From the Beginning - Chapter Three revised

     Our life pre-Botswana was in Cold Spring, NY.

     We moved there when Macallan was only a few months old. Peter didn’t want her growing up in Manhattan and so I agreed to the transplant. Marriage was a matter of trade-offs. This was mine.

     But it would only take me a few months of commuting to realize that I wasn’t willing to have a stranger raise my child. The decision wasn’t easy.  That meant leaving my dream job as an editor at Scholastic because she was in daycare for eleven hours a day.

     Eleven hours where my baby slept, ate and had her diapers changed by someone else. She was often sick from being exposed to so many others and with them, so many germs. She learned things like pulling herself up and around before she learned to walk. One day, she came home with a bloody lip.  The sitter said she hit her mouth on the coffee table when her knees buckled as she ‘cruised’ the room.  But, she added, she couldn’t be sure.

     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 I 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 lead 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 supposed to be a doctor. 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 a 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 was going to live in a remote village away from the greatest city on earth, I was going to 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 and shoot.

     They were equally comfortable hiking as they were hailing a cab - best of all worlds.

And so, when we told our many friends of our decision to move, they were like, ‘Well, of course!’

    Some people we didn’t know well 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.

Peter, for a time, had worked as a falconer at JFK airport to scare geese off the runways using birds of prey. He also was a certified hard-hat diver and would inspect bridges in and around Manhattan underwater.

     At home, we hatched an egg and raised the chick into a rooster we called Fried. He watched TV with us, crowed went it was time for the kids to go to school and when they would return. He played tag and even engaged with our dog as if they were best friends. Upon leaving for Botswana, we found him a home as a pet for a Peruvian woman in town. Years later, when we returned to the USA to see family, we visited Fried. And you know what? He came right over to us and stood next to the kids as he had done several years before, as if no time had passed.

     We also had an alligator from a Florida farm that we named Osama. On September 10, 2001, we had him ''overnighted' to us with the words, Live Animal imprinted on the sides of the pint-sized box. But then September 11th happened and the world stood still. 
     Our little gator was held for five extra days as the world waited for the dust to settle on NYC. When he finally arrived, he was spitting mad and never quite recovered. He tried his damnedest to kill us, jumping at our hands when we fed him, lunging for us as we walked by his tank, hopping to pop off the top so that he could get free. We had another name for him, originally, but Osama seemed most fitting.

     And then there was Oz. When we had moved out of the city, my husband wanted an English Setter. Can you imagine? I had a toddler and a puppy – both needing to be potty trained.

On a spring day, I put Oz outside on a chain. He had water and food and shade but the lure of the children laughing and playing next door at the school was too much for him. He got lose and ran to where the fun was. He was jumping on the kids and a few were frightened. I got a call and had to drop everything to go retrieve him.

     But that wasn’t nearly as bad as the time I opened the door for the Fed Ex messenger and Oz got lose. We lived off of a very busy street and of course, he ran straight into traffic. Here I was, carrying Macallan in my arms, running as fast as I could down a muddy road, screaming for our dog to “Stop, Oz, stop!” Macallan was crying. I was hysterical and OZ at six-months-old was ecstatic as he ran full speed ahead toward cars traveling 45 mph.

     Just before I got to the road, I put Macallan down and told her to “Stay here.” She didn’t stay. The dog didn’t stop, and I could barely catch my breath.

     Luckily, a driver pulled over and got out of her car. She caught the attention of the other drivers and traffic halted while she caught our dog and brought him to me.

I didn’t even have a leash with me, so there I was, embarrassed, relieved, scared and overwhelmed, bent over, I dragged Oz back up the hill to our home as I carried Macallan in my arms. That was the lowest of our low points.

     After 8 years as part of the family, there was no question he would be going to Africa, too. Even though his airfare was more than ours and the series of shots required were time-sensitive, we knew we wouldn’t be leaving him behind.

     As it turned out, his paperwork would take so long that a fax arrived the day before we were to leave and we hoped customs would accept that in lew of a signed document. As we were boarding the limo for the airport, the nurse from the Vet’s office personally drove the paperwork to us, making Oz’s official documentation legal by a matter of minutes.

     How difficult was that limo ride? My mom, brother, and some friends were at our house to say good-bye. We were too excited to be sad. As our town disappeared from view and we waved good bye to Miss Connie’s Montesorri, the playground, the view of the Hudson River, I felt a surge of gratitude to the many people who made this move such a natural progression. It would be this part of the journey that made me take note of each and every step, misstep, side-step and leap-of-faith that progressed us from one stage of our life to another. How easy it is now to look back and see where we were going all along.