 when their childish personalities come out and they become "too much." I am working on centering myself now so when I go left of center, I remember where the middle is and don't bug out of my face too much. If we thought it were at all possible to stay and spend time together, we certainly would. But Didier's job demands too much of his time and attention during busy season and the girls would mourn his absence every hour.
This time of year has always been tough for me. I am a real melancholy baby, even though I am outwardly and quite truthfully at heart, very sunny. I am the light and the dark and this time of year reminds me just how much so. I love the time from Thanksgiving all the way to the new year. There is resolution, hope, promise for the new year. But there is also, the end. A reminder of what has passed and what will no longer be. I think in broad strokes at this time of year, so the minutiae gives way to the grander picture which is good. It doesn't help that my birthday falls right after the new year when most people are getting back into routine and the joys of the holiday season give way to real life.
Real life. At the end of the year means gifts, Christmas plays and shows and pageants, letters to Santa, a decorated tree at home, so Santa has a place to leave more gifts for the girls in Barbados and so that Papa will not feel left out of the spirit. Real life also means, celebrating our anniversary with whispers and quick moments of holding hands and packing. Real life means, carrying gifts bought in Florida and brought to Barbados over Thanksgiving, back to Florida because my brain was too tired to consider leaving them there. Real life means a Christmas alone with the girls and my parents when they should have their father there to celebrate too. Real life means turning 40 and then 41 at home with my parents. Real life means coming back to Barbados in time to get Lily sent off to the next term of school while poor Didier continues to do all he can at an understaffed, under-managed hotel.
But it also means planning, dreaming, starting afresh in my heart and mind. Because a new year brings with it the chance to do something completely different. As the new year starts, I don't write resolutions, but I gain resolve and promise myself to achieve something I thought I couldn't. I do it for myself and for the girls because as they see me do something they know I fear, it will give them the nerve to try it themselves one day. And I do tell them that I am doing something I am a little afraid of. I do share with them that it is scary, difficult, challenging, whatever it might be so that they don't think that I have some sort of superhuman strength. So they can see that I am just a person too and that I am willing to try.
So Didier has taken his allergy meds, though he is still convinced he does not have allergies, and has improved immensely. Lily has been given incentive not to throw up in the car by way of rewards for each time she doesn't, which will lead to a small price after five vomit-free morning car rides. Virginie was given a probiotic and lots of coconut water and liquid and is back on her regular cycle. And Mommy? Well Mommy is trying to tackle that on-line shopping list and wrangle the gifts for all who do so much to support us in our lives here. Mommy is grateful and Mommy is hopeful. And she hopes that in her forty-first year, she will find a way to celebrate with her husband and two beautiful girls together in a place that restores peace and hope to our family.
(c) Copyright 2010. City Mom in the Jungle.
