‘I will marry you’, – my daughter said. Just like that, out of the blue, in the middle of our video call. In the middle of my very important sentence, probably.
‘Oh no’, – I quickly recovered from the shock. ‘If anybody marries you, that’s me’.
I can’t believe we’ve come to this. I adore the guy. And my daughter adores him just as much. We are two crazy girls, and London boy’s biggest fans.
When I tell my girl I think about her all the time, she replies that she does too, she thinks about me and London boy all the time. Can you imagine? I’ve cared for my girl for 6 years. Yet this handsome guy shows his face once and he’s won her heart. He’s won mine, too.
I feel like all of my life I’ve been searching for love.
And when I find it, there’s nothing bigger or better, nothing that matters more. I see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. All I know is love.
The love that I have for my daughter is the strongest feeling ever. I did not think it was possible to have so much love for one person. To be honest, I constantly feel like a pot that’s boiling over. My love is so big it can’t be contained. It spills over, becomes a sticky mess, turns brown, but it can’t be stopped.
The love I have felt for the men in my life has been equally big. I adored Beno. I adore London boy. And no other man comes even close.
I try, because at the end of the day this love is a one way street. And I am smart enough to see it. However, my heart rules my mind. If I decide to leave London boy for good one day, I text him the next. ‘It’s not me’, – I tell him. ‘My fingers are typing the message’.
I know him. I don’t need to pretend around him. He’s seen me in the pirate’s costume on Halloween, for goodness sake (and it didn’t do me justice, although the kids loved it).
I’ve been studying the whole marketing thing. I’ve been brushing up on my writing skills. I’ve been reading up on how to create engaging online content. Because who these days writes just for the sake of writing, right? We all post and share and wait for the ‘likes’. And if and when we get them, it makes us feel so good. And that’s an entirely different subject, worth reading upon.
But you know what – I simply enjoy writing. The titles of my posts may not be exciting, my keywords and links may not generate traffic (bear with me – there’s the whole science behind it, it takes time just to learn the slang), but the black letters, appearing on the white page, give me simple and pure satisfaction.
Let’s leave it at that for now.
I vented to my sister the other day: why our summers have so few weekends?
I asked my friend not long after: how come we can count the weekends of the summer on our fingers?
Out of the whole year, I truly enjoy only the summer. Other seasons may be nice, but to me, the blue sky and the hot sun, the warm breeze and the sea (lake and river) mean the ultimate happiness.
Alas, this summer was even shorter than usual. My weekends to enjoy got reduced in half as I sprained my ankle and had to stay indoors for a few weeks, slowly getting to the usual pace of life for the few following weeks. They got reduced even further as my daughter had a fever, or a sore throat, or both, and the strict doctor’s orders followed: no swimming or eating ice cream.
‘I’d let her swim and eat ice cream’, – my sister announced.
Well, I didn’t, hoping to get back on our feet (literally) sooner.
Until, that is, I got more strict orders, from my doctor this time: don’t get too hot.
With 27°C outside, it basically translated into staying in.
So as I sat on a beautiful day and looked through my window at a perfectly blue sky without any clouds, I felt cheated.
However, this summer has taught me things.
As I rode the bus to work numerous times, not being able to walk for a few weeks, I starting noticing the same faces, as you do, catching the same bus at the same hour. The suits, the dresses, the laptop bags and the scooters. All on the way to start their day somewhere.
And every time I was on that bus, I saw a mother with her daughter, around my daughter’s age. The mother was oblivious to me watching, as she sat turned away from her daughter, eyes on the phone in her hand. The daughter was chatting to herself and singing, but also oblivious to me watching, as she had her own phone in her tiny hand.
Every time I looked at them, I felt a pang of sadness. And I instantly missed my own daughter’s little hand in mine. When we ride a bus, we always sit as close as possible. We always hold hands. We always talk about what we see. We both cover our noses if the smell is not right and we both laugh at something funny we notice. We ride together.
Of course, I don’t know anything about the other mother, I don’t know her story. I’m just happy the way I do things with my daughter, even if sometimes it’s a harder way to do them.
This summer has showed me things.
Sometimes, as I wake up in the morning, the dream is vivid in my mind. I can recall it with the tiniest of details. I can feel what I felt while I was dreaming. It’s like a picture, that has the brightest of colors that don’t fade.
And just like that, a few weeks ago, I had a dream about Beno. No no, not any ordinary dream. Although no dream about him is ordinary, as they are rare and few.
It was a dream about him coming back. Just like that – coming back from being gone. The emotion that I felt is too overwhelming to describe – I can still feel it. You can’t imagine it, as it’s not possible. But it was all consuming, Beno being alive. With a suitcase in his hand. Looking as young and handsome as he always did.
I held back at first. I couldn’t believe it. But he was not going anywhere. For him it was not a big deal (like nothing really was when he was alive) – like he just returned from a trip.
As he stayed, I finally made my way to him and embraced him with all my essence. It was a beautiful dream.
My daughter was not too happy when I shared it with her: ‘Why don’t I ever dream of daddy?’ And like any question, related to Beno being gone, it’s not easy to answer.
The summer has been short, but it’s been precious.
I read this and laughed to myself. London boy is funny. And he is so right.
‘Mama, you worry too much. You worry about every little thing!’ – my daughter declared.
That was a week or so ago, when I started obsessing about the pigmentation on my face. I kept running to the mirror every five minutes and checking my face at various angles.
‘Can you see these spots?’ – I asked her.
‘Yes’.
‘How about now?’ – I turned my face away from the light.
My girl leaned closer to my cheek. ‘Yes’, – she said proudly, as if she’d just completed a difficult task.
Stupid spots!
And I love the sun.
As soon as I feel the warmth on my skin, I feel happy. I really do. And although I religiously apply sunscreen (recommended by dermatologists) to my face, a few days in the sun left it spotty and me worried.
However, my lovely daughter had enough of my stressing.
As you know, I also love the sea.
I love the turquoise and pleasantly warm water (the sea is never too warm for me and the color – that we can negotiate).
To my very big surprise, the beach was almost empty (indeed it was not the high season yet) and the water was warm! I would have never thought of not shivering when entering the sea in this part of the world. How I loved the absolute beauty of the mornings by the sea and how grateful I felt to be able to swim in it.
As for the sand, Mia said it all as soon as we arrived: ‘It’s like the biggest sandbox in the world’.
However, opposite to what it may sound like, ours was not a traditional vacation. We had spent 3 weeks in a rehabilitation clinic, where kids and adults from all over the country come to heal their bodies (and souls) after the illness.
I don’t ever get tired of repeating to my girl that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She (the most beautiful girl in the world) never gets tired of adding that every parent finds his or her kid to be the most beautiful. I know, I know, she doesn’t hold back.
During our time there my girl did not lack compliments from other parents and from the staff members. She listened, she ate, she behaved. The compliments were well earned. Then on the day before last she was crowned with ‘the most beautiful girl in the world’ – delivered by somebody other than me.
‘See?..’ – I wanted to say with the huge smile on my face.
Another day she was playing with 2 brothers. The younger one kept crying, not getting the chance to do what he wanted.
‘Which one of you is older?’ – asked my daughter.
‘I am’, – replied the older boy.
‘So if you are older, why don’t you let your younger brother play?’ – asked a wise old… No! Asked my wise 5 year old.
At that moment both the mother of the kids and I opened our eyes in surprise and smiled at each other. I felt a very proud mama.
And I did try to treat Mia. Little things matter to her. When she got a milkshake she’d been craving, she kept talking about it for half of the day. It was the day before going back home.
Later that night she told me with milkshake we celebrated the new beginning. She didn’t see us leaving rehabilitation as the end. She saw us going home as the beginning. I hugged her, feeling incredibly thankful to hear this.
When the bags were all packed and I asked what she was most happy about during our time there, I expected either the sandbox or the milkshake related response. As you can guess, I was wrong.
‘I am most happy because I met a good friend’.
Apparently, the friend lives a few blocks away, so this friendship is sure to last. As, I hope, the effects of the sun (not the spots), sand and sea for the body and soul.
I like blues. And since yesterday – I like rainy days.
The second statement came as a revelation to me. I have always, as far as I remember my grown up life, yearned for the sun and the warmth. I had never been happy on a rainy day, ever. If it’s raining, it means there is no sun, the sky is gray, I’m stuck inside or, if I do need to go somewhere, I’m likely to get wet. Yuck.
I know what you are thinking: ‘Change your attitude, girl!’. But let me tell you something – you telling this to me does not make any difference. I have to come to that conclusion myself.
Ever since I started working again, after my daughter was born, my everyday life is a constant state of rush. I rush in the morning, I rush at work, I rush in the evening. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I got about a million things to do every given moment! Even on my days off, I cram so many things to my ‘to do’ list, that I end up exhausted at the end of it.
You get the picture, right?
Yesterday something clicked. It’d been raining since the morning and I was at home with my daughter. When we cuddled up on the couch, watching the rain through the window, I realized that I thoroughly enjoyed the moment. I did not need to rush anywhere and I just sat there, watching, having my daughter close to me. I suddenly wanted more rainy days in my life, so I could have more peaceful moments like that.
The revelation came from within, so it’s natural and acceptable to me. It’s not forced upon, even when it comes from the friends and family with the best intentions.
Talking about changing one’s attitude, you do know I love movies. Recently I had made a (conscious) decision to stick to the movies based on true stories. These I enjoy the most and I tend to learn from them. These often show important reminders about life, and I appreciate that.
‘The only power we have in this life is our perception of life’ (Brian Banks).
‘2 prisoners look out from a cell. One sees mud, the other sees stars’.
How well I understand this now.
How well Beno understood this.
‘How can you be happy if you are so poor?’ – I tried to understand it. He grew up with nothing.
‘I’m just a poor nigga’, – he used to often tell me. Yet in my eyes, he had the ability to live life, no matter how hard, to the fullest. And that made him richer than most. Still, it bugged me, as I was not able to have the same perception of life. So I kept asking him. ‘How can you smile and be happy?’.
‘If I was miserable, I would still be poor’, – he told me. He chose to be happy.
Which brings me to the following question – which one of us wants to get old? Certainly not me. Never! But listen to this: ‘One day you will also get old. If you are lucky’.
How many young ones die? Is living well into the old age so much worse than the alternative – dying young? Beno died, and he does not get to see his beautiful daughter every day. He does not get to spend precious moments with her. He gets nothing.
And that’s the attitude of gratitude, acquired on a rainy day.
This has become part of my daily prayer. This is the reminder I tell myself late at night, stressed out about the worries of tomorrow.
I shouldn’t be, right? Tomorrow may never come and we never know what’s around the corner. I know that better than some of us. And still, worry and stress are my frequent companions.
A couple of days ago I was doing a personality test and there was a statement to which I had to choose a number on a scale from 1 to 10 (least applies to most applies). The statement read: ‘I can relax easily when I want to’. Jeez… how do I answer that? Is my daughter with me? Then no. Is she away? Who’s watching her? I can’t relax completely if she’s not with me (anything can happen at any given time, like any other mom would tell you). The question got me stressed out.
Starting with the school that my daughter will need to go to (next year, mind you) and the new apartment I’ll need to find for us (close to school, of course) to wondering if I’m meant to stay single for the rest of my life and the amount of work that awaits me the next day, my nights have become a real chaos.
‘What if I die tonight?’ – I ask myself.
And just like that I smile, I breathe out the longest breath, the weight disappears from my shoulders. I relax.
‘If I die tonight, my last thoughts will be of my daughter, who is right here next to me. Because she is the most precious in my life. If I die tonight, I can say life is beautiful, because I am here living it’.
At first I found it scary – why do I need to think about death in order to appreciate life? But is it really so wrong? Life and death are parts of the never ending cycle, and without one you can’t appreciate the other. Knowing my life can end this very moment puts my thoughts back on track.
A book I read recently made a big impact on me.
I am not a big fan of self help books. And this is not one of those books. It’s a book that dares you to be brave and say what you think. Life’s simply too short not to speak your mind.
I wanna state for the record that the author’s use of the word ‘dope’ was too much for me. I was interested in what Luvvie had to say about being brave, but I found it a bit annoying to read ‘dope’ in almost every other page of the book. Apart from that, it hit home.
To me, being ordinary is the equivalent of boring. To me, gray is the most boring color out there. To me, average is worse than the extreme of any given range.
Luvvie encourages you to be ‘too much’. If somebody calls you too (anything), it just means that the room you are in (or the audience) is too small for all (whole) of you. You just need to find a bigger room.
‘You are too clingy’, – London boy announced after I came back form London. Imagine – I had to feel some part of him at any given moment. I had to touch him to know he was real. This is how big my need to be close to him was. That rarely happens. I had the same need to touch Beno, always, anything and everything, any part of him. To me, it’s a beautiful thing. It’s who I am, it’s not too much.
I brushed off the remark. Then I quoted some pages to London boy. The book has an entire chapter on how TO BE too much (too anything and everything).
Speak your mind, speak the truth, be bold. Sure, don’t be reckless. If doing so leaves you hungry and homeless, literally, don’t do it. But if it helps somebody, including yourself, go for it.
So why hide how I feel about a man? Why not remind myself that when I’m gone, the only one remembering that I worked so hard or stressed out so much (sometimes without a reason) will be my daughter? Even now, reading her bedtime stories, she identifies me with the character that works too much. ‘Just like mama’, – she says.
You know how the girls do anything and everything to get ready for a date?
I did it all: I dyed, I waxed, I polished, I soaked… You name it, I did it. I was not going to London as I was (having said that, I do take pretty good everyday care of myself, I believe. But it could always be better).
‘Mommy, where are we going?’ – my daughter kept asking me, once I had told her about the trip ahead of us.
‘Where do you think we are going?’ – I wanted to keep it a secret. It was more fun that way.
‘To England’, – she said.
What? How?..
She was my daughter. She could feel London running through my veins (although she had not mastered her geography and could not figure out the difference between a city and a country). Weeks later, feeling confident in herself, she told me that London was a continent of Africa. Bless her little cotton socks.
I was so looking forward to the trip. Three years of dreaming.
‘Vilma, just keep in mind that we will not…. and I will not… and I can’t…’ – London boy was setting boundaries alright. ‘We are not walking in the park holding hands. I hope this is clear’.
I instantly adjusted my expectations from 200 to -5. ‘I can do this, I expect nothing’ was my mantra days before we were due to fly out.
I knew I had made this a very big deal for myself. I couldn’t help it. I really, genuinely adore the guy. I tried to imagine the moment we meet. I tried not to think about it. Whatever I tried, I was a mess.
‘Mama, I changed my mind. Please tell me now’ – my girl couldn’t take it anymore. We had agreed I’d tell her our destination upon boarding the plane. But she needed to know before. She did last a long time, as she asked for this once we arrived at the airport.
‘Ok. We are going to London’.
‘Oh!’ – she sounded pleasantly surprised and a bit excited. ‘It’s where London boy lives?’ – she did know more about him than I had led on. I was an open book, even to a four year old.
‘Yes’.
‘Will we get to meet him?’ – she got even more excited.
‘I don’t know. I can’t tell you’ – I told you this was fun, for both of us, I think.
The flight did not seem long. The airport transfer went as planned.
You could say that the whole way I was busy with logistics. Until we reached the 21st floor.
I believe by then I could not think, I just needed to see him.
When we located the right apartment, I asked my daughter to knock on his door.
I can’t concentrate, my breathing is too shallow and I smile like a fool. I think I’m in love.
I’d say it’s about damn time.
Let’s start with a fact that my daughter has a vivid imagination. Very vivid. And for a long time her only response to my any statement or question was: ‘When I lived in England… ‘. It was cute at first but then it started to annoy me a little bit. She had never lived in England. I had. She knows nothing about it.
So after her many responses of ‘when I lived in England…’ I decided to do something about it.
We we going to go to England.
And not just any part of it, but the best part – London.
When I started to put a plan in place I decided to keep the trip a secret from my daughter. Her birthday was coming up so this was going to be a part of my gift for her.
I was surprised to find out that so many people I had talked to about it have not been to London. It was hard to believe – London is just 2 hours and a bit away on the plane. There is a huge expat community over there. So many of my friends had lived there (some still do) for years. And I myself had been to London so many times! Wait… What?
And then it came to me. I have not visited London many times. I have done it only once. I’m talking about a proper visit, where I got to walk, see, eat and take pictures. That was 11 years ago.
All the other times I was simply at one of London airports, catching a connecting flight back home. Ha! And personally, when somebody says they’ve ‘been’ to a city or country, but had only seen the inside of the airport, that is the true ‘not been there’ to me.
So I felt that visiting London after many years would be good for me as well. Of course, though, it was all because of my girl – she had to see what England (and London) was all about.
My friend Karla saw straight through me:
‘This is like Homer Simpson getting a bowling ball for Marge’s birthday just because he wants it himself’, – she said in her voice message.
That is after she found out I was going to take Mia to London and we were going to FINALLY meetLondon boy. Not only that, we were going to stay with him. Yup, you read it right, this was happening.
For the sake of me I can’t really remember how the plan fell into place. I am not sure whether he offered to stay with him or I asked. All I knew is that we were going to London and something big was going to happen.
Here’s a gentle reminder: I’ve know the guy for almost three years and I’d done it all (mostly begged) but he never came to see me.
And now, with everything set in place, bags almost packed, all I could think about was his question:
Our summer had passed without major ups and downs. I’d say that we had finally settled in, a bit over a year after coming back to Europe. My daughter has friends, lots of them. I made friends, too. We are happy with the way our life is. Of course, going gets tough at times, but it’s only to be expected, and we get through it.
By the time the fall came, another summer romance ended. The men that I meet are simply not what I’m looking for. And what I’m looking for remains a mystery. ‘Good luck with that’, – I can almost hear you say. And I agree – good luck to me, not knowing what I want.
I had closed all dating apps. I feel free and I feel good.
The school year has started again and the fall routine has set in. We had been blessed with peaceful moments.
Until the day when a friend came for a visit. I’d met him in Mexico around 2 years ago. Our date was pretty ordinary, and it didn’t leave extremely good or bad memories. We had kept in touch all this time checking in on each other every once in a while.
‘I’ll be in your city in September’, – he announced one day.
He travels all the time – it’s what he does. And this time he was in my neck of the woods. Of course, it’s always a pleasure to see a familiar face.
I had warned my girl that I would come to pick her up after work with a friend. I didn’t say much more, as that’s what he is, a friend. And so our walk to the kindergarten on that day was full of talk and smiles, of catching up, the conversation flowed easily.
When I saw her, playing outside, I expected her to run towards me shouting ‘My mama is here!’ just like she always does. She runs, she almost flies, with the biggest smile on her face. This time she just stood where she was and she watched. My friend was walking by my side.
When I came up to my daughter, I saw tears swell in her eyes. I saw sadness and curiosity, and I heard hope in her shaky voice: ‘Is this my daddy?’ – she asked, still staring at him.
Oh, Lord… I did not expect that. She knew well her daddy had been gone for a long time now, she knew that. How could he be alive? How could she ask that?
Without looking back at my friend, I realized the sun was just behind us while we walked, and we must have looked like (un)familiar faces to her. But still… How could her daddy possibly walk next to me?..
But to her, it seemed entirely possible. It broke my heart.
‘No, my love, this is not your daddy. It’s a friend I had mentioned to you before’, – I told her, pulling her into embrace. At that moment she seemed so unsure of herself, of her surroundings. I held her close to my chest till I was sure she was OK. And then I held her for a bit longer.
If only… If only one day a miracle like that could happen.
One day, when my daughter reads this, she will get to know her dad. My words will paint her many a picture. My blog will tell her many a story. She will get to know him well.
She will also get to know me, her mother.
What kind of mother am I?
The one that stops traffic to get her daughter’s balloon.
… I told her to hold it tight. She did until a second later she didn’t. Once we turned round the corner, she lost her grip and the strong wind took it away. Shouting ‘Don’t run into the street, stay here!’ I started running after the balloon. Looking back, it was tremendously funny. At that moment, it wasn’t. She was crying, and I was chasing the god damn balloon. The cars stopped (thankfully the traffic was not that heavy), the drivers smiled and nodded in understanding, and I managed to get hold of it. I felt like a hero. She stopped crying. I carried the balloon the rest of the way home…
The one that asks a stranger for a tulip for her child.
… She’s been telling me for a while she only liked red and blue flowers (the courtesy of the Spider man). There were many beautiful flowers on the way to her kindergarten. Tulips were plenty as well. And my girl had to have a red one. Sure, I could have bought her one. But where is the fun in that? So we tried to find a tulip that belonged to no one, so we could just pick it up and take it home. Alas, all of them were fenced up – beautiful, but unattainable. Explaining that we always needed to ask, and take ‘no’ with the same grace, I asked an older lady pottering in her garden if she’d agree to give one rose to my daughter. ‘Only one?’, – the lady wanted to be sure. When I nodded, she asked: ‘Which one?’, this time addressing my daughter. My girl picked the biggest, most beautiful flower…
The one that needs kisses and cuddles more that her daughter does.
… I fear the day she no longer wants to hold my hand…
The one that smiles to herself when her daughter talks about her dad.
… ‘Mommy, I really want daddy’, – she says before falling asleep. ‘I know’, – I do know. ‘So he can put twins in your belly’, – she continues and I smile in the dark.
The one that worries.
… ‘How can I protect her from all the bad in the world?’ – I ask. ‘Unfortunately, you can’t’, – he says. ‘But teach her values and be as real as you can.’
The one that hopes ‘I love you’ never ends.
… ‘To infinity and back’ – is what I say. ‘To the moon… To all the houses… Always…’ – is what she says. ‘Mommy, I know everything ends. But our love will never end’…
The one that never learned to be patient.
… ‘You need to make patience your friend’ sounded good when I read it to her, a little girl barely 2 years old. But what looks good on paper doesn’t necessarily work, for me, in real life…
The one that lies sometimes.
… Before she was born I swore to myself I’d tell the truth and nothing but the truth. That was until her first tantrum. After that I believe little lies don’t hurt anybody and make life more peaceful for both of us…
The one that believes in her beauty.
… No matter which way you look at her, inside and out, not doubt and 100%, she really, she truly is the most beautiful girl in the whole world.
The one that feels grateful.
… The most blessed person on Earth, because I got her…
When asked for an update, my friend Karla said: ‘I have a nanny. She comes once or twice a week. And I go to these meetings, where…’. I stopped listening as soon as I heard ‘and I go’. Me? I also go. I go places with my daughter or I don’t go at all. I don’t have a nanny.
Am I happy? Of course! Is it difficult to find new friends, make connections? Yup, it certainly is.
And that was all I needed. That update from Karla. Nope, it’s not what you think. I still don’t have a nanny (working on it, promise you), but I did get to go out (one of those rare occasions).
It doesn’t matter where I went (it was way too hot there, I was literally sweating and my face was burning. Talk about trying to make a good first impression). It doesn’t matter who was there (people from all walks of life, plus a cockroach, which I noticed half dead under the table). And it really is not relevant what we drank (I had a glass of wine in a pub. But it could have been worse). What matters is that I was alone and did not have a beautiful little girl to hide behind.
I don’t know how many of you are at ease walking into a room full of strangers and striking up a conversation, keeping up that conversation, not to bore others and not to be bored yourself. I certainly am not. And on my way there, I did want to turn around and go back home, telling myself and didn’t need any of it and the safety of my own home was much more inviting. But you don’t know me well enough if you think I give up so easily. I love meeting new people and hearing their stories. I also don’t mind sharing my own stories. The problem is how to get from the point where you enter the pub to the point where you are telling stories.
I entered the room holding tight to my glass of wine, smile plastered on my face. ‘Fake it till you make it’, – I repeated in my mind.
The six or so people who were already there all looked up. ‘Keep smiling,’ – I told myself.
As fast as I could, I lowered myself into a chair next to the closest person.
The glass safe at hand, I looked left and right, listened, and kept smiling. Once there, surrounded by others, it didn’t take long for me to join in. I listened, I talked, I even laughed. I could also feel more than one pair of eyes boring into me. It’s like the people couldn’t get enough of me, I’m not kiddin’. Conversation flowed. It went from that person to another one, and then to the third one and so on. I was finally comfortable in my own skin.
It felt good. I had a great time, and I tried really hard to forget about the cockroach. Soon enough I announced to my new friends I was about to leave. Timing was everything: being one of the first ones there made it easier for me to join in conversations; leaving early enough, when I was in the highest of spirits, allowed me to end the night just right .
With a genuine smile on my face I left. It was a good night.
Except it was not quite over yet.
‘I’m glad I met you’, – my phone flashed a message. I did take the numbers of those I talked to the most.
‘Thanks for a good company’, – a flash from a different number.
As I got ready for bed, I whispered: ‘Thank you, Karla’.
