"I don't know...maybe we should have another child."
"Why -- you want to get pregnant?"
Silence.
"Well??"
"Marcus, just because I suggest something you don't want doesn't mean you have to get ridiculous."
"Well, it seems that your being pregnant would be far less stressful than what we went through before."
"Says you! You don't have to carry the baby!"
"SEE? That's half the stress gone already!"
"Mummy, I'm very, very upset."
"You're upset?"
"Yes, I'm very, very angry with you."
"You're angry with me?? What did I do?"
"You are very, very naughty."
"What? What did I do that was so naughty?"
"You smacked the dinosaurs."
"Oh, I did? Well, I'm sorry. They started it, but I'm sorry."
"That was naughty."
"Yes, I know that now. I'm sorry."
"Go to the Naughty Corner!"
"What?"
"I said 'go'!"
In the summer of 2003, having returned to Houston from London, newly-married to an Englishman and firmly entrenched in my career as a corporate attorney, Trinidad seemed very, very far away. Part of me was disturbed by this: while Marcus and I weren't yet ready to have children (that decision didn't happen for another three months or so), I found myself wondering how I would keep my culture alive to our kids if we ever had any. Our lives in America seemed pretty grounded, and if we left, it likely would've been back to the United Kingdom. I didn't think my handful of Trini recipes and calypso CDs were going to go far enough to keep my Trinidadian-ness truly present.
So, I decided (rather irrationally, it could be argued), I had to have a steel drum -- an instrument native to Trinidad & Tobago. Not a fake one, either. It had to be authentic. So that I could teach myself to play.
My poor, long-suffering husband went on a quest to find me a steel drum. Luckily for him, my dad had contacts, and within a few days, Marcus had located a steel drum maker in Trinidad. A few weeks later, just in time for my birthday, a shiny beautiful steel drum arrived on our doorstep in Houston. We assembled it the stand, attached the drum, and displayed it proudly in our living room....
...where it sat for the next 2 years, collecting dust.
Of course, times change, and we found ourselves here in Trinidad. I figured my opportunity to actually learn to play the thing had finally arrived: I quickly found an instructor, and for a few months, took twice-weekly lessons. I began building a repertoire, and now, I can do chromatic scales up and down the thing like blazes. Eventually, hectic travel schedules, frequent out-of-town guests and, most recently, my new job caused the lessons to fall by the wayside; however, every once in a while, I take the drum outside on our veranda and practice, its haunting notes ringing out purely in the evening air. It's also a great way to call Alex -- as soon as she hears its resonant tones, she comes running, and she's drawn to any music that includes a steel drum.
I don't know how long our family will remain here in Trinidad; however, I take such pride in the fact that if we ever move, I'll take my new-found skill with me. And now, more than just being a rather large, shiny tschotschke sitting in the corner of my living room, it's a tangible form of my culture that I hope I can continue to share with Alex.
__________
Back in September 2003, Marcus and I walked into an adoption agency for the first time in our lives, in order to attend an orientation session. The staff were warm, and friendly, and full of information. The group of prospective parents gathered was comprised of about eight white couples, one black couple, and Marcus and me.
At the end of the orientation, the director took some time to meet each of us, couple by couple, individually. When she got to us, she asked the standard sorts of questions you'd expect an adoption agency to ask.
"So," she concluded, "You're an interracial couple, looking to adopt a biracial baby. Do me a favour: go out and buy a car seat now. Because you can't take a baby home from the hospital without a car seat."
"Umm... what?" Marcus and I looked at each other. "You think it'll be that fast?"
"Well, you never know," she smiled. "Just go ahead and do it, okay?"
We took her advice to heart. We immediately bought a car seat ... but hey, we thought, why stop there? So we bought a crib, chest-of-drawers, changing table and rocking chair. Oh, and we moved all the furniture out of the small bedroom that served as our home office, and painted the walls, and the ceiling and put the new baby stuff in. In about a week.
(Incidentally, it bears mentioning that it took 4 more months before we were actually matched with Alex's birthmother, and another 2 months for her to be born. And while, in hindsight, I realize that six months is no time at all to wait for a baby, the truth is that by the time March rolled around, I felt like the Crazy Lady Down The Street With a Full-On Nursery But No Visible Signs of Pregnancy. I'm sure my pacing back and forth on our front porch, muttering madly to myself, "The baby's comin'. Any day now, the baby's comin'," didn't help matters any, either.
But I digress.)
So anyway, once we got all the furniture in the newly-painted room with the bare walls, I realized that we needed to decorate. Okay, obviously we didn't need to decorate, I mean of course the baby wasn't going to really care, but that's half the fun of having a baby, right? The decorating? Which, of course, further helped contribute to my neighbourhood reputation as the Crazy Lady, not to mention my ever-worsening muttering problem...
... where was I?
Oh yes, the decorating. Well, we didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl because we hadn't been matched yet, and our agency didn't allow us to specify gender. So I found myself on my computer, searching online for nursery decor that wasn't too gender specific (i.e., pink or blue) or too neutral (i.e., yellow or green). Hours of surfing led to nothing, until I finally spotted the quilt you see above.
See, both Marcus and I grew up in coastal villages, and as a result, have a strong affinity for the ocean. I think I loved this quilt instantly because it had elements of both the oceans we knew so well: the tropical fish of my Caribbean Sea, and the lighthouses which dot the English coastline where Marcus grew up. Plus, the quilt has an image of a scuba diver -- the only sport for which both Marcus and I share a passion.
I bought it instantly (I wish I could remember the name of the site, but I can't, I'm sorry), and it arrived within a week. I remember hanging it on the wall next to Alex's crib, and feeling overwhelmed at how much our old office now seemed perfect for a baby. Almost three years (and an international move) later, the quilt still hangs over Alex's bed, and Alex (who, you may have noticed, also adores the ocean), loves this quilt. She shares the new things she finds in the fabric almost weekly: "Mummy, LOOK! CORAL!" "Mummy, LOOK! A WHALE!" Right now, it hangs freely off a rod; however in the next year or two I'll probably have it framed behind glass, to protect it. Eventually, I'm sure Alex want it removed from her room ("Mo-o-m! That's for BABIES!"), but hopefully, when she's an adult and moves out, she'll have developed some nostalgia for it, and will want to keep it for her own home.
But for now, it reminds me of those wonderful emotions I felt when we first began anticipating her arrival.
You know, before the crazy set in.
__________
It begins.
If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that when it comes to Halloween, I am of the scarier-the-better ilk. After all, what could be more terrifying than Alex's first Halloween costume, the Killer Bunny from Monty Python and the Holy Grail? And by "scarier," I exclude, of course, her costume of last year, the Homicidal Butterfly -- seriously, what is more frightening?
Nothing, I say. Nothing.
Of course, the pressure to exceed last year's Horror Quotient is damned near unbearable. The situation, however, is seriously worsened by the fact that Alex is now 2-1/2 years old, and thus at an age where her temperament is accompanied by her desire to exercise her Own Free Will. She, therefore, has her own ideas of what she'd like to be for Halloween, and let me tell you, her ideas are rather disappointing, to say the least. She'd rather have something endearing. Can you imagine? "Endearing," for Halloween!
As such, we have currently locked horns as to what her disguise will be for October 31st, the most ghoulish of all days. I have made it very clear what I wish her to be, she's taken an equally hard stand on what she insists her costume entail. Marcus is just trying to avoid us at all costs.
What will happen? Will Karen, as is her right as materfamilias, be victorious? Will Alex, in her limitless cuteness, conquer all? Will Marcus finally give up and move out, in search of, you know, a normal wife?
Stay tuned ... only the Shadow knows for sure.
"TWO LITTLE MONKEYS, JUMPING ON THE BED!"
"Alex, go to sleep."
"ONE FELL OFF AND BUMPED! HER! HEAD!"
"Alex, I'm not playing, GO TO SLEEP."
"MAMA CALLED THE DOCTOR AND THE DOCTOR SAID..."
"Girlie, you're gonna need a doctor if you don't LIE DOWN AND GO TO SLEEP!"
"Sorry Mummy."
__________
Okay, my little kumquats, I'm in need of some advice:
Alex has been pretty well potty trained for about 6 to 8 weeks now. As a matter of fact, even during sleep -- naps and during the night -- she doesn't seem to have any accidents. For about the last 4 weeks or so, she wakes up in the middle of the night if she has to go to the bathroom, and every morning I end up throwing away a perfectly dry Pullup. Same with naptimes.
Apparently, however, I'm one of those mothers that lacks faith in her daughter's abilities, because I can't seem to stop putting her in PullUps every sleeptime. See, I went to law school, and I know that Murphy's Law says that I soon as I let her sleep in panties, All Hell Will Break Loose, and I'll be back again with the Puddles. And yet, Alex hates the PullUps. Every time we get changed for bed, she protests: "No, Mummy! BABIES wear diapers! I'm a big girl now!"
So, my question: how long of a dry period does it take before you feel comfortable getting rid of the PullUps altogether? Should I just suck it up and deal with the bed puddles? Is this a clear indication of my lack of faith in my daughter, which if unattended, will go well into her teenage years, scarring our relationship for life?
Lay it on me.
__________
.... March 3rd, 2004 (just over a minute old) =
... October 5th, 2006 (just over 2-1/2 years old, a mere 31 months later) =
... mind = boggled.
__________
Alex, laughing at breakfast this morning before we left for our flight home.
We're back from Barbados, where we attended our friends' wedding. Barbados is only about a 1/2 hour flight from Trinidad, so it's really sort of sad we haven't visited sooner -- it is a beautiful country. See evidence of its beauty, Sean & Chanelle's wedding and the fun we had here.
But before I go, a story: Ever since Alex has been potty trained, she's been a little disconcerted as to how to relieve herself when we're on the beach, due to (a) the scarcity of public facilities, and (b) the general nastiness of public facilities. And so, like any good mother would, I've been showing her how to go to the water's edge, dip her bum into the small waves, and pee (oh stop, you'd do the same).
On Saturday, while we were at the considerably populated beach in front of our hotel, Alex had to go. I took her to the water, sat her down on her haunches, and she did her thing.
Inspired by her performance, I took her back to her father, and said, "Stay with Daddy. It's Mummy's turn." I returned to the ocean, swam past the breakers, did my business and eventually returned to the shore. When I reached the lounge chairs, Marcus was smiling at me.
"Did you hear your daughter calling you?"
"No, I didn't."
His grin widened.
"While you were out there, your little cherub was screaming loud enough for everyone to hear:
'SQUAT, MUMMY!!! YOU HAVE TO SQUAT!!!'"
__________
Last week I mentioned that Alex had officially begun preschool. I have to say that I'm in love with this school, not just because I think the teachers are well-trained and dedicated, or because they have a wonderful academic reputation, but also because of the general air of warmth and happiness that just seems to ooze out of the walls and the floors and grounds. It's exactly the sort of place that I would've loved to have attended as a child, and it's exactly the sort of place, I think, that matches Alex's exuberant spirit.
One of the other things I love about the school is that they also offer "extra-curricular activities." The school children are, at the oldest, 6, but the school provides classes in karate! And ballet! Last week the school provided lists to sign the kids up, and at a certain time every week, certified teachers from the area come to the school to teach the groups of children various activities. I scanned the lists and quickly signed Alex up for swimming lessons (she'd started taking swimming lessons a few months ago, and I thought it best to continue), and gymnasics, because I thought she'd find it fun.
This Wednesday was Alex's first gymnastics class, and as predicted, it was a resounding success. When I picked her up from school, she couldn't wait to tell me about all the forward rolls and jumping she'd done. "Really?" I said, as excited as she was. The director, who was standing with us, smiled. "Actually, Karen, this is the gymnastics teacher," she said, indicating a young man who was standing to her left. "Nice to meet you," I smiled. "How did she do?"
"She did great," he smiled back. Fantastic, I thought to myself. Enrolling her in gymnastics was a stroke of genius.
Then yesterday, as I dropped Alex off to school, one of the teachers who was at the entrance greeting the kids handed me a folded piece of paper. The school is very big on letting parents know what's going on at the school, so I assumed it was yet another newsletter. I smiled, waved "thanks!" and opened the letter as I was walking to my car.
Dear Parents, the letter began, we need to inform you, especially those of you who have children attending gymnastics, that Mr. Spotless Reputation, the gymnastic teacher, has been accused of child molestation.
I laughed at myself, certain that I had read the words wrong. I read them again.
My grip on the letter tightened as I realized that I'd read the letter correctly. I looked at the teachers, who had their hands full with all the incoming students. I re-folded the letter, and walked quickly to my car. I started the engine (and the air conditioner), read the letter in its entirety. Alleged incident occurred overseas, I read. Will not be allowed back on the premises until further notice. Parent meeting on Monday to discuss further options.
I drove to my local coffeehouse, stunned. Coincidentally, just a few months ago, I had my first no-one-is-allowed-to-touch-you-in-a-way-you-don't-want-to-be-touched-not-even-mummy-or-daddy conversation with Alex. I remember that at the time, I vascillated between trying to keep the conversation light, while simultaneously searching Alex's face for a sign of comprehension, of understanding. Karen, what are you looking for? I asked myself. She's only two. She's not going to get this. It's preposterous you feel you need to even talk to her about this. Nonetheless, I convinced myself it was never to early to start having this conversation, and besides -- it gets me in the habit of talking to her about things like this.
I was just surprised that it turns out I was right.
Once at the coffeehouse, I grabbed my cellphone and spoke to some friends, ones who I knew had children who also attend the school. We exchanged worried questions: what do you know? What do you think? What are you going to do?
Turns out that Mr. Spotless has been teaching gymnastics for a very long time, and is generally highly regarded as a teacher. The alleged incident involved a young teenager at a gymnastics camp overseas. Nonetheless, because of the long-standing business relationship the director of the school has had with Mr. Spotless, she trusts his denials, and felt that all options should be considered (with the children's safety being a paramount consideration, of course), including possibly allowing him to continue teaching, but under the close supervision of two additional adults (one of them being director herself). "The thing is," said one of my friends, "I've watched his classes before. And he's always so careful with the kids -- it seems he was particularly careful about touching them, often opting to simply gesture to them when he wanted them to do something. Who knows what the circumstances surrounding the incident are, but I have to tell you, he's always seemed beyond reproach to me."
I'll be attending the parent meeting on Monday to see what options will be discussed, but after careful consideration, I already know what I'm going to do: if he continues teaching the class, regardless of supervision, I will be pulling Alex from gymnastics. My reasons, actually, have nothing to do with my fear that something will happen to her -- I trust implicitly, with everything that I am, that the school will do their utmost to keep the children safe. It is clear that this is their number one priority (with the parents opinions and wishes being a close second). My reasons for pulling her have to do with the following:
1) Alex is not old enough to clearly articulate to me what's going on if, in the off-chance, something happens - a look, a strange statement , say -- that makes her uncomfortable;
2) Alex has only had one class -- she's really not going to know the difference if she's pulled, unlike other parents who have children with a long-standing passion for the sport. Besides, she's two -- we can always try gymnastics at a later date; and finally,
3) One day, when Alex is much older, the story of her gymnastics teacher having been accused of child molestation is bound to come up. And when that day happens, I don't want to have to look Alex in the eye and explain to her why I let her 2-year-old self continue to be in the presence of someone who was suspected of hurting children.
This last statement is actually 99.9% of the reason why Alex won't be attending if he continues to teach. Because after my obligation to keep her safe, I feel I also have a responsibliity to shoot straight with her. And in my mind, "shooting straight" includes ensuring, when Alex looks back on her life, she knows with all her heart that her parents not only always tried to keep her safe, but also did everything they could to respect her as a person.
I figure, as parents, it's the least we can do.
