My child is being raised mostly by his grandmother. She is seventy one years away from him. He is three. She places hordes of limits on him, some reasonable, some not. This is good for him I think. Without her, I would have a hellion on my hands. Without her, he would feel at home climbing on top of glass counter tops, showing me his latest hair swishing moves. I don't find anything wrong with that other than he might fall and lose his balance. But I'd be there, no biggie, right? Grandma screams in dual tones of panic and anger when he opens the cabinets to play Chef Emeril Lagasse (one of his idols, ugh). No wonder that when I come home, he is, quite literally, climbing the walls . He needs an outlet. I have to put him in daycare, if even twice a week--for his sanity and my mom's heart.
I come home after being away from work for almost 10 hours. I am called eccentric for living with my mother while the father of the baby lives four miles down the road in an apartment. On Guam, four miles without a car is a lifetime away. Walking four miles in relentless heat and humidity is akin to taking your life in your hands. Plus he's white. We're all mostly brown down here. So many challenges. I don't even want to write about them anymore.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home