Still Trying to Learn the Parent Two-Step ...

The country/western two-step, often called the "Texas two-step" or simply the "two-step," is a country/western dance usually danced to country music.

As with other country/western dances, there are different versions of two step. Even the same dance may go by different names depending on the area of the U.S., and even in the particular dance hall. There may be no one "correct" way to do a particular dance.

 From Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia @

Country-Western Two Step

Sometimes the greatest prize for dancing is the sheer enjoyment it brings. 

I've come to believe that parenting isn't that different than dancing really.  Everybody has their own unique style; no two people do it exactly the same.  Some parents just jump onto the dance floor and the moves come naturally.  Some simply have no interest whatsoever.  I think most of us kind of just shuffle at first, but keep on trying to get better at it.  Hopefully the beat kicks in and we all end up a bit more coordinated and graceful by the time the dance is over.

There is a never-ending debate on who's actually getting it right.    The judges will never see eye to eye.  So even though most parents start off trying to learn the basic steps to please the judges, a lot of what comes later ends up being very much an improvised and personal interpretation.  In the end, most people realize that dancing and parenting is not anything they're ever going to get paid or recognized for; you simply have to do it for the sheer love of it and enjoy the simple pleasures it brings.

I'm not a great dancer, but I love to dance.  I'm not a great parent, but I love being a mom.  I don't always get it right.  I fumble a lot.  Sometimes I trip up.  Other times I'm just grooving away, then looking back I realize I was probably completely off-beat.  Even when I'm gliding across the dance floor oblivious to the judges, there is a seed of doubt in my mind that I've missed a beat.

Right now, I'm trying to capture that fluid motion I so appreciate in natural born dancers.  I'm watching Kiddo grow up; it's a new tune for both of us, and we don't yet really get the tempo changes.  We know the mood is changing, but we're not yet really sure how that translates onto the dance floor.  We do know the moves are a lot more complicated.  We know there are a few aerial flips involved, where I actually have to let go of her a bit, and these still require a lot of practice.  We're fumbling a bit. 

The last few weeks, she's been attending a summer sports camp.  She loves the social interaction, and I think she's starting to enjoy the actual "sports" component, but she's facing issues that are new to her.  She's not yet into her groove, and I can't help but think I'm failing as a dance coach. 

The children in her group are all different ages, at all different levels of sporting skill and sportsmanship.  Some are sociable little beings like her, mostly there to make new friends and giggle and have a bit of fun playing dodgeball and swimming.  Others are fully engrossed in the athletics and the activity.  And finally there are a select few natural born competitors, out to prove their prowess both on the floor and off.

It's the latter that are causing the real issue for me as a mom.  I'm really fumbling as I try to figure out how to even step out onto the dance floor.   

You see, Kiddo's been coming home telling me about this particular child who is two years older and "not nice" to her.  Kiddo doesn't get it.  She wants to play with this kid, and can't understand why this kid is constantly pushing her away or ridiculing her.   

I'm so torn.  On the one hand, I tell myself that this is life, and that Kiddo's got to learn to stand up for herself and simply ignore anyone who can't appreciate her.  Better that she get strong now.  So I tell her to play with the friends she's got, stop trying to engage that kid in conversation or play, and simply ignore the kid or anyone else who doesn't treat her right.  I tell myself that teaching her to stand up for herself and to alienate the "bad guys" is responsible parenting on my part.  I tell myself this is how to take to the dance floor like a professional.  I tell myself that she's growing up, she's changing, her world is changing, and she has to find her way.  

Love this song as sung by father-daughter.  Old dance moves aren't that easy to change, but I think it's possible if you try.

But then the novice dancer in me, the kid in me, chimes in.  Whispers in my ear "Is it really about getting the steps right, or is it about feeling the music?"  And that's when I want to burst onto the dance scene with Kiddo.  I fight the urge to bust a move on the 10-year-old bully.  I have to resist challenging her to a dance-off.  Because even though in my mind I could really humiliate her with my amazing mother-daughter dance routine, I think my pre-historic dance moves would probably end up being more of an embarrassment to Kiddo than anything else.

So I stand back; watch Kiddo as she flails her arms at the back of the dodgeball pack, determined to stay away from any incoming balls.  Watch as the other kid tries to goad Kiddo.  Watch Kiddo ignore the kid, just like we talked about.  Watch the other kid poke Kiddo in a further attempt to grab her attention.  Kiddo stands firm, ignoring this kid.  It takes everything to keep me off the dance floor; I have a really good idea where my dancing shoes would lead me, and it's not a good place.  I tell myself this is Kiddo's dance challenge to win or lose.

When the game is over, I walk over to Kiddo.  She's surprised to see I'm still there, but happy.  I tell her I'm proud of her.  Tell her to make sure to let the other kid know not to ever touch her again.  Then I stare the other kid down.

Hard. 

I know what you're thinking.  I'm 43.  The kid is 10.  But I warned you in the beginning: I'm not a great dancer - I'm just trying to get better at it.  I don't know this dance so well, and I'll certainly never be a world-class champion.  But as long as Kiddo never doubts that I'll be there to catch her on that aerial flip, I think we'll do ok.

Some people say this song by Dave Matthews Band is about lovers ... I've always thought about it more as about celebrating the moment and recognizing that change is unavoidable.  It's called Two Step by the way ...

Y'all Come Back Now ...

Nothing prepares you for the loss of a parent.

There is absolutely nothing you can do as a child to steel yourself against the inevitable moment when you realize you have lost the one who whispered soothingly into your ear when you were afraid, the one who kissed booboo's better, the one who taught you how to sing, the one who showed you how to love, the one who introduced you to life and all the world has to offer. There is nothing ...

We know we will lose our parents. There is a law written under the stars that says it must be so. We don't know when, we don't know how, we don't know where. But we know ....

In some cases, we will lose them to death; in others to anger. Drugs or alcohol may have robbed you of a parent, or perhaps they were taken from you before they were ever yours, victims of a desire to remain free, of an inability to truly ever take on the parent role.

In my case, I am losing my father to a veil of forgetfulness, to a quagmire of muddled thoughts and confusion. I am losing him to a spiteful and unforgiving disease of the mind that is slowly robbing him of the knowledge, dignity, independence, skills, and talents he spent a lifetime accumulating.

But I steadfastly refuse to believe it will rob him of his spirit. We're not there yet.

I still refuse to fully accept that he will not come back to us of full body and mind. Even though deep down I know. I know...

I know intellectually that it will come to that if the cancer does not take him from me first.  But my heart banishes the thought.

As I watch him dozing in his lazy boy recliner, I drift back in time, thirty-odd years, to afternoons where we would sit in this exact same way. I was a child, he was at the peak of his career. He would come home exhausted, pop open a beer, sit back in his chair in front of the TV and just doze off. And I would watch him. He seemed so big then; larger than life. I would wait for him to wake up and break into a rendition of Kenny Roger's "Lucille" or other such country tunes of that era. He always woke up smiling.

We were expats. My mom and my dad were pretty much my world. I lived for those moments when he would wake up from his 20-minute snooze, refreshed, and then we'd go into the kitchen where we'd take out some crusted rolls, cucumbers, kalbasa sausage and cheese, and set about making a snack and talking about nothing and everything. There was such wonder in exchange. He was invincible. He could make everything make sense. He could make everything better.

He thought everything I did was so great. He would get me to talk in a British accent, a Texan accent, a French accent. He had never known a 10-year-old who did accents so well. He would listen to me play the organ. Oh, my, wasn't I amazing? Surely I had a gift?  He would watch me practice ballet; how did I ever get to be so good? This mountain of a man made me believe I had it all going on. He helped me believe in myself. He gave me a thousand little gifts; some that were obvious, some that I am discovering now as I struggle to come to terms with this filthy illness. Some that I am sure he will leave behind for me to discover once he is gone.

He never, ever, not once let on that he might not be invincible. Not a single time. Damn him.

As I sit here watching him doze in his lazy boy chair, I think back to earlier this afternoon.  There was a birthday party downstairs. There was music, and old country tunes, and dancing. And I sat next to this big bear of a man and let myself be transported back in time, I was just his little girl again. And I asked him to dance with me. And he tried; it seems we both still don't realize he's not invincible. He was the first to admit defeat. His legs couldn't bear his weight unassisted by his walker. And so we sat back down, and listened wistfully to the old French Canadian songs being sung. Every once in a while, he would remember a few words and sing or hum along. Every once in a while I would feel the tears well up and I would stifle them as quickly as I could.

I let him write on my i-pad to distract him from his inability to dance, and he loves it; like a child discovering a new talent. I watch our roles reverse, as I encourage him in his newfound computer skills, egging him on past his frustration at not getting it right the first time around.

After the party is over, we come back to his room. He is exhausted. He sits down in the lazy boy, has a small glass of wine, spreads a blanket over his knees and falls asleep. And I watch him sleep. He doesn't seem so big anymore. His body and his mind are betraying him. But he is still larger than life. I am still an expat. In a way, so is he, I guess. An expat in his homeland. And this time around, the unknown land is within himself, and there is no fibre optic cable, no Skype to keep us connected across the ocean of disappearing memories.

I continue to live for that moment when he will wake up.

He wakes up and he is hungry. I go to the grocery store on the corner and buy crusted rolls, salami, cheese. And we set about making a snack, talking about everything and nothing, jumping back and forth sporadically across this disjointed time continuum vortex.

And I think everything he does and says is so great. I listen to him explain to me how he is having trouble remembering. How his frontal lobe is affected, and how this makes distant memories seem recent, and recent memories seem distant, or even inexistent. For a while, he is so very aware of his shortcomings. So very insightful. I think he is amazing. Surely there has never been a victim of Alzheimer's so brilliantly aware of his circumstances?

And we eat and talk about nothing and everything. After a while, the same questions come up over and over again. I give the same answers over and over. Where do I live? Do I work? Do I know that beautiful kiddo staring down at us from a picture hung on his wall? Yes, I explain, she is my daughter. Ah, yes, he remembers ....? "But did I adopt her?" No, she is mine. He remembers I was told I couldn't have kids but he doesn't remember that some divine force intervened and gave me the gift that is Kiddo.

He remembers that I am married to a good man. But sometimes he forgets that good man's name. He knows that I am only visiting Montreal, but can't remember that I am staying at my sister's. He knows he is full, but can't remember that he had breakfast. He knows he is nauseous but forgets he is getting chemo treatments.

Nighttime comes too quickly. I have to go. He is tired, sitting on the edge of his bed, ready to let sleep have its way with him. He is still big, but he looks so fragile. He is singing an old song, and he is happy; it is a sad song about betrayal, but he remembers every single word. How very 'à propos'. He doesn't want me to go, so he repeats the chorus again ... he's still sound enough of mind to know I would never leave mid-tune.

I fight the urge to say "dance with me, Daddy", I stave off the damn tears. I lean in gently to give him a hug and a kiss. And he says, "You don't have to be afraid to lean on me when you kiss me goodbye ... I would never let you fall."

Still wearing that unshakeable invincibility cloak. Damn him.

He asks me to turn off the lights as I go. I do. I turn to say one last goodbye, and I see him still sitting on the edge of the bed, surrounded by nothing but shadows. It seems his eyes are closed. And as I pull the door shut behind me, I hear his voice - an echo of the boom it used to be - whisper "y'all come back now".

I think he'd be proud. I hold it together, I stay strong. I walk away with the bearing of a woman who believes we are both invincible.

I get to my sister's, lay my head down on the pillow for the night. I think of him sleeping in that faraway place of everything forgotten.

The floodgates open.

The hand that will not let me fall ...

If You Asked Me Today About That Yesterday, One Year Ago ...

I started writing this post at 1:00 a.m. today, just another Wednesday here in Doha.  

May 29, 2013.

I started writing it today because I couldn't bring myself to write it yesterday.

Even today, I had to put it aside.  

I couldn't 'not' write it ...  and yet I couldn't quite 'write' it.  

I felt I had no 'right' to write it.  Maybe because I didn't own the grief.  Yet I shared in the grief.  We all did.  All of us, this nation of expats.​

It's now 11:35 p.m.  And I had to write it.

But please know that I couldn't write it right.  Because the whole story is just too wrong.

If you asked me today what I felt just yesterday, I would answer you this ...​

"Grateful"

• Grateful that I was able to spend the morning shopping for party favors for my daughter's "fake" birthday (since her birthday is mid-July, when all expats and their kids are gone, no one is ever around for the actual 'day', so we're celebrating in May).
• Grateful that my daughter got to spend the afternoon at her "first friend's" birthday party, laughing and dancing, and swimming and eating cake, and just being a seven-year-old.
• Grateful that Smilin' Vic walked through that door after a day's work and that both Kiddo and me were here to hug him tight.
• Grateful that I was able to spend the evening talking and sharing with fellow expat friends.​
  

Grateful because I am one lucky parent and expat.  

But I didn't start writing this post because I was grateful.  

I started writing it because I was

sad, mad, insane, grief-struck, guilty, angry, confused, frustrated, powerless, indignant, fearful, crazy, distrustful, ashamed.

I started writing because I couldn't shake the urge to cry; I started writing because I didn't feel like I was the one with the right to cry.  I started writing because today there was ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE I COULD DO.

Because on that yesterday, just a short year ago, ...

it seems like only yesterday ...

I was at work when I got the news that a fire had broken out at a nearby mall, where my daughter's "first friend's" birthday party was to be held.  The mall was evacuated, all activities were cancelled, but the public was assured that all was well.

Shortly after, the rumors began circulating that all was not well.  

But surely it was all rumor and conjecture ...

My best friend, the "first friend's" mom, was the first to inform me that all was most definitely NOT well.  Lives, not flames, had been extinguished in the fire on that fateful day, that yesterday, one year ago.  Nineteen in all.  Thirteen children among them.  Precious souls, each and every one.

It most certainly couldn't be true.  I hung up the phone on my friend that night.  Told her that we couldn't spread false rumors.  I simply couldn't conceive that what she was saying was true.  We'd been told IT WAS ALL OK!  

And then I checked online.  And misguidedly clicked on a YouTube link.​

And saw an image I will never be able to erase from my mind.  Not if I live to be one thousand years old.  ​

The image of a seven-year-old girl being carried out lifeless.  ​

She could well have been mine.  

If you were an expat parent in Doha prior to May 28, 2012, chances are you had left your child in the play area in that mall where this beautiful, beautiful child drew her last breath.  

You had left them there for a birthday party, or to enjoy a peaceful hour of kid-free shopping, or just because the kids so loved it there.  They loved the soft play area, they loved the staff, they loved the fun and the giggles.  They felt safe there...

That beautiful seven-year-old girl.  She, and all the 'mall' children, and those who stayed with them, and those who tried to save them, are forever engraved in my mind.

On that yesterday, one year ago, too many Doha expat families grieved.  On that yesterday, one year ago, an entire nation of expats grieved.  ​

And yesterday, the grieving continued.  Publicly for some, privately for others, but all of us, without a shadow of a doubt, at some point yesterday, remembered that day, one year ago.  And then, yesterday, we carried on.  

But that yesterday will forever be today.  For the parents, for the loved ones, and for this nation of expats ...  

May 28, 2012

is forever etched in our minds.

Children, spouses, parents, friends and the misguided illusion of safety were taken from us that day, that yesterday, one year ago.  

My heart goes out to all the families and loved ones today.  May you all find the strength today to survive that yesterday, one year ago.

I pray you know that because of that yesterday, one year ago, a nation of expats will forever feel guilty about feeling grateful today.

I pray you know that a nation of expats are with you in spirit, supporting you, struggling to make sure that that yesterday, one year ago, never becomes someone else's tomorrow.​

I pray that you know that we all realize your child could have been our child.  Your children could have been our children.  And as we grieve for you and your loss, we feel horribly, horribly ashamed and guilty that we are grateful that our children were not there on that yesterday, one year ago.  We all know they could well have been.  

I pray that you let us carry the shame and the guilt.  Completely.  Let us at least carry that.  I pray that you relinquish the guilt forever, and leave yourself that space solely to grieve that yesterday, one year ago.​  

That yesterday, one year ago, has become today, tomorrow, and forever for all the families who lost their precious, precious loved ones in that fire at the mall where we all left our smiling, happy children.

I pray I have not hurt or offended with this post.  But I'm allowing myself to be grateful today, and I'm accepting that I feel ashamed about it.  I'm ​allowing myself to grieve today, for that yesterday, one year ago, and I'm accepting that I feel guilty about it.  Because I don't really have the right to grieve, do I?  Or do I?

The fact remains that if you ask me today about that yesterday, one year ago, all I can say is this ...

"I grieve..."

​N.B.  The words below are not mine, but I thought they conveyed really well the thoughts shared by many fellow expats yesterday.  We cannot forget, and every day we are reminded.  Please know that we remember.  The words were retrieved at http://www.memorieshonored.com/?page=non-denominationalprayers

We Remember You

At the rising of the sun, and its going down,
we remember you.
At the blowing of the wind, and in the chill of winter,
we remember you.
At the opening of the buds, and in the rebirth of spring,
we remember you.
At the blueness of the skies, and in the warmth of summer,
we remember you.
At the rustling of the leaves, and in the beauty of autumn,
we remember you.
At the beginning of the year, and when it ends,
we remember you.
As long as we live,  you shall live too will;

for you are now a part of us, as we remember you.

Grey smoke blowing to the song "I Grieve" from the 2002 album "Up".

ASD - Show of Compassion - May 31, 2011

(teachers and parents of the American School of Doha encircle students in a moment of silence for the lives lost and those who lost loved ones in the May 28, 2012 fire)

Under the Dust ... (An Ode to Mothers - Part 1)

Living in the ME, sand and grit are a constant.  You can be assured that a film of dust will immediately replace the one you have just swept, mopped, or wiped away.  It is simply unavoidable.

Maids in the ME spend a good part of every day hosing down the outside of the house, the patio, the outdoor furniture; wiping the kitchen cabinets and countertops; dusting the end tables and curios; whacking and vacuuming sofa cushions and carpets.​

Up until a few weeks ago, I never really got to see the dust, nor appreciate the shine that results from a good spray of furniture polish.​

Then Tita L. (our maid) went on vacation.  

Within 24 hours of her departure I started to really notice the dust.  Within 48 hours I was sneezing uncontrollably.  Within 72 hours I was saving on paper by writing my grocery list in the thick film of dust that covered the dining room table.  ​

​I believe it is on day 4, after mistaking our cat for The Sandman, that I finally succumbed to the lure of the feather duster.  Armed with Windex, Pledge, a few dust rags and steely resolve, I set about the house swiping and wiping, determined to eliminate every single last sand particle from our abode.  I worked tirelessly through the morning hours.  Once I had finished, I sat back to admire the shine.

The house looked great.  Spotless.  I felt enormous satisfaction at having accomplished what I'd set out to do.  I battened down the hatches, sealing all doors, making sure all windows were tightly shut, inspecting the house to make sure not a single gap to the outdoors remained.  

You know what comes next.  

Yup, 'dust'.  

Within 24 hours, a slight film had re-covered every visible surface in the house.  I realized there was simply no escaping the dust.  But this time, I acted quickly.  I didn't let the dust accumulate.  A quick pass through the house, and everything was sparkling again.  I've managed to keep the house relatively dust-free, but it's been a constant and conscious effort.  It's not easy.  I really appreciate the shine these days.  I know it's not that hard to achieve, but I also know it's not that easy to maintain.  It takes work.​

​Today, on Mother's Day, I was struck by the similarity between a dust-free house and a happy family.  

I realized that there have been times, when things are going well, where I forget to appreciate the shine.  I take it for granted.  I let little things slide.  I go about my business assuming that this is just the way life is meant to be.

And then something happens, and "BAM!", out of the blue I realize that I've let things go a little too far.  An accumulation of small little misgivings, a lack of interest or motivation, a moment of frustration or anger untended; and all of a sudden tempers flare, voices are raised, tears are shed, and a major clean-up exercise is in order.  This is usually followed by a true appreciation of the luster of a loving family.  But the overhaul is painful.  

I realized that we have to work hard every day at maintaining the shine.  I realized it when a friend asked me out to coffee.  I told Smilin' Vic I felt guilty about going out to breakfast when I had so many things to do.  And he said "It's your day, why in the world would you feel guilty?  Enjoy."  Such a little thing to say.  But it made my day.  Then he surprised me by popping in to join us for coffee and give me a single rose.  ***Sparkle***.

Kiddo came home from school today with a dozen roses and a Mother's Day card in the shape of a handbag.  The handbag card was a compilation of my Kiddo's impressions of me.  Of the things I like, and the things she likes about me.  Not a single thing in there was extraordinary, other than the fact that I'm eight feet tall!  (I was initially flattered, then realized she also put me down as three feet wide!)   

The point is, what sticks with kiddo is those times when we cook together, when I drop her off at school and pick her up.  For me, it's Kiddo singing a new version of "The Shortcut Song" in the back seat on the way home every day, it's knowing Smilin' Vic likes sharing coffee with me.  For Smilin' Vic, I think it's just coming home to two people who are thrilled to see him at the end of every day.  The simple, everyday things that shine through consistent care and effort.​

Much like dusting, it's sometimes the mundane that makes a family shine.  It is sharing coffee, it is watching Food Network together, it is letting someone know that a very small gesture made a very big difference.​

Relationships get dusty; it's inescapable.  We all fall victim to the dust at one point or another.  But with proper care, with a little bit of attention, with a daily check, it's amazing the shine you can uncover under the dust.  

May all moms out there today enjoy their moment of shine.  

My heart in a handbag ...​

​I admit, the title page freaked me out just a tad ... didn't quite know what sordid tales might lurk within ...

​Interesting dichotomy ... apparently I love Food Network and cooking but can't remember to pack a lunch!?

She likes it when I drop her off and bring her back from school.  It's our special time every day; we make up a new "shortcut song" on the way back home every day as we try to circumvent Doha traffic on the back roads.​

8 feet tall and 3 feet wide.  I like that she didn't actually include my weight!  Bright girl, she'll do well in life  :-)​

I would like to think this picture is drawn to scale ... note the wispy waist.  She did get the cowlick bangs and under-eye circles right!​

He Asked Me to the Dance ...

​There are moments in life that defy re-telling.  Where an image tells a story far greater than words ever could.

I caught one of those moments this evening as my 51-year-old escorted my 7-year-old to her first ever father-daughter dance.​

​A moment, an image, in which I saw a lifetime unfold.  

Moments that defy re-telling ... (Doha, May 3, 2013)​

This picture is so much more than a glimpse into the excitement of attending her first ever dance.​

It is an image of a love repeated throughout a lifetime.  

It is ...

• helping her up the steps that very first time he put her on the school bus.
• steadying her seat when she was learning to ride her bike.
• waiting to catch her as she worked up the nerve to jump into the pool.​
• cheering her on silently, with only prayer and a wave and a smile, as she performed in her first school concert.
• hoisting her onto his shoulders so she'd be closer to the sky to watch the fireworks.
• throwing air punches as she crossed the finish line of her first triathlon.

It is ...

• holding his breath as he waits for her to come home from her first date.
• having nothing to offer but a hug when she experiences her first heartbreak.
• watching her proudly receive her degree.
• giving her away after walking her down the aisle.
• brushing away the tears as he sees her cast that beautiful gaze upon 'the other man in her life'.
• reliving this moment as he holds her first born.
• having her look at him this way again as the curtains draw closed.

"He asked me to go to the dance, Maman."

​My heart is full.