This weekend my second youngest nephew and his parents came for a visit. Although I knew we would be watching him in while his parents went to a Yankees game, having already baby-proofed my uterus, I never thought about the need to baby-proof our house.
For nap time, we, the trusting, childfree couple that we are, thought, in our infinite wisdom, it would be just fine to put the little one down, alone, in our room while we took a nap in the adjacent office. Now, in all honesty, my motives for putting my nephew to sleep in one room while we took a nap in another room had less to do with him and more to do with my fleeting desire to “get some” while the kid was asleep and his parents were away. However, as soon as my weary beloved and I sank onto the futon, we may as well have had kids of our own for how quickly the thoughts of sex fled our minds as the glory of sleep took over…in the middle of a conversation nonetheless! While we napped we were blissfully oblivious to the quite curiosities of a “sleeping” three-year-old.
Unbeknownst to me, as we slumbered peacefully, my perfect little nephew was surreptitiously teaching one of our cats what we keep in each of our dresser drawers; this despite both himself and the cat knowing that only people are allowed in this room. He was working his way through the bottom drawer, my lingerie drawer, when I stumbled into the room, foolishly thinking he was still asleep. As my befuddled brain tried to process the scene in front of me, my first, sleepy thought was, “How did the cat get in the bedroom and what is my nephew holding in his hand?” This was immediately followed by, “Oh crap, how do I explain to him what is in his hands? Do I lie? Do I tell him it is just lotion? What will my sister do when she finds out? Do I even need to tell her?”
With his wide blue eyes he turned to me and said, “Aunt Elizabeth, what’s this? Can I put it on?” Instantly grateful that he wasn’t talking about my lingerie, I quickly decided to tell him a version of the truth and explained that he was holding a bottle of lotion in his hands and that he doesn’t need that at his age. After all, what three-year-old needs arousal gel anyway? Somewhat satisfied with that answer, he went back to rummaging through the bag of assorted lubes we keep on hand and again asked if he can put some of this mysterious stuff on. I tried to shake the sleep out of my brain and diverted his attention to the bottle of hand lotion on my nightstand. “Here.” I said, “Put this lotion on. It smells really good and it is good for your hands.” Somehow I failed to notice he had already used that bottle. “I know.” He said. “I already tried it.” That was when the last vestiges of sleepiness left my brain and I thought, “Oh, shit, what else did he find in this room?”
I started to open my nightstand drawer, when, without a moment’s hesitation, he told me that he already looked in that drawer and, oh, by the way, “There’s a really big mess on the other side of the room.” I closed the drawer, looked at him, look at the cat, look at the lube that was still in his hand and mentally assessed what is on the other side of the room before slowly asking him what he meant and how the mess got there.
With all the innocence in the world he turned his face to me. “I don’t know.” He said again. “But there is a big mess.” As I got up and walked with him to the other side of the bed, I saw that my darling nephew had gutted my partner’s nightstand and dumped the contents on the floor. In doing so, he discovered our stash of condoms, my beloved’s journal, a Warren Buffet book and the rest of our adult toys. As if that weren’t enough, everything was lying in a heap with some sort of beige colored thing shrouding the pile. It took me a moment to realize not only had he discovered things he was too young to play with, but that he had also unleashed the fury of the Dark Chocolate Raspberry Body Powder. This would explain the sickly sweet scent of fake chocolate permeating the room.
I told myself that I should be angry about this, but truth be told, I never liked the taste of the body powder anyway, and shaking the nearly empty bottle, I realized we would not be using this stuff again. I was also beginning to realize how foolish we were to leave him alone in a room without any kid toys, telling ourselves that he would be just fine. I now understood that the subtle noises I heard in my sleep were not the other cats trying to get out of the bathroom where we had thought to confine them before our naps. No, likely those noises which I instantly dismissed, were the sounds of my nephew’s eager explorations and his inability to get out of the bedroom since I forgot to leave the door ajar and he couldn’t manage the doorknob by himself.
As I sat on the bed and contemplated how to address the situation at hand, I noticed my nephew was preoccupied with something else he discovered and that the cat was about to meander through the chocolate covered pile. I shooed the cat out of the room and asked my nephew if there was anything else he played with in the bedroom. Distractedly he told me no. But when I notice the top of my perfume bottle lying on the floor, I asked him again. Without looking up, he told me that he sprayed that in his eyes and unfazed, went back to playing with whatever was in his hands. Hoping I heard him wrong, since his sense of vision seemed to be fine, I asked him to repeat what he just said. When he did he also offered up that he put on my lipstick (which fortunately was just chapstick) and that it didn’t feel too good to put the perfume in his eyes.
Eventually I gathered my wits about me and remembered that childfree or not, I was supposed to be the adult here. I decided I wasn’t angry at him and instead I felt far more annoyed with myself, but that he needed to take some level of responsibility here. So I told him that he needed to stop playing with whatever is in his hand and clean up the mess he made.
That was when I learned that a child will make a far bigger mess when trying to clean up a pile of powder than if I had just cleaned it myself. In frustration I told him that he had to vacuum the mess up. No problem and no punishment. The kid loves to vacuum! Who knew? He acted like this was his reward for redecorating our room!
When everything was cleaned up and the room smelled a little less like a NutraSweet candy shop, I realized something else was amiss. Not only did my nephew smell like chocolate, chapstick and my perfume, but apparently I forgot to ask him if he needed to go to the bathroom before he took a nap and since I had inadvertently trapped him in our bedroom, he relieved himself in his pants. As we trudged off to the bathroom I reminded myself for the zillionth time all the ways in which I am not equipped to handle this parenting stuff and I began counting down the hours until I could hand Curious George over to his more qualified handlers, I mean, parents.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Traveler's Guilt
I’ve just returned from a week in Jamaica and I am trying to keep my sense of guilt from ruining otherwise fond memories of this trip. I’d like to say my guilt started when I arrived in Jamaica, but that would be a lie. My guilt probably started as a young Catholic child and was exacerbated by being an unemployed adult who was preparing to take a vacation during a global recession. The vacation was a graduation present, so I tried to use that to alleviate some of what I was feeling, but it didn’t work very well. Months before the trip I was able to beat myself up with all the ways it was foolish to take this trip, spend this money, take this time off from looking for a job…you name it, I berated myself for it.
When we arrived in Jamaica, there were no shortage of opportunities for me to feel guilty…from listening to the travel advice and haughtily ignoring the people seeking to take us to our resort, to feeling cranky over three hours of sleep and just wanting to go to bed, to seeing firsthand the living conditions of so many people. All along the coast, from Montego Bay where we arrived, to the entrance of our resort, we were pummeled with the reality that people are living in dilapidated “homes” made of metal sheeting, roofless cement walls, even old ocean freight shipping containers while I was en route to my posh, all-inclusive resort, the likes of which I could never have afforded in the United States. The travel agent and almost everything I read beforehand told me that there is great poverty in Jamaica, but it also attempted to reassure me that the people there are “happy for what they have.” I had and still have a difficult time comprehending how people would be happy to live in glorified tin cans while their views of the pristine turquoise ocean are obliterated by endless acres of hundreds-of-dollar- a-night mega resorts.
During our first few days at our resort, I was nearly consumed with guilt over how much we spent on this trip, over how much food and alcohol we were readily able to consume and over how little the people who work here must make so that we were able to afford this vacation. I marveled at the few obnoxious travelers around me…the ones who are complaining that the bar was out of their top shelf liquor (even though they’ve been drinking since dawn and wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between top shelf and donkey piss. I stared disbelievingly at the people who ranted and raved about the lack of hot water when they chose to shower at the same time everyone else in the resort showered. These people appeared to me to be worse than oblivious to the poverty that surrounds them. They appeared to me to feel a sense of entitlement to the good life…a sense that I am almost certain they ridicule in the richer people back home.
One otherwise romantic starry, gorgeous night while lounging, fully satiated with food and drink, I decided to mention my guilt and concerns to my lover. I mean, why whisper sweet nothings in such an amorous setting when you can divulge all your feelings of inadequacy instead? I moaned and moped and mumbled on about my feelings of guilt and frustration and tried to wax philosophical about why I don’t often feel this way back at home. My lover, ever sensitive to my needs, gently reminded me that back at home we are almost always able to insulate ourselves from many of these realities by avoiding certain parts of certain cities, or by filling our lives with people who make so much more money than we do that we are the ones who look poor by comparison. Instead of making me feel better about my tumbling emotions, I felt so much worse, both for feeling the way I did and for ruining what could have otherwise been a passionate evening.
The following day, I saw a side of me that I try so hard to pretend isn’t there. My racist side. This awful side of me revealed itself when we went shopping in Ocho Rios and I was at first surprised, then frustrated and finally angry to see that all the shops we went in were apparently run by Indian men. I never knew that I had such a strong bias against Indian men, after all, the very few I have interacted with in my life have been at least cordial, even very friendly with me. However, on this particular trip, I wanted to give my money to a Jamaican store owner, which if I were being completely honest, I assumed would be someone who was black. I never considered the fact that Jamaica was once colonized by the English, as was India, and regardless, it was still possible that the men I assumed were Indian were just as much a Jamaican citizen as the stereotypical images I had of a “true” Jamaican.
The more determined I became to “give my money to a Jamaican” the more I realized how ridiculous I sounded, how racist I was being, and the more uncomfortable I became with my thoughts and the entire experience. Even now, back at home, I remain troubled by how much more “at ease” I felt when dealing with a “Jamaican” person versus an “Indian” person and I am ashamed and embarrassed to admit I had these reactions. Even in the straw markets when the “Jamaican” men kept trying to reassure me that no one was going to kidnap us here, I still felt, slightly, more at ease than I did when trying to barter with an “Indian” man…even though I was bartering with both people. I don’t know if I can’t or won’t fully explain to myself why I had these reactions and I would be mortified if my former classmate, an Indian man I have great respect for, found out I felt this way. I suppose it doesn’t do much good to lie and pretend I didn’t feel this way though. Even if other people never found out, I would still know how I felt, how I reacted. What I don’t know now is how to deal with all these emotions.
One of my final moments of guilt assailed me when we were passing time in the duty-free shops while waiting for our plane to arrive. I was looking at a huge wall of rubber flip-flops when a very young looking and very pregnant “Jamaican” woman approached me and told me that the entire wall of flip flops was on sale for $10. She just murmured one of my most favorite words and I stood entranced by a wall of colorful objects I did not need and rarely find comfortable. As I stood in silence, she told me that although the price is “a little dear”, they are the world’s most comfortable flip flops and the patterns on them will not fade. I was embarrassed by the fact that I was just thinking about how cheap they were, especially when the same brand was $30 at our resort. At $20 savings, I was contemplating if I should buy a pair even though I knew I didn’t need them and would just pack them away with the summer clothes once I returned.
As I continued to stand there in silence, I think it was embarrassment at thinking these shoes were so cheap and my feeling helpless to do anything…for the young woman next to me…for the poverty around me…for my sense of relief to be shopping in an airport instead of the chaotic straw markets…for my guilt at being able to have so many pairs of shoes…whatever it was, I picked out a pair of flip flops and convinced my beloved to buy a pair as well. When we left the store, I felt no less guilty for giving our money to a “Jamaican” and no great reward in my purchase.
I tried on my new flip flops as we continued to wait for our plane and they were so uncomfortable I regretted my impulsive purchase and I took them off as soon as we were seated. I haven’t worn them since. I also haven’t done a damn thing to alleviate my guilt, to reduce anyone’s poverty or eradicate my racist thoughts.
Other than all that, I had a fabulous time in Jamaica.
When we arrived in Jamaica, there were no shortage of opportunities for me to feel guilty…from listening to the travel advice and haughtily ignoring the people seeking to take us to our resort, to feeling cranky over three hours of sleep and just wanting to go to bed, to seeing firsthand the living conditions of so many people. All along the coast, from Montego Bay where we arrived, to the entrance of our resort, we were pummeled with the reality that people are living in dilapidated “homes” made of metal sheeting, roofless cement walls, even old ocean freight shipping containers while I was en route to my posh, all-inclusive resort, the likes of which I could never have afforded in the United States. The travel agent and almost everything I read beforehand told me that there is great poverty in Jamaica, but it also attempted to reassure me that the people there are “happy for what they have.” I had and still have a difficult time comprehending how people would be happy to live in glorified tin cans while their views of the pristine turquoise ocean are obliterated by endless acres of hundreds-of-dollar- a-night mega resorts.
During our first few days at our resort, I was nearly consumed with guilt over how much we spent on this trip, over how much food and alcohol we were readily able to consume and over how little the people who work here must make so that we were able to afford this vacation. I marveled at the few obnoxious travelers around me…the ones who are complaining that the bar was out of their top shelf liquor (even though they’ve been drinking since dawn and wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between top shelf and donkey piss. I stared disbelievingly at the people who ranted and raved about the lack of hot water when they chose to shower at the same time everyone else in the resort showered. These people appeared to me to be worse than oblivious to the poverty that surrounds them. They appeared to me to feel a sense of entitlement to the good life…a sense that I am almost certain they ridicule in the richer people back home.
One otherwise romantic starry, gorgeous night while lounging, fully satiated with food and drink, I decided to mention my guilt and concerns to my lover. I mean, why whisper sweet nothings in such an amorous setting when you can divulge all your feelings of inadequacy instead? I moaned and moped and mumbled on about my feelings of guilt and frustration and tried to wax philosophical about why I don’t often feel this way back at home. My lover, ever sensitive to my needs, gently reminded me that back at home we are almost always able to insulate ourselves from many of these realities by avoiding certain parts of certain cities, or by filling our lives with people who make so much more money than we do that we are the ones who look poor by comparison. Instead of making me feel better about my tumbling emotions, I felt so much worse, both for feeling the way I did and for ruining what could have otherwise been a passionate evening.
The following day, I saw a side of me that I try so hard to pretend isn’t there. My racist side. This awful side of me revealed itself when we went shopping in Ocho Rios and I was at first surprised, then frustrated and finally angry to see that all the shops we went in were apparently run by Indian men. I never knew that I had such a strong bias against Indian men, after all, the very few I have interacted with in my life have been at least cordial, even very friendly with me. However, on this particular trip, I wanted to give my money to a Jamaican store owner, which if I were being completely honest, I assumed would be someone who was black. I never considered the fact that Jamaica was once colonized by the English, as was India, and regardless, it was still possible that the men I assumed were Indian were just as much a Jamaican citizen as the stereotypical images I had of a “true” Jamaican.
The more determined I became to “give my money to a Jamaican” the more I realized how ridiculous I sounded, how racist I was being, and the more uncomfortable I became with my thoughts and the entire experience. Even now, back at home, I remain troubled by how much more “at ease” I felt when dealing with a “Jamaican” person versus an “Indian” person and I am ashamed and embarrassed to admit I had these reactions. Even in the straw markets when the “Jamaican” men kept trying to reassure me that no one was going to kidnap us here, I still felt, slightly, more at ease than I did when trying to barter with an “Indian” man…even though I was bartering with both people. I don’t know if I can’t or won’t fully explain to myself why I had these reactions and I would be mortified if my former classmate, an Indian man I have great respect for, found out I felt this way. I suppose it doesn’t do much good to lie and pretend I didn’t feel this way though. Even if other people never found out, I would still know how I felt, how I reacted. What I don’t know now is how to deal with all these emotions.
One of my final moments of guilt assailed me when we were passing time in the duty-free shops while waiting for our plane to arrive. I was looking at a huge wall of rubber flip-flops when a very young looking and very pregnant “Jamaican” woman approached me and told me that the entire wall of flip flops was on sale for $10. She just murmured one of my most favorite words and I stood entranced by a wall of colorful objects I did not need and rarely find comfortable. As I stood in silence, she told me that although the price is “a little dear”, they are the world’s most comfortable flip flops and the patterns on them will not fade. I was embarrassed by the fact that I was just thinking about how cheap they were, especially when the same brand was $30 at our resort. At $20 savings, I was contemplating if I should buy a pair even though I knew I didn’t need them and would just pack them away with the summer clothes once I returned.
As I continued to stand there in silence, I think it was embarrassment at thinking these shoes were so cheap and my feeling helpless to do anything…for the young woman next to me…for the poverty around me…for my sense of relief to be shopping in an airport instead of the chaotic straw markets…for my guilt at being able to have so many pairs of shoes…whatever it was, I picked out a pair of flip flops and convinced my beloved to buy a pair as well. When we left the store, I felt no less guilty for giving our money to a “Jamaican” and no great reward in my purchase.
I tried on my new flip flops as we continued to wait for our plane and they were so uncomfortable I regretted my impulsive purchase and I took them off as soon as we were seated. I haven’t worn them since. I also haven’t done a damn thing to alleviate my guilt, to reduce anyone’s poverty or eradicate my racist thoughts.
Other than all that, I had a fabulous time in Jamaica.
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