Our life pre-Botswana, was in Cold Spring, NY.
We moved to Cold Spring when Macallan was only a few months old.
Peter didn’t want her growing up in Manhattan and so I agreed to the
transplant. It would only take me a few months of commuting to realized I
wasn’t willing to have a stranger raise my child while I worked at my dream job
that took me away from her for 11 hours a day.
So, I quit my job at Scholastic in order to be a full time
mom and a freelance writer. Afterall, isn’t that why I became a writer in the
first place? I had agreed to my parents’ stipulation that they give my siblings
and me a great life and in return they required us to finish college. They
would support us through any school we wanted (and could get into) but we had
to finish school. They encouraged me to go into journalism because that would
allow me to “work” but not keep me away from my children. They were still very
old school, even though my mom was far from domestic and her mother even less
so. Growing up American, meant I would have to cook and clean, unlike in the
Philippines where there were servants to do that. I needed to know how to make
my husband happy. So, my interest in reading and writing led to their
fostering my career in journalism – just as long as I remembered that my place,
eventually, would be in the home.
All of my life I fought against this double standard. I had
arguments with my parents, both my mother and father, asking why I had to go to
college if they insisted my only option was to be a housewife? Their response
was that I would eventually understand. But I didn’t.
I even spent ten years in therapy trying to decipher the
hidden message. My mother hated being a housewife. Resented being thought this
was all she was worth and reminded her children that she was the smart one in
the family. She did not pursue her medical career because she had met my father
and gotten married. From that day on, she was his wife and even as a
traditional Filipina, she resented it.
Something she inadvertently passed onto her daughters. My
sister and I were encouraged to pursue our hearts’ desire in terms of
schooling. But our brothers were forced into distinguished careers - my older
brother was forced into medicine. At some point that ‘wild’ American influence
would get the better of all of us and we all rebelled, just as my grandfather
had said.
The girls didn’t want to be subjugated. The boys didn’t want
to follow in our father’s footsteps.
And here I was, a journalist so that I could be a good
mother to my children. And as much as I resisted, I realize today, this was the
very best profession for me. This form of expression turned out to be my
calling and being a stay at home mom is the best blessing. My parents were
right in their assumptions. If only I hadn’t resisted for so long. I would have
lived a much more grateful life.
But I digress.
I gave up MY dream job and my life in Manhattan because my
husband didn’t think his kids should be relegated to the concrete jungle. OK.
Fine. We lived in Manhattan for many years and because we were new parents and
I didn’t want to rock the boat too much, I agreed.
But if I were to live in a remote village away from the
greatest city on earth, I would go and make the best of it. And so I did. I
made good friends and created that sense
of home that I had always wanted. I was involved in several play groups, was an
active member of the community, and over the years really made the most of our
suburban life. And we still went into the city. Macallan and at one time,
Markham were models and we would go into the city for go see’s, auditions, and
shoots.
They were equally comfortable hiking as they were hailing a
cab. Best of all worlds.
And when we told our many friends in Cold Spring of our
decision to move, they were like, ‘well of course!’
Some acquaintances would respond with, “Wow! You
are so brave!” “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” “You’re nuts!”
But obviously, they didn’t know us.
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