Well, that didn't take too long. We've been back in our house all of one week, and already the doubts are swarming, like the ants in Brazil, which move in minutes after you slice a papaya on the counter. Voracious. Relentless.
And what are these doubts saying?
Summer's almost over. And what do you have to show for it? (Aside from having moved into your house, and the daily accomplishment of keeping three small children fed, clothed, and relatively happy.)
OK, so that sounds kind of ridiculous, but this is how the doubts work. Do they respond to logic? Can you simply talk to them as they crawl out of the woodwork in their glossy black military formation? Of course not.
What they're saying is, you have no job. No publications. Just a pile of pages you've written that amount to nothing more than a slightly sick feeling in your stomach.
Maybe it's because I came back and most of my friends who were home with kids now have jobs, and there is the nagging feeling that, even though I don't want a job now, when I am ready for one, what the hell will it be?
This part was so much easier in Brazil, when childcare was excellent and affordable, and a real job, one that I mostly liked, had suddenly fallen into my lap.
Of course, that's just the Brazil in my mind.
In the real Brazil, I had to wake up at 5:30 every morning and leave Ju by seven to nod while the principal berated me. We lived in a narrow house with uncomfortable furniture, and no soundproofing at all (another reason why everyone woke up at 5:30). And while I loved Dete, and appreciated not having to cook dinner every day or clean the bathrooms, I missed feeling like I was living in my own house, in my own life.
I have to remind myself that one of the main reasons we decided to come home was that I didn't want to work full time with a one-year old, which I would have had to do if we'd stayed.
Yesterday, when I was mulling this over, some words came into my head: your immodest demands for a different world, / and a better life, and complete comprehension / of both at last, and immediately...
I had to wrack my brains for a minute to think where they were from.
Then I remembered. It's Elizabeth Bishop, from her poem "Arrival at Santos." (Santos is the port outside of São Paulo; Bishop herself lived in Brazil for fifteen years.)
How appropriate.
At least it let me take a deep breath, and remind myself that there's no rush, and this tendency of mine to require everything to be perfect, at once (at last, and immediately), is probably not realistic. And that it's OK.
5 comments:
Don't miss feeling like you're living in your own house, in your own life. Don't let that happen to you.
Work in the garden, play with the boys every day, make love to your husband. These are some of the things that keep you in your own life.
The time pass so fast, so don't worry...enjoy your kids while they are kids!
It's really normal have thouhts(pensamentos) like that, it's shows you are human, woman and you're alive. Everything it's going to be in the right place in the right time!
Have a great weekend!
Vanessa
Prayer: that I will remember how tired I am as a parent, almost all of the time. That I will forgive myself for my bickering thoughts and comparison to others. That in the future I will know I did the best I could, loved my present life to the best of my ability, and all who graced it. Especially the hard-working and earnest me, who one night slept in the crib with my son who couldn't be consoled any other way. Who postponed the chirping project to be with my one-year-old. Who said to the mental critic: here, sit, I won't do battle with you for just this moment.
Aw, naked Ju in the rocks. It's almost like he's still down here. Certainly seems he is still disregarding the cultural norm of clothing, feeling his Brasilian roots. Beijo in the boys. I miss you and your wonderful family.
ugh i totally relate. so glad you shared this. I am probably going to lose my job in the fall and I will be right there with you with the joblessness and disjointed piles of pages that add up to nothing more than... a pile. oy fricking vey! My hat is off to you! (and we'll be there around ten tomorrow morning.)
Post a Comment