Tag Archives: motherhood

The Magic Show–For Bosnian Moms Only

We pulled up to the tiny cultural arts center in Donji Vakuf. Excited for Cookie’s first magic show, I took her out of her car seat, saddled her on my hip, turned and froze. Ahead of me was a crowd of women and children. All women and children–there was not a man in sight. In the parking lot behind me cars were pulling up and dropping off, men at the wheel speeding away, women and children on foot. Jas put his hand on my back and guided me into the building–the slightest smirk on his face that usually appears when he sees me engulfed in culture shock. 

In America, a “family event” like a magic show is for the whole family. In Bosnia, I discovered that evening, it is for moms and children. Not that men wouldn’t be welcome to join in–they just don’t. It’s not their place. Their role is to provide for their families, not to indulge in the children’s fun particularly after a long day of work and particularly when there’s a soccer game somewhere in the world and a television broadcasting it. 

Parenting roles are very clearly defined by gender in Bosnia and as such are reminiscent of 1950’s America. This has rankled my sister-in-law Jasmina since she got married and had children. As the men in her family always took a more active and therefore unorthodox role in caring for the home and children, she wasn’t prepared for her husband’s more traditional ways. At the time of our visit, she had just ended a cooking strike to get him to help around the house. “If I can work full-time, then he can help take care of the children and the house” she told me. “Until then, he’s not eating.” 

Once in the auditorium I was relieved to see a few males in the back of the room, then distressed to see them exit after kissing their children. We found seats next to M. the wife of one of Jas’s childhood friends and her children. She gave Jas a sidelong look. “Aren’t you going to watch soccer with the guys?” she asked.

“Yes, you can go,”  I piped up.

He looked at me smiling. “That’s ok. I’ll stay for awhile.”  

See my face? I’m praying that the guy sitting behind me stays for the show. He didn’t.

The show started. I tried to pay attention, but I couldn’t get comfortable. The magician was the only other man in the room. It was like Jas wasn’t meant to be there. Or shouldn’t be there. After urging him to head out for the tenth time he rose from his seat. And that was when Cookie decided that he wasn’t going anywhere. When he tried to put her in my lap she squealed and squirmed. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to coax her to stay with me. The other women began to take notice. I’m certain they did. What kind of mother was I? Why wouldn’t my little one sit with me? And who was this man I married? Didn’t he have something better to do than sit and watch a kid’s magic show? At home, such thoughts would never have crossed my mind, but here I felt cloaked in inadequacy. 

Jas stayed for the whole thing. He was one of the first in the face-painting line with Cookie at the end of the show. Towering over the women, smiling from ear to ear as a butterfly was painted onto her cheek. Grinning for the camera. The women looked at him, then looked at me and my empty, empty arms–theirs all full of children.

A happy, happy Tata.

A happy, happy Tata.

As the group began to break up, Cookie and I, M. and her children and a few other women headed to a cafe close by.  Jas hopped in the car to meet his friends at the bar and catch up on the soccer game, planning to pick us up later. Cookie was sleepy at this point and easily settled into my arms and I felt better as Jas drove away and we all walked to the cafe. And then Cookie started to cry and squirm. She had had a stomachache the night before and as I tried to comfort her now I could feel her forehead heating up. I said goodnight to the women and walked the seven blocks home, holding Cookie all the way as she refused to walk.

After Jas learned that we were at home (having been texted by M.), he did his own disappearing act that night, drinking and catching up with his childhood friends until the wee hours of the morning. I gave Cookie a bath and dressed her for bed. I administered some Tylenol when her fever spiked. I rocked her, walking up and down the balcony for what seemed like hours until she fell asleep, my muscles aching and shaking. I cuddled and soothed her back to sleep each time the pain from her head or tummy woke her up.

For the first time that night I was adequate. And exhausted. And not a little jealous of my husband.

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Filed under Bosnia-Herzegovina, Parenting

Differences Between Mamas & Tatas–A Visual

“Mama, sing Number Five” my girl said to me as she snuggled down for bed.

Number Five?” I asked, wracking my brain.

“Yah. Number Five” she nodded.

“Um….I’m not sure I know that song.”

“Ok. Sing Silly Dogs Mama.”

“Huh. How about…She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain?”

“Yah. That’s good too.”

Later that night I told Jas, “Cookie asked me to sing Number Five and Silly Dogs.”

He nodded. “Those are my songs.”

“Oh?! How do they go?”

“I’m not really sure. I just make them up as I go along.”

I’ve been reading a lot about fathers lately–how their approaches to parenting expose children to different styles of communication, and how their methods of play introduce unpredictability. Ultimately the way men (speaking generally of course) parent help children become more independent, preparing them for dealing with all types of real-world situations. Following are some visual parenting differences I’ve captured over the past couple of years–a celebration of mama and tata (daddy) styles in our home.

How Mama dresses me:

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Easter dress

How Tata dresses me:

"She picked it out."

“She picked it out.”

How Mama plays with me:

At the touch museum

At the touch museum

How Tata plays with me:

"Higher Tata! Higher!"

“Higher Tata! Higher!”

"Yaaaaaaah!"

“Yaaaaaaah!”

Tools Mama lets me play with:

Making muffins.

Making muffins.

Tools Tata lets me play with:

Building a shelf.

Building a shelf.

Snack with Mama:

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Shucking corn

Snack with Tata:

Ok, she didn't actually have Nutella this young, but it was only a matter of time...

Ok, she didn’t actually have Nutella this young, but it was only a matter of time…

...before we had our first Nutella face.

…before we had our first Nutella face.

Sharing Mama’s loves:

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Pulled all the books off the shelf

Sharing Tata’s loves:

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Goal!

And yet, we still snuggle the same:

DSCF0765         DSCF0153

Happy Father’s Day to all the unpredictable, delightful Tatas out there!

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I’d love to hear your own mama/tata parenting/ parented observations, so please share with me.

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A Birthday Wish for My Daughter Turning Two

A bit of a departure from my usual focus, but something that was very much on my mind and in my heart. 

Dear Cookie,

Tomorrow you’ll turn two years old and the past few days I’ve found myself feeling nostalgic, remembering all of the little moments and delights you’ve brought to my life. I’ve been blessed with a front-row seat to your discoveries many of them based on physical milestones–walking, running, climbing, holding objects of different sizes, even turning the pages of a book–and your own personal marvel at all of the things your body can do. It’s been quite a journey. 

As I bathed and dressed you tonight I saw how long your thighs (of all things) have grown, but was tickled to see that they’re still soft and round with little pockets of pudge. Like cream puffs.  How I love them. And how much you’ve enjoyed them. Your thighs are responsible for so much you’ve seen and discovered over the past two years. Without your thighs, would you have been able to climb the rope ladders at the gym, chase our dog, trudge through the snow, swim in the pool? Would you be the same girl you are, you’re becoming without such experiences? And yet as I admired them it struck me that qualities such as pastry-like thighs are unfortunately, in our culture, only valued in the very young.  Ten years from now, will you want your mom (or anyone else for that matter) to notice your thighs, much less compliment them for being anything but thin? skinny? lean?  For your birthday my girl, I’ve decided to make my own wish. A wish for you and your thighs. 

My wish is that you will escape the disease that afflicts so many American women today–the turn from appreciating our bodies and the way they bring us through the world (and others miraculously into it) to the scrutiny, obsession and unnecessary shame over how our bodies look. That a woman who has always been thin is writing this to you demonstrates how sinister, deceptive and blinding this disease can be. For it wasn’t until I had you that I learned to appreciate what my body can do rather than how it looks. My wish is that you will not follow in these footsteps. 

My wish is that you will remember the light you felt when you took your first steps.

My wish is that you will not forget how your thighs allow you to run, jump, and climb. That should you find yourself years from now jogging in place on a treadmill at the gym it’s because such exercise makes you feel good and clears your mind, not because you enjoyed a slice (or four) of your own birthday cake the night before. The woman running on the treadmill next to you will be sweating to change the shape and size of her thighs oblivious to the fact that they are the reason she is able to run at all. May you be spared such an ironic fate.

May you never wrap a towel around your waist at the pool because you don’t want others to see you jiggle.

May you never circle your thigh or any other part of you with a tape measure.

May you never own a scale which, like so many other numbers, measures nothing.

May you always see food as one of the great joys of this world, one that brings people together; and may you never see food as an enemy–something to fear and feel shame over. May you recognize how lucky you are to have access to food at all.

May a mirror never make you cry. Or even make you shake your head.

May you realize that the people in this world worth your time, worth a place in your heart, are those who don’t care what size your thighs (or anyone else’s) are.

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This is my wish for you, my sweet girl with thighs like rum babas.

Love,

Mama

ps–Off to bake your birthday cupcakes.

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