THE FAMILY BAROMETER

Thank you to all who took the time to read the first half of this story and to those who helped me by offering comments. I am reminded yet again that I am a writer who writes to connect and to learn from others. For those who missed part one you can find it here.

A few years ago, a friend dropped both of her daughters at our house for a sleepover along with a bottle of wine, for when the mindfulness runs out. I am not sure if it was the tenor of the blog or the collective wisdom of my readership or the fear of being a lone voice, but no one commented that I should simply open a bottle of wine and order pizza or let the children forage for cereal for dinner. I seriously considered this option. Even with all of the yoga and meditation practice, I still believe that there is a time when the best course of action is to take a break from it all.

Tonight was not that night. As I reflect on in there were a few reasons. Somehow on my long list of things to do when moving to a new country, finding the number for Pizza Hut and learning how to direct a delivery person to my house did not make the list. I knew the effort involved in that option would be similar to frying up my beans. Also, I was really hungry and my stomach and my homesick soul wanted gallo pinto for dinner, and not Corn Flakes or greasy pizza. 

But the real deep reason, was that what happened was not ok with me. It was not ok that my oldest rolled her eyes instead of helping, that my middlest scooted by instead of helping, that my husband slept instead of helping. As one person commented, mothers tend to be the family container for all that is going on. If that is true, then we also get to be the family barometer. 

So, to return to our story:

Hi. What time is it? When’s dinner? my husband asked, the sleep still in his eyes.

Dinner is going to take some time. And so you are warned, it is time for a family talk. Could you please set the table? I said as I turned the stove back on and cracked an egg into a cereal bowl. My husband’s eyes opened a little bit wider and he looked serious. But he silently took my youngest with him and went to set the table.

Our kitchen is the size of a teacup, but it opens into a dining room with a table that seats 10. About 30 minutes later I sat, purposely, at the head of that grand table and began.

So, you all know that it was a rough evening. We are eating much later than usual.

Because I broke a glass and I had a terrible day. Piped in my youngest as she served herself two heaping spoonfuls of gallo pinto.

Ah, do we have to have gallo pinto? Asked my oldest with a scowl. Didn’t we leave Costa Rica?

My middlest poked at the scrambled eggs on her plate with her finger and looked sad.

I have a question. I know that you heard your sister crying and the glass breaking and you saw it getting later and darker outside. How come no one came to see what was going on? How come no one offered to help? Even as I asked the question, I could feel my stomach unclench. While this was certainly not the most fun dinner discussion, something about putting the question out there, about simply admitting that I didn’t want to manage it all myself, made me relax.

There was a split second of silence and then the excuses began. I had to pack for my trip! and I was crying! and I did come by on my scooter to see what was going on! The cumulative message was, Don’t blame us! My husband, ever the wise man, chose his words carefully. Your mom is asking for help. So I am thinking about ways that I can help her next time. Like, maybe I can ask when I walk in the door if she needs help.

I wish I could tell you that what ensued was a heartwarming discussion of all the ways that my angelic girls could help me. It was more like, I don’t have time to put my laundry away. and I don’t want to set that table. and I hate doing dishes. We went around like this a few times between bites of food, as parents trying to hammer home the importance of helping others, that the jobs around the house are everyone’s responsibility. That we no longer have Rachel to help. 

At which point my middlest burst into angry tears. I miss Rachel so much. She was so much more to us that just a cleaner. Don’t you ever say differently! Rachel was the woman who worked in our house full time in Costa Rica. She cleaned, washed, ironed, fixed, mended, babysat and cooked, but she was way, way more than the sum of all that. She was a caretaker of our family the likes of which I doubt we will ever see again.

Now we were getting somewhere. As so many of you noted, we are a sad, culture-shocked bunch right now. I have the experience and adult perspective to know that it won’t hurt like this forever, but my children do not. My middlest crawled onto her dad’s lap next to her and he quietly stroked her hair while she cried. For a moment, we could all soften a bit into our crazy shared experience. 

Then my youngest got up from the table and announced, Well, I will clear my plate by I am NOT doing the dishes! Back to reality.

Many who believe in reincarnation say that it is the child who chooses which parents to be born to. I don’t know if this is true, but tonight it felt true. As my middlest slid off her dad’s lap and started to gather silverware to take into the kitchen, my oldest stayed in her seat, looking thoughtful. 

Mom, the thing is, when you are busy, sometimes you want to be left alone to do it, and sometimes you want help. How are we supposed to know the difference?

My husband choked on his sip of water before putting on his serious face, clearly trying to be supportive. But even I had to laugh at the accuracy of her insight. There are times when being the family container during the witching hour is all too much and I want to spin my salad greens alone. Maybe the key to getting more help in the moment is simply to ask. Clearly, I need more practice asking, and my family needs more practice responding. I will get to this, right after I open that bottle of wine. My mindfulness just ran out.