Lair of the White Pink Lizard

The white pink lizard inside the house is back and the terror alert level has risen to fluorescent pink, hysteria, run for the hills supreme.  What I am trying to say is, HELP!  THE WHITE PINK LIZARD WITH BLACK BEADY EYES WHO SUSPENDS HIMSELF FROM THE CEILING AND WIGGLES ABOUT IS CAUSING TERROR AND SLEEPLESS NIGHTS IN MY HOME!  I have heard, thank you very much, from the professionals of the animal kingdom, read all my friends here in Barbados, some of whom pick up the toads with their bare hands (Yes, pick up. With BARE hands.) that these delicate creatures are "our friends as they eat mosquitoes and other pests and are more afraid of me than I am of them," blah blah.  Yes, I am aware of how ridiculous the paralyzing fear is and yet, I am afraid, there is very little I can do about it.  I am also not too keen on the Bajan folklore surrounding the sighting of a white lizard in your home which is supposed to foretell of a pregnancy to come.  Uh, no.  BCPs in full effect with support materials.  More babies?  Not from this lady.

Last night after getting the wild and woolly girls down to sleep, I came out to the living room prepared to enjoy a glass of Rose D'Anjou with the computer and the silence, when I heard some strange scratchy, wiggly sound on the ceiling.  I looked up to discover our friend, last seen in my bedroom nights ago, on the living room ceiling in some sort of panic.  He twitched and turned as if responding to my movements and took off down the hallway towards, gasp!, the girls' bedroom.  Luckily, that door was closed so I did not have to go in and perform some sort of rescue mission, which for the sake of my children, I would surely attempt.  I did, however, send my husband a text message.

"Warning.  Just so you know, the white, pink lizard is back and it has gone down the hallway towards the girls' room.  Be advised that when you get home from work, you will have to find it and handle it.  Big kiss.  xxBee"

When my darling husband got home he did look first at me and then at the glass of wine.  I know that gesture.  I know what that means, but no, I had not had one sip prior to sending the urgent SOS.  Not only did I know what I was talking about, but I was indeed of sound mind, save the hysteria from seeing the damned thing, and still had every intention of seeing him carry out his mission.  Poor soul.  In his chef's whites and underwear, Didier walked the hallway and attached rooms but found nothing.  "You know what this means?" I demanded.  "You will have to look for him every night until he is found and returned to the wild."

Sighing, Didier asked if it might be alright if he could have a glass of water and maybe some bread as he had not eaten since the afternoon.  I saw him changing the subject.  And while I offered him a glass of water and apologized for not allowing him a quick snack, I did tell him that I was quite serious.  In spite of the madness, he still loves me.  He took one last look.  No white pink lizard.  Maybe it was grey now.  You know they change colors too.  Whoop.

As with many of the wild animal posts, this one is to be continued.  I am hoping that I get up the nerve to take a photo for the next post, but each time I see one, I just get freaked beyond sanity and envision the thing turning and jumping onto my face as I try to capture its image.  What's funny is that I am not completely a city girl.  I have gone camping and fishing and like going hiking and all that stuff, but the close proximity to the slimy creatures (oh, and the monkeys) is not my bag.  Until that thing gets out of here, I feel like I am trapped in the lair.


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

Finding Strength in Spring Break

I don't think I could create a better test of patience for myself than waiting for my incredibly chatty, nearly 2 year old cherubic/demonic daughter climbing into the car and then into her carseat with the hopes of strapping herself in as I watch the clock knowing I have just 4 minutes to collect my other daughter at her school break/art camp at a facility up the street.  A two week break and I certainly didn't plan well.  I was here in Barbados for the entire thing.  While Didier's mother and brother were here for that first week, certainly I could have run out of the country for some sort of break for the last week. 


Oh, but wait.  It is never a break whether I stay or go, as these two people are mine to care for.  Left here to my own devices, I could enroll Lily is some sort of camp, mind expanding experience that she could enjoy with her friends or other kids and then come home to her own toys in her own room with her sister in the life that she is comfortable and familiar with.  Or I could pack up the two girls and myself, board a plan to somewhere, my parents' house say, go through Customs and Immigration on both sides and a nasty 3 hour and change flight and find myself at some time pushing or pulling one while carrying the other and all the accessories required to travel with children.  Only to have to take care of them in a house that has not been child-proofed and has too many expensive bits and bobs that dazzle the little girl mind.  Hmmm.  So what did I do during my Spring Break?


It was not the worst experience of my life.  I think I improve dramatically with each extended break on my own.  At first, Didier would dread the school holidays and breaks, getting a sense that craziness was about to reveal itself in the face and demeanor of his lovely bride.   Me.  Craziness.  I cannot even deny it.  In the beginning I would be so ambitious, reviewing home projects on the Internet, papier mache, homemade clay, fingerpaints, popsicle stick architecture.  I would plan a swim time, car washing (There is nothing wrong with getting some work done during this time and besides, cleaning the car is a lot of fun, said the taskmaster.), fancy lunches with opened face sandwiches from which the girls would eat only the bread or the cheese, but never together.  I figured we could go for little drives to the store or the playground but then the thought of the unregulated, hardly safe, certainly scorching hot play equipment or faraway parking space at the grocery store left me with visions of 24 hour medical center visitation and I would back off.


This week off, Lily went to ArtSplash (www.artsplashbarbados.com) from 8 until 12:30.  The theme for the week was Alice in Wonderland and they made beautiful work of the Cheshire cat and worked on sandwich boards of playing cards.  Lily made a book called "Lily's Wonderland" with a claymation cover and wonderful watercolors and pen and ink drawings.  She made a little bunny rabbit out of clay and put some of her shells inside and has since asked me hourly if she would be going back.  She loves art making, something that makes her artist parents very excited and proud. 

Though she was gone just 4 1/2 hours each day, Lily returned contemplative, mind blown open with ideas, and enthusiastic about seeing her baby sister who was, as expected, nearly in a state of hysteria on Lily's return.  There would be 6 or 7 more hours to go before Didier's arrival, but somehow I felt able to endure with a morning spent away.  That is, of course, until the hitting or screaming often caused by a lack of sharing began.  Which came first, the chicken or the egg?  Did Lily want the toy Virginie was playing with before Virginie picked it up? or did Virginie pick it up because she knew Lily wanted it?  These are questions for the Oracle.  I do not know.  But I do know that the road to time out was well worn this week with smacks, crying, apologies, rinse and repeat.  In between the visits to the time out guestroom, we ate noodles and pasta, not to be confused with each other, chicken tenders and fries made from scratch and fried up in the fryer, popsicles, popsicles, popsicles.  We played on the swings, camped out in the tents, walked the garden looking for "seeds," who knows what the heck those are, but Lily did find a trove of them.  They've all been replanted.  Let's see what grows, maybe a beanstalk.


There were castles built and knocked down, an occasional review of school vocabulary words, lots of visits with girlfriends also home from school, and lots of lying around naked chatting, singing songs by Lady Gaga, The Waka Waka song from the World Cup, and Virginie's rousing renditions of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, the ABC song, and Baba Black Sheep for anyone on Skype who cared, or did not, to hear them performed.  The days were long, but they went by painlessly, though the evening rituals done alone reminded me of how much I miss company, someone older than five to spend the time with, someone to share my thoughts, to witness the depths of insanity one can sink to trying to persuade, cajole, implore small people to do the smallest of tasks.  But one day followed the next and without too much fanfare we'd made it to the weekend.

We ended our extended school hiatus at a Grand National Horse Race party, where I won some money (or should rephrase, with the addition of Lily and Virginie in my corner, I won something as I never, ever, ever win contests or betting games like that) and where the girls got their full on swim, run in the garden, jump on the trampoline, dress up, face painted good time that "was not anyone's birthday" according to Lily, and Mommy got to have a few glasses of wine and chat with adults. 

Nearly three weeks off of school seems like too much to me, even still, but I am grateful for the relationship that is developing between my girls and me.  I asked God to give me strength about thirty times a day, but many of those times I was giggling.  Sure, this break took me off my program.  There has been little writing, no exercise, hardly any sleep.  But as I shared with the girls, listened to the girls, played with the girls, kissed and cuddled the girls I discovered that loving them, being in love with them and allowing them to love me has given me the strength I called out for. 

Before you gag on all the sweetness and sugar though, please know that Tuesday morning came and I leaped out of bed to waiting ironed uniforms, packed lunches, and cleaned carseats, all the better to get those people back to school quicker.  I love them, but am so ready for my spring break.


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

De France, avec l'amour

If I thought having visitors with a toddler, who cooked, cleaned, watched after my children, rented and drove their own car, did their own laundry and some of ours, and generally took care of themselves while enjoying beautiful Barbados was tough, I could not be prepared for the visit of Didier's mother and brother for their two week stay.  Not since Virginie was a newborn and Lily had begun her struggle as the jealous older sister, have I had so little sleep.  Just when I thought it was not possible for me to have more to do, I am trying to keep up our household with the addition of two adults, one in the Master Bedroom, the other in the guesthouse, who speak primarily/only French all day long.  As is expected, when one's family comes to visit, especially one's Belle-Mere, all details are to be taken care of by the hosts.  Read Didier and me.  Didier is doing all the driving and cooking.  I am doing all the rest.  And all the rest is in addition to the care of Lily and Virginie who have begun a two week break from school and are home for most of the day.

We are six people, four adults and two children, scrambling around the island in one car as a rental car has not been pursued.  We are two different meals (You think the kids want to eat a seafood pasta with calamari, crab, and shrimp?) , lots of dishes and no dishwasher, well other than me or anyone else who might like to volunteer to get their hands in the murky water.  We are trips to the beach, to all points of interest, to four coasts, to swimming lesson catch ups, and back for nap times.  We are speaking and listening in French, heat rising as semi-cool Barbados "winter" has begun to give way to blazing sunshine and humidity.  We are different parts of a family, but we are indeed family.  And you do for family.

While I am blotto, this has been magical for the girls and, I hope, for Didier's mother.  We dreamed that she and Jean, Didier's father who could not make the trip, would have the kind of time that my parents have often had with the girls.  It is no secret that none of us is getting any younger and at 78 and 81 respectively, Paulette et Jean, Didier's parents, are up there.  They are not in bad health, but not great either and are certainly mentally active, but our living in the Caribbean while they spend their days in France make frequent travel difficult, and time has gone by quickly.  To get to Barbados, Paulette and Didier's older brother had a five hour train ride to Paris, then a 6 to 7 hour flight to Martinique, where they stayed overnight with a friend as there was no suitable hotel for them there, a fifteen minute flight to St. Lucia and finally another fifteen minutes to Barbados.  That's quite a trip for an elderly lady.  Add to that the jetlag and extraordinary humidity and you can imagine how courageous it was for her make the trip for us.

Creating memories can be hard work.  I have been happy to practice my French and see if the Rosetta Stone is really working.  It is.  And even more excited that Lily and Virginie are hearing their father's mother tongue spoken and tuning their ears to it.  In the first days, they began calling me "Maman" because Grandma in French is "Mami" pronounced similarly to "Mommy" and they wanted to be sure that we knew to whom they were speaking and making demands.  Of course, I knew.  But I can say that Virginie demands that it is Mami who gives her her medicine or helps to brush her teeth and Lily asks Mami to do puzzles with her and look at the animals in her drawings.  Maman gets to get up in the middle of the night for water, trips to the potty, and early morning stories or TV watching...as it should be.

We have seen Barbados again from another set of eyes and while I have come to love the picturesque landscape, I have never counted all the flowers or marveled at every bird and vista.  But I have pushed my chest out in pride at the girls' swimming, been thankful that the coconut guys came just in time for a performance for Paulette, and that Mr. Arthur, the pool maintenance guy is such a great character.  All of this and the love from les petites has given Paulette more memories to share, more life to consider, more love to receive.  Even through my tired eyes, I can see the beauty of this. 


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

Inspiration on Facebook

I have a friend on Facebook called Denise.  She was a friend, more like an acquaintance actually, in high school, whom I always liked, but never knew very well.  Before my twentieth high school reunion, I got back in touch with so many friends, classmates, even practical strangers from high school in anticipation of that reunion and the reconnecting was intoxicating.  Whether currently or previously friends, nearly strangers or teammates, buddies, church friends, all of those people went through those developing years directly or peripherally attached to me.  It was such a head trip.  Where once one would walk off in to the sunset never to see or hear from some of these people again, there we all were...on Facebook.  For better or worse, a little better than, certainly older than we once were walking through the hallways of FTHS.


I never thought I would care.  I wanted out so desperately that I raced out of town, never looked back, and my parents' move from town when I was 19 years old, made it easy to forget from where I'd come.  But nostalgia did get the better of me and I was curious.  Though I'd signed on to Facebook at the request/invitation of a former lover, I got attached to it catching up with folks from high school.  And it is here that Denise became my inspiration.

From what I have gathered, she endured a pretty crap marriage and hideous divorce but has emerged like a gorgeous butterfly with two incredibly articulate, artistic, caring, charming young boys, a gaggle of friends and family who love and support her, and a joie de vivre that makes me forget my stuck-in-tar shoes and try to take off into the world.  Every morning.  As she does.  She is a teacher and artist, an incredible photographer, whose posts reveal that she is often to bed late and up before the sun, creating, thinking, dreaming, living.  She works non-stop, writes words to motivate and inspire, sends love in abundance to her friends.  Even when she is sick, she sees the blessings that life has given her and does not wallow.

The photos of her friends and family make me want in on her life.  They beg me to have her in my life somehow, more.  I dream of her taking photos of my life and my family so that we can remember and I can recall that we did live a charmed life and we were beautiful and life was good.  Each morning when I just cannot imagine how I will exercise and write and maybe draw and clean and get the kids to their lessons and endure my suffering on a tropic island (said tongue in cheek), I consider her drive in to work (where there is always traffic and often snow or rain), her really doing it alone, her finding the silver lining, her patience, her love, her commitment , her spirit and think, you need to count your blessings, fool.  Seize it, live it, love it.  Crazy kids, wacky French husband and all.  This is life. 

In the unlikeliest places, one can find inspiration.  One can see the signs.  Now that is not to say that I don't have any complaints in me or that overnight I have become Mary Sunshine.  That things don't somehow wear me down.  That a bad night of sleep cannot leave me groggy and bitchy and tired.  But I can learn and I am learning.  We have teachers all around us if we choose to see them.  And on this monstrously addictive social foolishness called Facebook, I have been inspired.  Thanks, Denise.  I look forward to your next post.


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

Let the games begin

Sports Day at St. Gabriel's is a real affair. The Infants' Department, which comprises the younger classes, aged 4-7 years at St. Gabriel's School, held their Sports Day last Friday on a sunny, soon to be devastatingly scorching morning, on the campus of the school.  The children had been practicing for weeks for a few events--the sack race, balancing (a beanbag on a paddle), a running race, and a hula hoop jumping for the wee ones and jumprope running for the "older" kids.  The day is an opportunity for the kids to show their parents, families, and friends their physical prowess and be celebrated for their achievements.  There was a food canteen with fishcakes, rotis, doubles, pizza, sodas, chips, and other goodies run by the school's PTA, as fascist an operation as any in the States.  At every event in Barbados one can find fishcakes and rotis, in the same way that one can find hamburgers and hot dogs in the States.  We'd brought our visiting friends along, so it was nice for them to experience a Bajan/West Indian school event, so like the States and also quite different.


Lily loves physical activity, but her competitive streak runs mostly in the passive-aggressive vein.  She does not defend herself outright and more enjoys games where one is able to run around and be crazy but no one wins or loses.  (I am not sure from where she gets this as Didier and I will compete with anyone for anything it seems.  Didier is sure he is racing some Grand Prix at every trip in the car and I will try anything to see if I am good at it and the only way to tell is to beat someone at it.  I know, petty as hell, but at least I speak the truth.)  All that said, during the trials, Lily was winning quite a lot of heats.  I did not hear this from Lily as she truly is unphased by it, but her teacher and some of her classmates told me that she is quite a little athlete and wins all the races. 

On that day, it was not meant to be for Lily in all races, but as every child was rewarded just for participating, first with a green ribbon if they did not place and finally with a beautiful medal in a closing ceremony that ended with both fathers' and mothers' races, everyone felt like a winner.  The day went from 8:30 am until promptly at 12 noon.  I wondered at first, how and why with all those children were we really going to finish at noon and then the sun began to turn and reduced shadows and shade to a memory.  It was the heat that would end this day and a burning hot sun overhead shining laser beams down on our heads. 

Both Didier and I participated in the parents' races to show Lily that even though we did not think we would win, we still enjoyed participating in sport.  And with parents ten to twenty years younger than us, we certainly did not win.  She was so happy to see us laughing and smiling and running.  With Virginie spending the morning at Blossoms Nursery School, she had us all to herself.  She was proud.  And so were we.

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

It takes a village

While my friends were visiting I found it nearly impossible to sit down and write.  Wanting to talk and catch up, swim, sit in the sun, and eat and drink were major deterrents as well as the addition of one more child, one more toddler exactly, to the mix.  My two girls have proven a challenge for me on a regular basis with the constant competition for my attention, for favorite toys, books, costumes, the need to watch Strawberry Shortcake's Glimmerberry Ball ad nausaeum at top volume, the admission of all toys into play in all rooms of the house at once followed by total abandonment of said toys, along with the usual care giving.  Add a new toddler, a little boy, and all bets were off. 


Chaos reigned almost immediately.  Virginie and her companion got to working on tearing each other up at each moment.  He claiming everything and I mean EVERYTHING as "Mine!"  My water.  My room.  My toys.  My Momma.  Whatever.  And Virginie working on cutting his little behind down to size with a lot of No's, Don't do it's, and Not Nice's.  You guessed it, love at first sight.  Lily, feeling a bit left out, got to loving on this little boy like no one else and he, feeling the love, gave it back to her.  Lots of hugging and shout outs, sharing, singing.  Love triangle on a tiny scale.  Because Didier's mother and brother are coming next week, he was not able to take off too much time to be with us, so many nights we were fending for ourselves.  It was during this time that I realized what I have been missing all my life, OK, all my life with children.  A village.  As in, it takes a village to raise a child.


A community of people, women, to help me tend to my children and my household and the opportunity to do the same.  Sharing tasks and responsibilities that allow the kids to be together, learn, grow, fight or nearly kill each other, and the adults can prepare dinner, do dishes, laundry, tend to shower time and other night rituals.  Together.  It has been well reported how tiring and maddening all this has been for me, alone in the house night after night, pleading with the children to do the right thing and eat, brush teeth, shower and go to bed with not too much fanfare or crazy childish outbursts (imagine that, crazy mommy).  With others in the house, or at least on site, I could tend to Virginie while someone else did vocabulary words with Lily.  Wash bodies and leave them for a bedtime story read to the group of children.  Eat dinner, DINNER, sitting down at a table and share, participate in adult conversations.  Even go out without the children or the husband!  I have missed this.


It doesn't always happen when guests with children visit that we are able to sync our schedules, our programs, or our needs seamlessly, but as Virginie and her pal are just months apart, nap time, feeding schedules, play, and bed times fall at similar times.  My friends were not hard pressed to do everything possible in Barbados and keep their boy up for all hours of the night.  They still got in a bit of surfing, visits to cool tourist destinations, beach visits, swimming with the turtles, and other activities but as the sun began to set and the needs of the children came to the fore, they were there.  We were on the same page. 

Getting back talk, having my lovingly prepared dinners handed back to me untouched, screaming matches over hair combing, demands for popsicles, chocolates, ice cream, anything contraband before dinner or before bed were all made easier in the presence of and with the support of others.  A tiny village on the West Coast of Barbados where even watching the monkeys is not so bad.  OK, not so much, but they certainly are cute when viewed with good friends.  When one came charging at us, possible to take a closer look or maybe to scratch my face off, my friend stepped in front of me.  When she and her son played cautiously at the edge of the pool, I encouraged her to let him leap to her arms, knowing she would certainly catch him and that he would be thrilled.  Her partner took Lily to the sea to collect sea glass and talk about the tides.  Lily felt special and appreciated.  Honored just for being herself. 

A village.  Working together, finding the best in each other and letting each rise to his or her talent.  The kids cannot help but feel loved and cared for.  The parents too.  There was never a moment that any child was out of the sight or company of a loving adult.  In this idyllic setting, being with the girls, raising them, loving them, teaching them was so much better than doing it alone, waiting for my man to come home.  Sure, it was a dream, just two weeks out of my life, but I hope that wherever life takes us, we find community.  A village in which to raise our children.

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

The Visitors

We have two very good friends and their son visiting us for two weeks.  I brought them to a favorite happy hour spot on Friday to meet some of the "gang" as all of us in said gang have done whenever someone is visiting.  Having people visit us in Barbados is like showing our true faces, who we really are, something many here seem to be hiding.  Here, we are something else, like holograms on Fantasy Island.  There are not often moments where we sit in truth and really show ourselves.  It's sun and sea and happy hours, PTA and teacher meetings, work personas and playdate smiles.  I suppose one could be whomever one wanted to be here, abandoning the lives they'd come from and starring in a new role developed especially for expatriate, island living.  Because we are transient, I don't feel like I will be here long enough to share myself, and visitors from home are proof of who I once was and might still be, to myself as much as to my friends and acquaintances here.


It is not just me, but I can admit it.  I can see it on the faces of the friends and family who visit as they try to figure out some of the relationships developed here, showing on their faces that they never would have seen this match up or that friendship.  Wondering what a nice girl like that is doing in a place like this.  I am and have always been a tough nut to crack, so I am not implying that I am or have been insincere here, but at 41, my resume is now long, much longer than the recommended one page and I have not provided many of the smaller details or fine print.  For many, I have been written more in broad strokes or dramatic flourishes.  With the arrival of my girlfriend and her family, the little things, the moments that have shaped me come flooding back to me and I am comforted by the knowledge that someone close to me knows me.


When we first moved here I invited everyone, EVERYONE, I knew to come and visit, in the hopes that keeping my people close would keep me in touch with me.  I was identifying entirely with where I was from, something New Yorkers definitely do, and trying to live in Barbados like I was on an extended vacation.  And then people didn't come.  Sure, some did, but many said they would try and I believe they tried, but they couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't be able to make the trip and I found myself further and further isolated from all that I'd had to define myself.  I have made friends and lost friends during this leg of the journey, come closer to many who came to my aid whether physically visiting Barbados or writing, chatting, Skyping and lost some too scared, tired, or bored with my struggle to define and defend myself in my new existence.  This has been a unique opportunity for me and my family, but when I consider my own spiritual journey, it has been a true awakening.

Discovering who I am when not defined by the place or the people around me, not by the work or the clothes or the neighborhood in which I live, has been eye opening.  I have reached out and reached out in despair really, especially in the beginning.  Called my parents more than ever, Skyped with them under the pretense of letting them see the girls as they were rarely interested in me without the girlies, set up a Skype number with a NYC cellphone exchange to make it easier for people to call me without charges, emailed and Facebooked like a maniac, sharing pictures and anecdotes and impressions.  I was not just feeling lonely.  I was alone.  A-lone.  Alone with one's self as the only company can be a tough place to be.  I know it was for me.  Craving a break from the constant demands of the girls and taking care of the home, I'd begged for some time by myself and then I was overwhelmed by the silence of being alone.  Of the sudden awareness that even with all my friends, even with family, contacts, schedules, and events, I, all of us really, just have ourselves.  Nearly two years here in Barbados have shown me a lot about how I have presented myself, how my history has shaped me, how I have navigated the world and how I hope to once I leave here.

It really is a shame that more people did not come to stay with us as the house, the garden, the beaches, the surfing, the landscape, and being able to experience them with a "local" perspective rather than as a tourist tied to hotel or travel agency suggestions, rental cars, and meal tickets, offer an opportunity not to be missed in any country.  Those who did make the trip, save one, have grown closer to us while having an amazing experience in a country they may never have considered exploring.  As for me, I will try next time, if there ever is a next time, when living abroad, not to be a stranger in a strange land, a visitor, but to free myself of my definitions and live, live, live wherever I am.  I have done much to improve my lot here in Barbados, but the original feeling I had when I arrived is still there.

My friends have another week left and we hope to fill it with a swim with the turtles, small trips around the island, a visit to Lily's school, a possible surfing lesson, maybe some golf (well, for one of us who is most definitely not me).  We have gone to different beaches.  They've tried rotis, gone hunting for sea glass, sat out talking with the locals on the street, checking out the supermarket, had home visits by our doctor and the amazing coconut guys, and come home to the safety and comfort of our home where we have shared meals, watched the kids play, and sat on the patio talking and laughing into the night.  They have helped me with the girls while Didier was working and done vocabulary words and read stories with Lily, making her so proud to share her new-found skills with new people.  With my visitors, Barbados is so lovely.  The time spent with all of our guests over these two years will create those moments that we will look back on fondly when Barbados is no longer our home.  There is still time.




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