No sudden moves in the jungle

You have to tread lightly and choose your footfalls carefully in the jungle.  The landscape does funny things to your vision.  What you thought you saw clearly in front of you just seconds earlier has receded into the scenery and now, feet from your face, is a monkey eating an unripe mango.  Walking along the footpath you see nothing but pavement until that wily mongoose dashes right past your legs and scurries into a hole you'd never noticed before.  The sea is calm, blue green, inviting, until an incredibly strong current pulls you under and throws you back to the shore, sand in your teeth and corners of your eyes.


I have always felt both at peace and uncomfortable in too much nature.  All that open space is meant to give one a break from the tension and closeness of city-dwelling but can often be just as overwhelming.  Once, in Ibiza with a past love, on a gorgeous boat, floating in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, I realized that I could not see land at all on any side.  The water was so clear I could see all the way to the sea floor and watched schools of fish layer over one another in my view down.  I freaked.  Literally.  I had to get out of the water, slow down the heart rate, regroup.  I just felt so alone suddenly.  Not just alone by myself but "we come into the world alone and we die alone" alone.  The existential crisis was mind blowing and I nearly threw up.  OK, I did throw up.

Now I cannot believe that it is possible that I am having a midlife crisis of sorts.  I am a young 41.  But I often feel  like I am out there in the Mediterranean not seeing any sides as I live my day to day these days.  Nothing to grab on to.  What the heck am I doing here?  Here AND here.  Part of why being in Barbados is all wrong for me is that I still feel like there is something else for me to do in the world, something to contribute and I for damned sure am not going to be doing it here.  I would rather be the tiniest fish in the hugest pond, trying my best to get to the top of the food chain than a medium sized fish in a teeny tiny fish bowl where one just can't breathe.  I do find myself holding my breathe sometimes as I anticipate the monkey in the tree, the lizard on the other side of the opening window shutter, the sudden stop of traffic to allow the front car driver's fantasy woman to cross the street bringing everything to a halt.  It feels like at every turn there could be something and the somethings are not good.

The other day I ran out to open the front gate for the pest control service and nearly fell into passionate embrace with four monkeys swinging from the mango tree eating unripe fruit.  I didn't want to act a complete idiot in front of the locals, you know, I can handle the monkeys if they can, but my heart was beating out of my chest and I feared that the panic of leaving Virginie at the front door a few yards away was scribbled all over my ever increasingly lined brow.  I shouldn't have run.  No sudden moves.

I realize now why everyone moves so slowly here on the island.  One has to keep one's eyes peeled for craziness and monkeys and swishing asses, newspaper and flying fish sales on the side of the road, crazy bad drivers.  Of course there is the heat too.  Put all those ingredients together and it is a wonder that anyone moves at all.  I'm from Manhattan, even eight months pregnant I power walked through Central Park and carried grocery bags from Zabar's to my walk up apartment on the Upper West.  I don't know from standing still. 

I do know about the stealth, Zen-like moves that help one slide into the last subway seat in a sea of moving bodies.  I know how to avoid the complete lunatic on the street who wants to talk with me urgently about whatever is tormenting his poor soul, the young person being paid $10 an hour to canvas my neighborhood for whatever cause might be in favor that month, the ice cream shop, candy vendors, toy stores en route to home at eyesight of the small people.  I can use those skills here.  What I didn't know, but am learning, is that acting on impulse to answer the door, race to the swimming lessons, threatening to leave my husband may cause avoidable damage and suffering.   Whoa.  I need to choose my steps wisely and carefully.  I just might make it out of here alive.

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

Returning from the Black Hole

Going away for the holidays is a lot like going into a black hole.  Time stands still and disappears and there are exciting, terrifying moments that occupy one's every thought and also erase one's mind.  I am back from the Black Hole and I survived it.  T-shirts to be printed in the near future.  I have done this so often that it now feels like no big deal, but the travel was done with a four year old and 20 month old in tow.  It involved airplane travel, a meandering through immigration and customs at the worst airport in the modern universe, Miami International, currency change, car rides, train rides, alternate wardrobes for daily changing seasons, snacks, games, DVDs, and a four year old and 20 month old.  Did I say that already?  I had my carry on bags packed to bursting on my shoulders, pinching my nerves, while pushing Virginie in the stroller and holding Lily's hand AND her carry on which held the portable DVD player, 4 coloring books, crayons, dolls for both girls, snacks, and a change of clothing for each as inevitably one of them has to hold her own juice and sip it from the cocktail straw provided by the flight attendant while also looking out the window and flirting with the person in the seat behind her through the tiny peep slot made between the seats.  Please note that while said bag does have wheels, its handle is too short for me to drag without hunching over like the Grinch marveling at one last piece of Christmas, so I carry that in my hand while pushing the stroller.  It was in that position that I waited for ten minutes on the immigration queue and then wrangled a SmartCart with which to pass through customs and then meet my parents.  That was on the first day.

My parents love the girls very much.  The screaming, squealing, jumping from couch to chair to couch to glass table, not so much.  They love collecting pictures from them and marveling at Lily's sticker books, but care little for marker, even washables, drawn on marble floors and stickers glued and rubbed onto the wall or on their clothes.  The constant walking inside, outside, inside, outside made them dizzy and the regular strip tease done by both ladies accustomed to complete nudity in Barbados was enough to peel their eyelids back.  I thought it might be a good idea to visit with my sister and her kids in Atlanta for a bit to give a reprieve to all.  Good idea.  One for Mommy.

While it was much cooler in Atlanta than in Florida, cooler actually than Virginie had ever experienced in her little life, we felt warmed immediately with Auntie Shayboo.  My sister is all black momma love.  Hugs and sugar and kisses and she just knows exactly what the kids want even before they do.  Don't get me wrong, she is as Fancy Nancy as I am, that is Fancy Nancy talk for "bougie" (look it up), but she is kind to babies and old people and strangers and talks to people that she doesn't know about herself and themselves and makes them feel good.  She is all rounded, smoothed out curves to my straight lines and I am not talking about what we look like, I am talking about how she feels.  I love from far away and she loves right up close.  Sure it can drive me batty out of my mind, but she is my sister.  She is supposed to do that.

We stayed for three days and visited with some family, auntie, uncle, cousins, cousins' children and replenished our souls and our hearts.  My Aunt Hallie, from whom my sister must have gotten some of her open heartedness, was a hit with the girls and her kindness, her genuine caring for me and my family was startling.  I forget sometimes how pure love can energize.  She and my Uncle G took those little girls into a room adjacent to their room where they store toys and games for their grands and played their hearts out.  I can see that playing and looking at things through a child's eyes can keep one young, at least at heart, and these two people have got that down.  They also look great too.

I returned to my parents' house still tired but rejuvenated in spirit to celebrate the new year at my mother's annual New Year's Day fete.  A catered affair with a guest list of impressive friends and relatives all doing their thing--doctors, lawyers, educators, real estate agents, executives, world travelers, thinkers, all brought down by the cuteness that is Lily and Virginie.  The girls were on their best behavior and while they are still young, I am glad for them to see people living their dreams having found their way there through education, hard work, drive, and chutzpah.  I want the girls to dream big.

After every New Year's Day comes the day where I dream and hope for my new year.  My birthday.  While I have always been asked if it seemed like a curse to have my birthday after all the year end and new year celebrations, for me, the proximity to the new year has always been magic for me.  I always knew I could start over, rewrite my story and the calendar and the universe supported it.  We returned to Barbados on the evening of my birthday, delayed by two insanely unruly passengers, but on an otherwise uneventful flight.  The two weeks gone felt like a lifetime and the immersion back into life in Barbados has been challenging.

In the rewrite, we are in place where we belong. that feels like home.  Where we love each other as we did before we got here.  My cousin, Nira, who left for Cali, Colombia a year before we came to Barbados has found a spiritual home in the place.  She loves the people, the culture.  The friends she has made are mates for life and she is even considering citizenship. 

Back from the black hole, we find ourselves in another, bigger than the previous one.  I want us to come out together.  There are small wishes.  I want to go through the airport with all of the family present.  With no one left behind.  Because as I try to figure out what the heck just happened to me, Didier, who was not with me, cannot help me and I, who missed the torture of his stay during the holidays, cannot help him.  And after all that space travel it would be a shame if we got in our own capsules and blasted off in different directions.

Definitely to be continued...

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

The Spirit of Christmas

Lily and Virginie woke up to a sea of toys that overwhelmed and confounded them.  We weren't even able to open all the gifts as I thought they, the girls, might actually explode.  Most of the unwrapped gifts are clothes and practical items anyway, so they can check those out in the days ahead.  I was surprised at how difficult it was for me this morning.  I miss Didier.  I miss MY family.  While my parents have been good sports for a week, indulging me in my desires to give the girls a spectacular Christmas and fun week (playground runs, outdoor trike riding sessions, a children's Christmas service at church complete with Nativity scene and choir singing, going to see Santa, and even shopping during the craziness that is the week before Christmas), it is not lost on me that I am alone.  There is no one on whom I can bounce my thoughts and fears and desires.  I am completely responsible for the girls and their needs while also trying to exist as my own human being.  Sometimes I cannot even feel myself anymore.

One of the things that has helped me the most during my time in Barbados, are the friends, and strangers even, who have been able to empathize with me, to support my experience and my feelings about it because they have envisioned themselves in my shoes. They did not explain to me how to make it work. Offer much more miserable situations to consider. Explain how I would be the envy of everyone I knew because I was living in the Caribbean and they were not. Ignore me. They listened and if they visited, they understood. I lost a few friends along the way because of this and I do not feel worse for it. It could be that they do not either.

Lily's teacher has told me that when Lily sees one of her classmates getting in trouble she feels so terribly for them. She can see it in her watery, brown eyes and in the glance of reassurance my four year old child gives her friend once the reprimand is over. She cares and she hurts for people and fictional characters, hence our inability to get through nearly all movies made for kids. Someone is always being left out or scorned or tested. Her poor little heart can't take it. She can feel their pain. 

And that, for me, is one of the lessons of this holiday.  Of course, the birth of Jesus and his resurrection are the cornerstones of Christian faith, Christmas and Easter being the main events, but there is more to get out of this story, if you look for it.  The excitement surrounding the birth of a man who changed the world, touches me in my mother spot.  The innocence, charm, and promise in the energy of a baby, a child gives me hope and makes me consider my own kids.  The respect given to this small person before he was even able to make his name, his mark is what, I believe is due every human being.  It is a celebration of our potential, of our promise.  It was written that the child called Jesus would be the Son of God, but who knows what is written in the stars for each of us?  It may not be biblical, but with love and nurturing there can be greatness.

It is so disappointing to me when, in the name of God or in spite of it, people lose their sense of empathy and consideration of other people.  Especially children.  We are all living our own experience and moments that may not register with some may shape someone else's entire life.  This is why we must be impeccable with our word(Don Miguel Ruiz, Toltec Master, The Four Agreements).  Be careful how we speak to each other.  Think.  Consider what words, side glances, and tone of voice can do to each other.  Especially children.  Empathize. 

My Lily has this down already and for that I am thankful.  But it also hurts to see her little heart break when she doesn't feel loved.  When we went to the children's service on Christmas Eve, the real live baby portraying the baby Jesus was crying his little head off.  Lily said, "I hear a baby crying.  Why is he crying?  I want to see him."  And I could see in her little face, that she would not rest until she knew that baby Jesus was alright.  Maybe we can all learn something here.  Do not rest until we know that everyone is alright.  While it is probably true that none of us will achieve the amazing heights of someone destined to be Light of Lights, Our Lord and Savior, a little compassion, love, and support just might give someone the confidence to reach for their own star and spare them years of self-doubt.

(c) Copyright 2010.  City Mom in the Jungle.

Twas the Night Before Christmas

And it's here!  We have lots to do today.  There are the cookies for Santa that we must bake (or break off, tomato, to-MAH-to), the carrots to leave out for the reindeer, the letter we must write for Santa thanking him for stopping by with his gifts, and putting out the gifts we have brought for others (Grandma and Grandpa).  Soon, Grandma will start baking her ham and maybe even some homemade rolls, and if the girls are good, they will be able to help too. 


I hope to go to an early church service this evening so that Lily can experience the joy and beauty of the Christmas service with the Nativity and candlelight singing.  She is finally old enough to understand it and her sensitive soul will really be moved by the unity, the community. While I am not religious and have been out of a church for years now, I do know that "Jesus is the reason for the season" and want Lily to identify with that, rather than the cashing in via Santa program.  My dear girl whispered to me last night, "Mommy, I don't want a train anymore from Santa.  I just want whatever gifts he wants to bring me."  Love her.


Last night I stayed up wrapping some of the gifts for the girls while my mother wrapped hers and finished her very-last-minute Christmas cards.  Just imagining the girls' faces as some of the gifts are discovered, I got the giggles.  After years of take-it-or-leave-it Christmases, the idea of reliving the magic through the eyes of the wees has me all tickled inside.  I think I might have overdone it with the gifts.  I just couldn't help it.  I want them to feel special, that Santa considered them.  My inner baby girl just wants to be thought of, considered and I would love to head these two off at the pass on that long road called psychotherapy.  I am considering them and want them to know it. 


Twas the night before Christmas and my babies don't know
that Mommy is planning a hell of a show.


I cannot wait to see their little faces.  Merry Christmas, Little people.


(c)  Copyright 2010.  City Mom in the Jungle.

Here nor there

Three days, two nights.  We have been at my parents' house since Monday morning.  As we were meant to wake up at 4:00 am on Monday morning to prep for our trip, Didier and I put the girls to bed at 6:15 pm and enjoyed a quiet evening together saying goodbye.  I hate these times and drank more than my share of a great wine, flirting with and kissing my husband, secretly devastated that the "we" was Lily, Virginie, and me again.  At least for two weeks.  My goodbyes are so teenagery, ridiculously so.  I have always been hopelessly romantic and desperate, but desperate in the "hearts aflutter, I can't breathe without you" kind of way, not the "I am a freak and will do anything for attention" kind of way.  Maybe they are the same, I don't know.  I just know that while trying to make the best of it, the fact that I am away from my husband and have taken my children from their father, no matter how noble the reason, gives me pause.


I am torn.  I had hoped that we would make a go of it and do it together, even if it meant that the kids would spend the holiday in Barbados seeing their father sporadically.  But then I thought, Oh God, spending the holiday in Barbados would depress me to no end and on top of it we would be without Didier?  Two children, both talkative and artistic and creative, are just overwhelming and exhausting at any time.  Add in the spectacle and wonder of Christmas time and I would be crushed could I not provide them with that magic, that joy, that heartwarming spirit. 

Of course I know that there are people for whom this is a common occurrence.  I have such respect for their resolve and their courage--soldiers, single mothers, people who must make the choice to serve the greater community.  How do they endure the looks on the faces of their children as they try to explain where they are going and why?  I just cannot imagine how that tears at the heart.  How do they pretend that being without their loved ones holiday after holiday doesn't phase them, especially as they watch others celebrate and create memories.

So I am ensconced in the residence of my parents' gated community awaiting the blessings of Jesus, the arrival of Santa, and a sprinkling of fairydust that convinces Lily, Virginie, and me that it's possible to enjoy Christmastime without Didier.  Santa has been visited in both Barbados and Florida, so the girls feel secure that he knows the directions to both places.  We will open gifts from Santa, who will be kind enough to leave some gifts with Grandma and Grandpa as well as in Barbados, and some others from my parents here in Florida. The rest will be opened in Barbados when we return.  They will get to have that time with their father, but in January instead of on Christmas morning and their memories will be of the smiles and the tickles and all the cool gifts shared in two places.  For now, they are too young to even remember if we were together on December 25th or January 3rd.  And that is a blessing.


(c)  Copyright 2010.  City Mom in the Jungle.

Monkey Season

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.)

Tug of War

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.