Give Me a Little More Time ...

But what minutes!  Count them by sensation, and not by calendars, and each moment is a day.  

~Benjamin Disraeli

These days, I find myself constantly asking for more time.  More time to spend with my daughter, more time to spend on my husband, more time to spend on work, more vacation time, more down time, more me time, more sleep time, more gym time, more reading time, more family time, more social time ... 

Tonight I'm trying to focus on the time I actually have, the time I actually have had, not the time I wish I could have.  

Because I'm faced with the hard fact that I can't change time.  I can't buy more time.  I can't save time, or stretch it, or bank it.   I have no more, no less time than anyone reading this post.  The passage of time is measured in equal increments for us all.

Time is no different for me than it is for a third grader, for a corporate CEO, for a single mother struggling to hold down a full-time job while bringing up four kids on her own.  I have the exact same number of hours in my day as an Olympic gymnast, a socialite, a refugee, a doctor, a philosopher, ...

But what do I do with the time I have?  My challenge and my struggle tonight is to make sure I transform the time I have into moments.  Time will pass, but the moments remain. 

It's not as easy as flicking a switch and saying I will use my time more wisely.  I am struggling with time tonight; I am thinking about my Dad.  Wishing I had more time to spend with him.  Wishing I knew the right 'time' to go and see him.  Hoping the oncologists he sees this afternoon will tell him he has too much time left and will outlive us all.  Wishing I could buy him more time.  Wishing I could buy us more time.  Wasting my time agonizing over the passage of time.

I know my Dad will not get more time.  But I also know he still has time.  I still have time.  And no matter what the oncologist's prognosis for my Dad, the time he has left will tick by at the same pace as mine.  

Being so far away from him, my head tells me I have to start reflecting now on the moments we've had, and those we can still have, rather than pining for lost time or continuing to wish for more time.  

And we've had such a wonderful time making moments.  Moments over the years filled with laughter, and understanding, and knowing silence, and pride, and excited chatter.  Moments filled with sadness, moments filled with love.  Moments that made memories.  

Time spent enjoying a meal, singing a song, sharing a dance, laughing at a joke.  Time spent mourning the loss of loved ones, time where he consoled me, time where I tried to console him.  All this time spent making moments that will live on forever in me.  

More recently, time spent with him in hospital.  Time spent talking to him and joking with him on the phone.  Time spent just taking in the sight of him over Skype.  Time spent praying for him.  Time saying I love you.  And I know it's not time that has shaped and sustained me over the years, it's the moments.

And now the time has come to face losing him.  And so it's easy to slip into the cycle of praying for time while cursing its passage.  I don't want this time to turn into 'the' moment I know it will inevitably become.

I'm not ready yet, but I never will be.  I will never be prepared for my Dad to die.  So tonight, as I lay my head on the pillow, I know that despite everything I've written above, I will say a prayer, and it will go something like this ...

"All I'm asking for, God, is just a little more time, enough to see him again, enough to say a proper goodbye, enough to share a few more moments, enough to make a few more memories.  I'm still his little girl.  I'm not ready yet.  Please, God, just give me a little more time ..."

Father Daughter Sunset

Those Little Moments that Mean So Much to Me

This is actually copied from a second blog I had started in 2011.  (Gypsy in the Me is my 3rd attempt at getting it right.)

Original post dated April 30, 2011.

So I was bringing my daughter up to bed tonight.  And speaking to her only in French.   She understands so well now.

I asked her if she would be speaking to her Pepere in French when she sees him at Christmas (2011).  And she answered "Je ne sais pas" ("I don't know"), "but I will try".  "And Maman?  Do you think we could bring home those Barbies he has just for me?"

And I had no clue what she was talking about and said so.  So she said "You know Maman, those dollies that he bought and put on the fridge for me, with the clothes and everything.  We could take them off the fridge and bring them home."

OK.  So my daughter is 5.  She last saw her grandfather when she was 4 ... in July 2010.  About 9 months ago.  But she remembers these dollies that he has on his fridge for her.  He actually put them up there in October 2009.  He left them there, and when we came back in '10 he said he'd left them there just for her.  Incredible the things that mean something to a child.  I was amazed that she still remembered this today.  I had completely forgotten.  I told her maybe we should leave the Barbie dollies on the fridge so he could remember her when he saw them.

She answered "He doesn't need them.  I will draw him a picture of me and him, and he can remember me that way.  And it's not from the store.  It's right from me.  And he also has me in his heart.  He doesn't really need anything on his fridge."

She really is his descendant.  She got all the best of her Pepere.  And it is so obvious on days like today.  

I remember visiting him when she was about 2.  And she put her little fingers all over his living room windows.  And I apologized profusely and said I would wipe the smudges up once she was in bed.  And he looked at me and said "Why would you erase them?  They're memories.  I'm so lucky.  I'll get to look at them and see her every single day."  

It was one of those moments.  That just meant so much.

KG memento posted on our fridge door ...

Shame on Me ... (I Forgot to Pay the Maid)

Mortification is nothing new to me.  How is it then, that mortification never ceases to mortify?

Last weekend was a perfect example.

On Friday morning, our lovely, smiling, always pleasant maid (who we refer to as 'Tita L', or 'Auntie L' in Tagalog) says to me, "Madame, is it ok if I can ask you something maybe if you don't mind", covering her giggles coyly with her hand.  I've come to recognize this giggle, this roundabout way of approaching an issue.  It usually ends up introducing some odd touchy subject.  

My defense shields immediately go up; both feet planted firmly on the ground, weight on one hip, palms braced flat against the countertop of the kitchen island between us, my brain processing 30 horrific scenarios a minute of where this conversation might lead (e.g. "Madame, I'm pregnant", "Madame, can you loan my friend some money", "Madame, I shrunk all of Sir's dress pants", "Madame, I spent 1,000 QAR on phone bills last month").

Why I would think these things is anyone's guess.  In the four years she's been with us, Tita L has never done anything even remotely disturbing.  But somehow the cynic in me is always bracing for the worst.

I force a smile to my lips, will it to reach my eyes, and tell her that she never has to ask if she can ask me something.  "Ask away", I say.  And she drops the bomb.

"Madame, if it's okay with you, maybe can I get my salary for last month?"

MORTIFIED.  MORTIFIED.  I am MMOORRTTIIFFIIEEDD ........ It is now 9 days past her pay day.

I stand there wide-eyed.  Immediately shift the blame to her (I know, I want to hit me too) ... "Tita L, why did you wait so long to remind me?  I completely forgot.  Oh, gosh, Smilin' Vic, we forgot to pay Tita L."  

Tita L is still smiling.  "No problem, Madame, I just ask because my daughter's tuition, she is starting the semester, it's ok Madame if you don't have it now.  I'm just asking.  It's ok."  My shame is compounded with every word she utters.  I wish I had a valid excuse.  I don't.  It doesn't feel like I've forgotten something, it feels like I've neglected to remember.

Smilin' Vic walks into the kitchen.  He says to her "Tita L., you have to tell us these things when we forget."  (I know, I wanted to sock it to him too.)  He heads off to the ATM to get the cash.

Once I get over the initial wave of mortification at being such a dimwit for forgetting her salary, and over the second wave of mortification at projecting my frustration at Tita L, and once I divert my frustration to Smilin' Vic (I have to let it out somewhere), I shamefully and profusely apologize to Tita L.

It was such a horrible feeling.  For those of you living in the ME, you will have heard of or even witnessed first hand some of the household help here who are not paid, are abused, are disrespected, are kept as virtual prisoners in the homes where they work.  In extreme cases, even though it is illegal, some sponsors keep their maid's passport, don't pay them for months, and don't ever let them out of the house.

We have vowed to always show Tita L the same respect we would any trusted colleague or family member.  We have always given Tita L her salary on the 4th Thursday of the month.  She has the same freedoms we do.  She has her own annexe off the back of our house.  She has cable and the Philipinno Channel.  We pay her more than three times the going salary for live in help in Qatar; she gets a yearly bonus and raise.  We don't do this because we're good people; we do this because she earns it through hard work and a great attitude.  We do it because she has every much right to dignity and autonomy and respect as any hard working decent human being.  

Yet in one single moment, I saw the possibility of all this imploding.  I really felt shame.  That someone who relies on me and trusts me would have to ask me for her salary.  Smilin' Vic and I are human; we don't get everything right, we forget things.  But this is really one of those things I chalk down to negligence.  I tried imagining myself having to go to my employer at the end of the month to ask for the salary I had rightly earned.  The thought left me quite powerless and disheartened.

They say you can't make the same mistake twice. The second time you make it, it's no longer a mistake. It's a choice.  This is one mistake I hope never to repeat.  

Shame on me.

Sky Blue in the ME ...

"I know how to fly, I know how to drown, in Sky blue"

....

"So tired of all this traveling.  So many miles away from home.  I keep moving to be stable.  Free to wander, free to roam."

Peter Gabriel, "Sky Blue", from the album "UP", 2002

There was a time when taking to the blue skies meant total freedom, flying, joy.  There was a time when I needed 'far away'.  And I took to the Sky blue to find all of that.

Yup, at the time, believe it or not, moving to the Middle East meant finding peace.  "Free to wander, free to roam".  And in many ways, the move and the distance have been a balm.

But today, being far away brings pain.

The skies aren't blue here.  Not today.  And I realize I am so far from home.  Somewhere along the way, the blue has dissipated.  My dad is dying.  Everything is beige, even the sky.

I want to see my dad before it's too late.  Before the skies all turn grey.

Skies in Switzerland ... true blue ... 

Losing the Princess in Me

I remember the day she discovered Binoo.  I remember the day she discovered Barney.  

I remember the day she discovered Blues Clues.  I remember the day she discovered Dora. 

Then, one day, she discovered Sleeping Beauty.  Every day of discovery since then has paled in comparison.

Sleeping Beauty was, and remains, in the eyes of my daughter, the ultimate fairytale, the ultimate princess, the ultimate magic.  Some would have me believe that to encourage this is detrimental to my daughter's independence, sense of empowerment, self-worth, and self-image.  I haven't dissected it that far. 

All I see is the MAGIC.  My daughter is now a size 8, but she still squeezes like a sausage into her size 6 Disney Princess Sleeping Beauty silk nightgown at every opportunity.  The difference these days is I'm not allowed to tell people she continues to covet this frayed blue silky frock.  Princesses are not cool.  Her friends might laugh at her.

Until last summer, my daughter defined herself as the ultimate girly girl.  

At age three, she proudly stepped into a pair of glass dress-up frou-frou slippers and paraded around the house, around the compound, and anywhere we would allow with those heels clicking and clacking.  She wore them with her best dress-up dress, with her best princess costume, with her best undies, striving to glide gracefully, usually tittering and tottering unstably, her parents agonizing at whether she would end up mercilessly twisting an ankle on those ungodly cheap plastic heels.

Nothing brought her more joy than those heels.  Nothing other than pairing them with a princess costume, fake jewelry or a really fancy dress.  Oh, the wonder at seeing the joy in her eyes as she dreamt and hoped of the possibility of perhaps one day achieving "princessdom".  

Her feet have long outgrown the length of those glass slippers.  

Last summer, our little princess girly girl informed us that she was now a 'tom girl'.

Apparently a tom girl combines all that is best of a tomboy and girlie girl.  That was cool.  She told us she preferred pop music to nursery rhyme tunes.  Then announced a slight interest in Justin Bieber.  Told us he had broken up with Selena Gomez.  That was cool.  Pink was no longer her favorite color.  She still liked pink, but turquoise was now the preferred option.  That was cool.  Then, on the first day of school, she asked me if I could buy her plain panties.  She didn't want the other girls to tease her when she changed on PE and gymnastics days.  Ok, but NOT COOL.

We were losing the little princess.  But we knew that change is the only constant.  So Christmas time rolled around.  She got a pair of flowery pj's from Santa.  She got plain panties from Santa.  All cool.  

That's when she told us that pink actually still was her favorite color (the pj's were pink).  And that she didn't really want to get rid of the princess panties; she'd just wear them on alternating days.  She pleaded for me to keep the Disney Princess nightgown; but I shouldn't tell her friends that she still wears it.  She confessed that she actually prefers all things princess.  She confessed that she is defending the value of princesses to her friends.  And, yes, she likes "Brave" and "Lava Girl" and other super duper progressive strong princess characters, but "Maman, Sleeping Beauty is still my favorite".  Our princess was obviously torn between what she loved and what she felt would get her loved.

Her Papa bought her a beautiful beaded "lady grown up gown" for Christmas, with matching beaded headband and high-heeled beaded shoes (the next generation of glass frou-frou slippers).  And a princess was reborn.  She couldn't help herself.  The princess in her was too strong.  She recently told me that she cannot keep on pretending she doesn't like princesses and girlie-girl things.  

She was teased by boys in her class for writing an essay on Cinderella.  She asked my husband and I what to do.  We told her to stand up for what she believed in, and if it helped, tell the the boys that writing about super-heros and spacemen was just as amazing or silly as writing about princesses.  Stand up for what you believe in.  

She did.  She told a friend on the bus that you can like princesses and still like Justin Bieber.  You don't have to like everything about them, but you can like something about them.  And that's ok. 

I truly believe princesses are born, not made.  Our princess cannot change what she is.  She cannot erase the princess within her; she may temper the princess, occasionally stifle her, but the princess will remain.  I love the princess.  Sleeping Beauty, Brave, Pocahontas, Ariel, Cinderella, Snow White, Jasmine, she is all of these and more.  

My daughter is an adaptable princess.  She cannot suppress who she is at her core, and in the end, she will defend who she is.  She will stand up to the bad guy, the evil matron, the cruel inflictor of pain.  

Her namesake is protector of mankind.  Perhaps by naming her as we did, we inflicted upon her the virtues of a princess and committed her to a life of dichotomous suffering and privilege.  But I am proud of my princess; she is standing up for what she believes in.

Yes, I am proud of my princess.  She reminds me every day that I must not lose sight of what is important to me; I must not lose the princess in me.  You may not always see her, but the princess in you is still there.  There is something to be said about re-discovering the princess in all of us.  Stand strong, stand up for what you believe in, stand up for the princess in you.  

I, for one, am committed to not losing the princess in me.

The princess in me ....

Princess slippers and dress ... a princess reborn