My mom just called to tell me that my little sister will be sleeping at her friend’s house today, and I can pick her up tomorrow, since the carpet guy will be at the house washing the carpets and we’re not allowed to be there. Now usually, I would bring the baby with me to school (I live on campus half of the time) and we would sleep after long hours of watching Dora the Explorer. That was the case before last week. My usually safe school was almost sued for my instant death caused by a heart attack. No, I did not die, but I came damn close to it. Someone spotted two guys with guns on campus, and so the police thought it was ok to break into everybody’s rooms at five in the bloody morning, with enormous guns pointing at us to make sure we were alone in the room.
That was good proof that whenever I die, it won’t be because of a heart attack. Bottom line is, my school is no longer safe for my sister. The night the police broke in, I was scheduled to bring her over, and changed my mind on the last minute because her dad said he’d pick her up. I spent hours thanking God that she wasn’t here when it all happened. Maybe I would have died, had she been here. Just the thought of my little one having to presence that breaks my heart into so many little pieces, and scares the living hell out of me. The worst part would be her seeing how scared I was, when I was supposed to remain calm and protect her. Oh God, oh God, I’m glad it didn’t happen.
But my point was, even though I know it’s not safe for her here, I do not favor the idea of letting her sleep at a stranger’s house. Ok, the woman has been “taking care” of her for a year or so now, and she’s good friends with my mom, but everyone that isn’t me is called a stranger when it comes to looking after Evelyn. I always think the lady isn’t feeding her enough (like that time Evelyn told me the lady had only given her old pizza that was in the fridge to eat, and I nearly killed the woman.) I’m just not sure I should trust her.
She’s not very active (but then my mom isn’t, either), and she doesn’t care much if Evelyn is only eating pizza. Trying not to be rude or rip her throat open, I find nice ways of telling her to please feed my child properly, and I teach Evelyn everyday how to ask for food when she’s hungry. Problem is, she doesn’t always know when she’d hungry, specially if she’s doing something else. One has to run after her with a plate, constantly, to get her to eat, and for some reason I cannot picture the old lady doing it.
Ok, she’s not that old (maybe forty), but her child is twenty-three and pregnant now, so it’s been a while since she’d taken care of kids. Besides, she’s just so excited about her grandson that she forgets about my baby. She taught Evelyn how to call her “grandma,” and so it hurt Evelyn when “grandma” said she wouldn’t be coming over anymore once her “first grandchild” was born. Now that I think of it, I came close to killing the woman a number of times. But it should be fine. Evelyn is excited and packing her little backpack; I told mom to pack lots of snacks just in case. I’ll be seeing her tomorrow first thing, and we’re hitting the playground, the library and our Saturday swimming class. Yeah, she’ll probably be safe. The woman wouldn’t dare do otherwise.
February 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
When did I stop being Cool?
Yesterday was a beautiful day, so I got out of work earlier and went home to take my little sister to the playground. I almost never have the time to do it before it’s dark, and my mom can’t be counted on for any kind of physical activity. I picked Evelyn (sister) up at the daycare, and we headed to the park. The look on her little face was just so rewarding. I had failed to notice how much she’s been growing. Ok, maybe I chose not to notice, because I was afraid that my baby would no longer love me when she became older. Then maybe love is not the word I’m looking for; I was probably afraid that my presence would no longer be required on a regular basis. My fears were confirmed when I told her that she was beautiful and that I loved her very much for being courageous and trying new things on her own, and I heard, “You said that already, Mana.” She had a look on her face that made me feel so out of style, and I wondered … when did I stop being cool?
I spent almost an hour just tagging along, ready to catch her if she fell, dying on the inside every time she went up those dangerous ladders. But she’s not the chicken that I was when I was little, and she did just fine. Part of me was proud of her, part of me wanted her to cry for help. When I grabbed her basket of toys and there was a little spoon that didn’t belong to her, she yelled, “Mana, did you take this spoon?? You can’t take other kids’ stuff!” My baby who was just the other day learning how to say her own name is now giving me moral lessons she thinks I deserve. Again, I was proud of her, but part of me was scared that she was already so conscious. And just when I thought I was no longer necessary, she decided to try a more dangerous adventure, and said: “Mana, I want you to come with me and hold my hand.”
Me: “Well, ok, but my hands are cold.”
Her: “It’s ok, mine are cold, too.”
I don’t think I’d ever felt so … needed.
Februaty 2010
I spent almost an hour just tagging along, ready to catch her if she fell, dying on the inside every time she went up those dangerous ladders. But she’s not the chicken that I was when I was little, and she did just fine. Part of me was proud of her, part of me wanted her to cry for help. When I grabbed her basket of toys and there was a little spoon that didn’t belong to her, she yelled, “Mana, did you take this spoon?? You can’t take other kids’ stuff!” My baby who was just the other day learning how to say her own name is now giving me moral lessons she thinks I deserve. Again, I was proud of her, but part of me was scared that she was already so conscious. And just when I thought I was no longer necessary, she decided to try a more dangerous adventure, and said: “Mana, I want you to come with me and hold my hand.”
Me: “Well, ok, but my hands are cold.”
Her: “It’s ok, mine are cold, too.”
I don’t think I’d ever felt so … needed.
Februaty 2010
Bad things come to Those who lose their Temper
There are many moments that I dread. Like the day my toddler sister will go to pre-school and find out the other sisters there are cooler than me (check for another desperate post when she starts school next month); or the day she’ll come home with a homework I won’t be familiar with (I didn’t go to pre-school in the states) and find out I don’t have a clue; or the day she’ll start making new friends and hide stuff from me. Even the day she’ll be ashamed of my Brazilian accent the way I was ashamed of my mom’s a few years ago. But the day I dreaded the most came hitting me in the face today. My four-year-old sister said she hates me.
Cookie was mad either because playground time was cancelled today (she didn’t behave very well) or because I said she had to go to the other room if she wanted to watch cartoons. I’m not entirely sure. All I can remember is that out of a sudden she yelled, “I hate you!” The words came out of her mouth like explosives, like balls of fire coming in my direction to extinguish me. I honestly thought I had heard wrong, but then, as if making sure the soul would be wounded as well as the body, she confirmed “I really hate you!”. And I stared at her. I didn’t cry, didn’t yell back, and didn’t go through the emotional crap adults went through with me when I was the toddler in question. I stared at her and wondered what the hell I should do next. Should I expect her to understand how her statement had broken my heart into a million pieces, and how I had never, not in my worst nightmares, thought she would actually say such a thing? How I always thought our connection was beyond hating and all associate feelings? That I honestly hoped she would be the first teenager not to turn against her mother and, well, bigger sister? She’s not a teenager yet! She’s just learned to say she’s not in the “moon” for something.
But again, would it be better if she hid this from me? If she feels she hates me, don’t I want her to tell me, so we can work on the problem? Or do I want to find out years from now that she’s hated me all along? Or worst yet, do I want her to start distancing herself from me because we have an unresolved issue? So I did what any clueless, desperate older sister would do: I closed the door and wonder how we had gotten to this point. I do realize that she doesn’t hate me. She doesn’t even know what hate is (or so I hope). She also doesn’t realize the power that this word has. But it hurt, nonetheless.
In the middle of my meditation, Cookie walked to me with her blanket, like a puppy who realizes it has bitten the one who loves it. She cried and said she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant to say any of that. “I only said I hate you because you were mad at me, but I really love you, mana.” I explained to her that she had broken my heart, and asked her to never say that again. She promised, and asked me to never be mad again, and completed with “Don’t say your heart is broken, I don’t like it when you say that.” I looked at her and the pain was slightly forgotten. She was truly sorry, and I could see in her eyes how much she loved me. I promised to have more patience, and she promised to cooperate. All is well in the end … I just hope the damage will be this easy to repair next time.
Cookie was mad either because playground time was cancelled today (she didn’t behave very well) or because I said she had to go to the other room if she wanted to watch cartoons. I’m not entirely sure. All I can remember is that out of a sudden she yelled, “I hate you!” The words came out of her mouth like explosives, like balls of fire coming in my direction to extinguish me. I honestly thought I had heard wrong, but then, as if making sure the soul would be wounded as well as the body, she confirmed “I really hate you!”. And I stared at her. I didn’t cry, didn’t yell back, and didn’t go through the emotional crap adults went through with me when I was the toddler in question. I stared at her and wondered what the hell I should do next. Should I expect her to understand how her statement had broken my heart into a million pieces, and how I had never, not in my worst nightmares, thought she would actually say such a thing? How I always thought our connection was beyond hating and all associate feelings? That I honestly hoped she would be the first teenager not to turn against her mother and, well, bigger sister? She’s not a teenager yet! She’s just learned to say she’s not in the “moon” for something.
But again, would it be better if she hid this from me? If she feels she hates me, don’t I want her to tell me, so we can work on the problem? Or do I want to find out years from now that she’s hated me all along? Or worst yet, do I want her to start distancing herself from me because we have an unresolved issue? So I did what any clueless, desperate older sister would do: I closed the door and wonder how we had gotten to this point. I do realize that she doesn’t hate me. She doesn’t even know what hate is (or so I hope). She also doesn’t realize the power that this word has. But it hurt, nonetheless.
In the middle of my meditation, Cookie walked to me with her blanket, like a puppy who realizes it has bitten the one who loves it. She cried and said she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant to say any of that. “I only said I hate you because you were mad at me, but I really love you, mana.” I explained to her that she had broken my heart, and asked her to never say that again. She promised, and asked me to never be mad again, and completed with “Don’t say your heart is broken, I don’t like it when you say that.” I looked at her and the pain was slightly forgotten. She was truly sorry, and I could see in her eyes how much she loved me. I promised to have more patience, and she promised to cooperate. All is well in the end … I just hope the damage will be this easy to repair next time.
July 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Dancing to the songs of Love
This week my boyfriend and I decided to go see Eddie Santiago playing at a night club in San Francisco. It was Valentine’s Day and Santiago sings romantic salsa songs, so on Saturday night we were in the city nicely dressed and waited for our friends—until they decided not to go. I couldn’t say no to my boyfriend this time, so we didn’t let that bother us.
I called the nightclub to make table reservations, because I knew how packed it would be, but they gracefully said there were no reservations left that day. A friend of my boyfriend’s called and said he had two extra reservations, so after stopping for food at three different places (all packed), we finally left for our salsa night. Getting there, we didn’t spend less than an hour looking for parking. Even the paid ones were all taken. After losing every bit of patience we had left, we found a spot four blocks away. I was wearing a dress and very high heels, so the walk and the freezing air didn’t do much to help. The line, needless to say, was enormous, and the friend had left his spot in line to go pick up something, which meant we had to go all the way to the back. When the friend finally arrived, he had ticket reservations, not table ones.
We finally got to enter the club and the warm (not to say suffocating) atmosphere convinced us to pay the $2 to hang our jackets. Then again, everyone seemed to have had the same idea, and the closet was already full—yay for carrying the jackets around the whole night. Ordering drinks took us longer than waiting for the closet line, and they did not have the drink that I wanted. Santiago wasn’t there yet, so we had these other guys playing to hundreds of people that obviously did not fit into that space.
My boyfriend and I tried to dance, ignoring the lack of space, the heat, and the smell of sweat. We were definitely not going to let anything ruin the night. When Santiago finally appeared, the dance floor (which was already packed beyond explanation) got much worse, and we had to squeeze ourselves back a little. It was not the night we had planned, there seemed to be a conspiracy against us, and we were nowhere near the dance floor (or near the steps we had rehearsed so much), but then I turned around a hugged him, and our bodies started moving in slow motion, dancing to something that wasn’t at all salsa: it was our own rhythm.
Suddenly, all of the other factors seemed s
mall, and it was just the two of us standing there, dancing to a very romantic song that was being played very far away, like the first time we danced. Then it occurred to me: we loved each other, and we had survived the conspiracy. For the rest of the night, that seemed to be enough; we danced to the songs of love.
I called the nightclub to make table reservations, because I knew how packed it would be, but they gracefully said there were no reservations left that day. A friend of my boyfriend’s called and said he had two extra reservations, so after stopping for food at three different places (all packed), we finally left for our salsa night. Getting there, we didn’t spend less than an hour looking for parking. Even the paid ones were all taken. After losing every bit of patience we had left, we found a spot four blocks away. I was wearing a dress and very high heels, so the walk and the freezing air didn’t do much to help. The line, needless to say, was enormous, and the friend had left his spot in line to go pick up something, which meant we had to go all the way to the back. When the friend finally arrived, he had ticket reservations, not table ones.
We finally got to enter the club and the warm (not to say suffocating) atmosphere convinced us to pay the $2 to hang our jackets. Then again, everyone seemed to have had the same idea, and the closet was already full—yay for carrying the jackets around the whole night. Ordering drinks took us longer than waiting for the closet line, and they did not have the drink that I wanted. Santiago wasn’t there yet, so we had these other guys playing to hundreds of people that obviously did not fit into that space.
My boyfriend and I tried to dance, ignoring the lack of space, the heat, and the smell of sweat. We were definitely not going to let anything ruin the night. When Santiago finally appeared, the dance floor (which was already packed beyond explanation) got much worse, and we had to squeeze ourselves back a little. It was not the night we had planned, there seemed to be a conspiracy against us, and we were nowhere near the dance floor (or near the steps we had rehearsed so much), but then I turned around a hugged him, and our bodies started moving in slow motion, dancing to something that wasn’t at all salsa: it was our own rhythm.
Suddenly, all of the other factors seemed s
mall, and it was just the two of us standing there, dancing to a very romantic song that was being played very far away, like the first time we danced. Then it occurred to me: we loved each other, and we had survived the conspiracy. For the rest of the night, that seemed to be enough; we danced to the songs of love.February 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Respectable Sister Material
Some months ago my mom went out of country, and I went to pick my sister up at my aunt’s house. On my way back, I was carrying my sister’s stroller, her car seat, bag of clothes and toys, my own bag, and the baby herself. A man saw me and asked: “single mom?” And I answered, “worse than that: single sister.” Which obviously means I had to take care of my sister and my mom. Don’t get me wrong, my mother is a great, caring person. But sometimes she fails to understand that she is the mother (except when she needs the authority), and I never know which one deserves time out. Mother believes she is the only person in the world that works and has a kid at the same time, especially when I ask her why haven’t she read to Evelyn or bought her favorite cereal: she yells at me that “I can’t do everything, you know? I do everything alone!” So I’m still working on a nice way to tell her that is not the case. She probably also thinks that I spend my days laying around, with a coconut, reading a book, but that is also not the case.
Truth is, I don’t think my mom had much training. I was raised by my grandma, and having to raise Evelyn was the biggest surprise my mom has ever had. I remember when she told me she was pregnant, and I promised that it would always be the three of us fighting together, that a father was completely unnecessary. Evelyn doesn’t think the same, and she’s crazy about her dad, but that was not the point I was trying to make. I understand my mom’s lack of wisdom when it comes to the baby, but I never had a kid, either, and I try to be respectable “sister material” all the time. I would certainly appreciate if I could trust that Evelyn is eating the right things, reading the right books, visiting the playground daily, and so on.
We have an aunt that is really good at it, and I mean good. She has it all down to a science, and knows how to make Evelyn behave and eat whatever she needs to. She knows all the songs she should sing and all the places she should take her niece, and how to teach her stuff. I’m obviously not that good, but I try to learn. My aunt has been around for longer, and has been dealing with kids for longer than I can remember, so she’s a model for me. Gone are the times I hoped my mom would be that model. Sometimes it worries me that Evelyn will someday start calling my aunt “mom” since she’s the fun one, the responsible one, the active one … but we can’t really blame her if she does, can we? Mostly I just wish my mom would get out of her comfort zone and have some fun time with our little princess. I know she’s not easy, and she can get to our last nerves sometimes (ok, most of the times), but she’s a kid, and should act like one. I know my mom’s life isn’t easy, but I’m sure it’s not easy for anybody. If we stop all action waiting for life to get better, princess is going to get old and will be mortified if we ever take her to any place again, and then we’ll have to master in all kinds of new techniques.
February 2010
Truth is, I don’t think my mom had much training. I was raised by my grandma, and having to raise Evelyn was the biggest surprise my mom has ever had. I remember when she told me she was pregnant, and I promised that it would always be the three of us fighting together, that a father was completely unnecessary. Evelyn doesn’t think the same, and she’s crazy about her dad, but that was not the point I was trying to make. I understand my mom’s lack of wisdom when it comes to the baby, but I never had a kid, either, and I try to be respectable “sister material” all the time. I would certainly appreciate if I could trust that Evelyn is eating the right things, reading the right books, visiting the playground daily, and so on.
We have an aunt that is really good at it, and I mean good. She has it all down to a science, and knows how to make Evelyn behave and eat whatever she needs to. She knows all the songs she should sing and all the places she should take her niece, and how to teach her stuff. I’m obviously not that good, but I try to learn. My aunt has been around for longer, and has been dealing with kids for longer than I can remember, so she’s a model for me. Gone are the times I hoped my mom would be that model. Sometimes it worries me that Evelyn will someday start calling my aunt “mom” since she’s the fun one, the responsible one, the active one … but we can’t really blame her if she does, can we? Mostly I just wish my mom would get out of her comfort zone and have some fun time with our little princess. I know she’s not easy, and she can get to our last nerves sometimes (ok, most of the times), but she’s a kid, and should act like one. I know my mom’s life isn’t easy, but I’m sure it’s not easy for anybody. If we stop all action waiting for life to get better, princess is going to get old and will be mortified if we ever take her to any place again, and then we’ll have to master in all kinds of new techniques.
February 2010
Morning Love and how much it means to me
Today I left for work early and kissed my sleeping sister on the cheek before I left. She opened her sleepy eyes and asked, “Where are you going, mana?” I answered I was going to work. Then she added, “Are you coming back?” and I responded, “Yes, I always do.”
Then she nodded and fell back asleep, as if saying, “All is well with the world now. My mana is coming back.” The smile on her face as she fell back asleep made my day oh so special.
May 2010
Then she nodded and fell back asleep, as if saying, “All is well with the world now. My mana is coming back.” The smile on her face as she fell back asleep made my day oh so special.
May 2010
Afraid my Heart will just Stop
I did not give birth to the love of my life; my mother did, although that changes nothing, really. I don’t think my heart could take any higher level of this ridiculously big love that I feel for my four-year-old sister. There are already too many occasions where I think my heart will just stop (like that time when she fell and cut her upper lip, or that time when she fell down the stairs), so I have reasons to believe it would be unhealthy for me to experience any larger amounts of love.
I was always the kind of person who had a steady heart: no strong emotions, no breakdowns, no horrible falling nightmares. I had my life all planned out and my stuff together, my clothes clean, and my free time dedicated to myself. I was never a fan of kids or the messy lifestyle that comes with them. The change of heart was much unexpected, surprising, and intrusive, really. Suddenly I found myself changing my steady plans and my eating habits, my priorities and dreams for life. I find it very interesting that I just can’t seem to remember what my life was like before her, or what exactly were my plans for a child-free future. I believe you grow as a person once you feel obligated to succeed because someone else depends on the outcome of your life; that is extremely encouraging and extremely scary at the same time.
Now my most-played songs are from Barney’s or Elmo’s DVD collections, and my favorite food is whatever won’t be too dangerous for her to eat. My long, sharp nails have been replaced by short, soft ones, and my make-up contains no alcohol or any other harming chemical, so we can share. My vocabulary is limited to sweet, encouraging words, since she’ll repeat anything I say until it is a permanent word in her vocabulary. Even my boyfriends have to be “sister tested,” and only accepted if she likes them around, and vice versa. They also have to accept the fact that, for now, I don’t think I have enough soul to give to another child, and I certainly don’t have the extra breath.
I imagine myself a year or so from now, threatening pre-school kids who mess with my baby, pushing them against the wall, and spending some months in jail. Or maybe giving up my job and school to follow her around and make sure she’s safe and sound, all the time. There are times when locking her in the closet where I can watch her seems to tempting to me, that I feel forced to realize how crazy I’ve become. Of course, I blame it all on how hard it is to protect someone these days, specially if that someone means the world to you. I’ll have to work on my skills eventually, or else, I’m afraid my h
eart will just stop.
February 2010I was always the kind of person who had a steady heart: no strong emotions, no breakdowns, no horrible falling nightmares. I had my life all planned out and my stuff together, my clothes clean, and my free time dedicated to myself. I was never a fan of kids or the messy lifestyle that comes with them. The change of heart was much unexpected, surprising, and intrusive, really. Suddenly I found myself changing my steady plans and my eating habits, my priorities and dreams for life. I find it very interesting that I just can’t seem to remember what my life was like before her, or what exactly were my plans for a child-free future. I believe you grow as a person once you feel obligated to succeed because someone else depends on the outcome of your life; that is extremely encouraging and extremely scary at the same time.
Now my most-played songs are from Barney’s or Elmo’s DVD collections, and my favorite food is whatever won’t be too dangerous for her to eat. My long, sharp nails have been replaced by short, soft ones, and my make-up contains no alcohol or any other harming chemical, so we can share. My vocabulary is limited to sweet, encouraging words, since she’ll repeat anything I say until it is a permanent word in her vocabulary. Even my boyfriends have to be “sister tested,” and only accepted if she likes them around, and vice versa. They also have to accept the fact that, for now, I don’t think I have enough soul to give to another child, and I certainly don’t have the extra breath.
I imagine myself a year or so from now, threatening pre-school kids who mess with my baby, pushing them against the wall, and spending some months in jail. Or maybe giving up my job and school to follow her around and make sure she’s safe and sound, all the time. There are times when locking her in the closet where I can watch her seems to tempting to me, that I feel forced to realize how crazy I’ve become. Of course, I blame it all on how hard it is to protect someone these days, specially if that someone means the world to you. I’ll have to work on my skills eventually, or else, I’m afraid my h
eart will just stop.
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