Sometimes I get up at 7:30. Sometimes at 10:00. I sleep with the white noise of the mosquito-prevention fan. The door of my room blocks any other sound in the apartment. So unless Lucy knocks loudly to request help, only my consciousness gently suggests when it's time to get up. My windows face the alley, with walls and apartment buildings opposite, so even at the brightest part of the day only indirect light reaches the room. I could lie in twilight all day with little idea of passing hours to nip at the remains of a conscience undermined by semi-tropical lethargy.
Sometimes, though, Lucy does knock in the morning, looking weary and holding her harumph-ing baby. Phillipe has decided that it's day before his parents have heard reveille. He's always correct: after 6:30 it is indisputably day. He's got every right to be awake. But Lucy passes him off to me and she and Yves do their best to get another hour before he cries again to be nursed.
Phillipe, at three weeks now, is no longer the flexible newborn of soft bone and flesh he was, but a person with a substantial, formed body, and with feet on legs that extend all the way to the extremities of his giraffe pajamas. His head is no longer subsumed by his cotton cap with the self-assured duck that used to dive over his eyes. Phillip holds your gaze and even follows events across the room with his eyes. He can hold his head up now. He does not whimper his complaints, but bellows them. His cries are clearly distinguishable from those of the cats that fight or mate in the vacant lot.
Once the family has resigned itself to being up and awake, morning routines begin in a lackadaisical way. If I'm up first, I make coffee in the expresso maker. If Lucy or Yves gets up during the process, I give it to them. If not, I count myself lucky and luxuriate in it all by myself. I put on a big pot of water to boil figuring that someone will want a shower during the next hour; it would be nice to have preheated water and not to have to wait.
And if there's still no family stirring, I do dishes. They are always with us. They have low priority, especially in the evening when everyone is ready for bed. We soak them with Madar to keep the ants at bay, and that's more or less effective. In the morning, we have to empty the drain rack of the dinnerware and new glasses (to the living room Alfa-made shelves); the flatware (into used jam and mayo jars), and cooking pots, which we throw under the counter, helter-skelter. When the rack is empty, we wash the dirty things one by one with a Madar infused sponge, rinse each under the tap, and leave it to dry in the rack. I've adjusted to the fact that there is no hot running water. I just use extra detergent and scrub extra hard.
Dishes are something that get done throughout the day—or don't. If the ant mobs come, whoever's in the kitchen will wash up quickly. For Lucy, it's often a quiet retreat to do dishes.
When Lucy is finally out of bed and nursing Phillipe in the living room, I make our breakfast of coffee and oatmeal with raisins, sugar and milk. It's a luxury for her to have breakfast come to her, and I'm pleased to offer a pleasant resignation to day after her night of waking up every two hours under pressure.
And eventually Lucy makes breakfast for Yves. Though I could do this, it's part of their obligation to one another, a marital ritual they are determined not to give up. She makes him an omlette and serves it with a good chunk of baguette. It's family rhythm and routine, respect, and reassurance that they can keep the thread of familiarity weaving through their new life.
Yves or I usually need to make at least one trip to the corner boutique for a baguette, water, milk, a new lighter for the range, or eggs for the omlette.
In the morning I scrub the baby's clothes out in the courtyard under the tap, rinse them well, and hang them out to dry on the lines. Phillipe is clearly on a great growth spurt due to his prodigious amount of nursing. Nursing has its consequences, ultimately ending in the laundry. I have become quicker at this work and stronger. I call myself the Meisterwringer, but my joke is lost on the family.
While I occupy myself with that, Yves and Lucy give the baby his bath together: They enjoy it. Phillipe howls but settles down when he's fresh and dressed in clean clothes. This begins his most alert and fun part of the day, when his parents love to play with him. He interacts with them, looks around, studies things, and is beginning to try to reach toward things.
Morning also includes showers for Lucy and Yves. I save mine for the afternoon since the morning is so busy. All these morning activities happen in whatever order and at whatever speed allows Phillipe to have one of us with him at all times.
Which brings us around to the definition of morning. Lucy and I may be eating oatmeal at any time between 8:00 and 11:30. Baby's bath is usually no later than noon or 1:00, but that's not a given. Showers, dishes, laundry, the trash if we hear the whistle…All the essential routines and the wake-up schedule are complete between 2:30 and 4:30 in the afternoon. That is, most of the day is the morning.
Lunch might be leftovers; a ripe local canteloupe; a hearty, fragrant meal of beef stew with rice that sister Coco surprises us with; a chunk of baguette with Chocopain--the local version of Nutella, made with Senegal's biggest export, peanuts.
So when is dinner? It's at 7:00 one night, 11:00 the next, or, if Coco has brought us beef stew for lunch, we snack and gratefully fall asleep as early as we can. Morning over, another comes quickly.
Sometimes, though, Lucy does knock in the morning, looking weary and holding her harumph-ing baby. Phillipe has decided that it's day before his parents have heard reveille. He's always correct: after 6:30 it is indisputably day. He's got every right to be awake. But Lucy passes him off to me and she and Yves do their best to get another hour before he cries again to be nursed.
Phillipe, at three weeks now, is no longer the flexible newborn of soft bone and flesh he was, but a person with a substantial, formed body, and with feet on legs that extend all the way to the extremities of his giraffe pajamas. His head is no longer subsumed by his cotton cap with the self-assured duck that used to dive over his eyes. Phillip holds your gaze and even follows events across the room with his eyes. He can hold his head up now. He does not whimper his complaints, but bellows them. His cries are clearly distinguishable from those of the cats that fight or mate in the vacant lot.
Once the family has resigned itself to being up and awake, morning routines begin in a lackadaisical way. If I'm up first, I make coffee in the expresso maker. If Lucy or Yves gets up during the process, I give it to them. If not, I count myself lucky and luxuriate in it all by myself. I put on a big pot of water to boil figuring that someone will want a shower during the next hour; it would be nice to have preheated water and not to have to wait.And if there's still no family stirring, I do dishes. They are always with us. They have low priority, especially in the evening when everyone is ready for bed. We soak them with Madar to keep the ants at bay, and that's more or less effective. In the morning, we have to empty the drain rack of the dinnerware and new glasses (to the living room Alfa-made shelves); the flatware (into used jam and mayo jars), and cooking pots, which we throw under the counter, helter-skelter. When the rack is empty, we wash the dirty things one by one with a Madar infused sponge, rinse each under the tap, and leave it to dry in the rack. I've adjusted to the fact that there is no hot running water. I just use extra detergent and scrub extra hard.
Dishes are something that get done throughout the day—or don't. If the ant mobs come, whoever's in the kitchen will wash up quickly. For Lucy, it's often a quiet retreat to do dishes.
When Lucy is finally out of bed and nursing Phillipe in the living room, I make our breakfast of coffee and oatmeal with raisins, sugar and milk. It's a luxury for her to have breakfast come to her, and I'm pleased to offer a pleasant resignation to day after her night of waking up every two hours under pressure.
And eventually Lucy makes breakfast for Yves. Though I could do this, it's part of their obligation to one another, a marital ritual they are determined not to give up. She makes him an omlette and serves it with a good chunk of baguette. It's family rhythm and routine, respect, and reassurance that they can keep the thread of familiarity weaving through their new life.
Yves or I usually need to make at least one trip to the corner boutique for a baguette, water, milk, a new lighter for the range, or eggs for the omlette.
While I occupy myself with that, Yves and Lucy give the baby his bath together: They enjoy it. Phillipe howls but settles down when he's fresh and dressed in clean clothes. This begins his most alert and fun part of the day, when his parents love to play with him. He interacts with them, looks around, studies things, and is beginning to try to reach toward things.
Morning also includes showers for Lucy and Yves. I save mine for the afternoon since the morning is so busy. All these morning activities happen in whatever order and at whatever speed allows Phillipe to have one of us with him at all times.
Which brings us around to the definition of morning. Lucy and I may be eating oatmeal at any time between 8:00 and 11:30. Baby's bath is usually no later than noon or 1:00, but that's not a given. Showers, dishes, laundry, the trash if we hear the whistle…All the essential routines and the wake-up schedule are complete between 2:30 and 4:30 in the afternoon. That is, most of the day is the morning.
Lunch might be leftovers; a ripe local canteloupe; a hearty, fragrant meal of beef stew with rice that sister Coco surprises us with; a chunk of baguette with Chocopain--the local version of Nutella, made with Senegal's biggest export, peanuts.
So when is dinner? It's at 7:00 one night, 11:00 the next, or, if Coco has brought us beef stew for lunch, we snack and gratefully fall asleep as early as we can. Morning over, another comes quickly.
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