Working Mothers: Part 2

"My husband said, 'You've changed,'" and she looks at me for a response.
"Have you?" I put the question back to her.
"Yes, I have," and we both ponder this for a few moments.

I just did the math last night.  A year ago today I arrived in Tokyo to come up north, an area completely devastated by the tsunami, to begin what has ended up being a life-changing experience.  So, yes.  I've changed, too.

The woman telling me she's changed is also a working mother.  She volunteers from 9-5, then goes home to "Do laundry, make dinner, clean the house.  You know.  Wifely things."  What comes to mind immediately is her energy level.  Physical stamina is a must for all women who work outside the home, and then come home to continue Part 2 of their day.  Mental and emotional energy is also a prerequisite.  Add to this the fact the women I'm meeting live with daily reminders of how their lives were turned upside down over a year ago, I marvel at how they find the energy.

My mother used to tell me to "not spend energy on that" when I would complain about the latest injustice I faced, or the unfairness of someone's words or actions.  I much preferred to complain.  Energy?  I have plenty of that.  Right?

Wrong.  Mothers are more often than not right.  I am now keenly aware of the fact my energy level is definitely finite.  I often tap my reserves.  Knowing this is not a good thing, I have yet to figure out how to work with the energy I do have.

Working mothers in Tohoku face an entirely different set of issues than the rest of us.  My respect increases with every visit.  The more women I meet, the more I am aware of their collective strength.  To say they can handle anything is not fair.  It is, however, I believe a fair statement to make that women here cave less frequently than others I've met.  I want to learn from these Tohoku women.  How do I harness their energy?  Is there a secret?  There must be.  If so, what is it?  Do I dare just come right out and ask, "How do you keep going?" 

With each visit I have more questions than answers.  Sometimes this is daunting.  At times, it's invigorating.  On this visit, I resolve to learn more about working mothers.  They have a secret, the answers to my questions; I know it.  I'm determined to find out what it is.

Working Mothers: Part 1

Surely there will come a day when I learn not to chip my nail polish two days after getting a new coat of color.  To date, that day has not yet arrived.  Monday morning, rushing to the train station to make my way up to Ofunato, I stuck my hand in my purse looking for the train ticket that always seems to disappear.  My pointer finger hit something.  I pull my hand out looking at the nail, and sure enough.  Big chunk of color missing.  I curse.

On the train, I look through the numbers in my phone looking for the woman who runs a nail salon in Ofunato.  I haven't recorded it.  Of course.  I send her a message on Facebook.
"I just need you to fix one nail.  Can you please squeeze me in tomorrow?"  The message I get several hours later contains bad news.
"I'm so sorry!  I'm all booked tomorrow!"  While I'm surprised, I'm also pleased.  She's busy.  This is great news.  I think back to the first time we met.
"Women here want to be pretty.  We've had bad news for such a long time, you know?  I've sat here and listened to women from all over.  We've cried together.  We've laughed, too."  Here she looks up at me and we both smile.

That she's booked s a good thing.  Women here evidently are serious about wanting to be pretty.  She now has a new nail salon in one of the temporary, pre-fab business units downtown.  The last time we met, she was running the salon out of her living room.

The portion of my nail showing through from under the chipped color is now larger.  I must keep snagging it on something.  My attempts to fill in the missing color with lipstick are not working.  I smudge everything I touch.  I decide to beg.

"I promise I'll do it myself even.  I just need the color.  Can I please come over some time?"
Her reply is full of emoticons with various smiles and giggles.
"Come over after 5 tomorrow.  We'll make it work."
I thank her profusely and later in the afternoon make my way to her new salon.  What awaited me there made me respect this woman all over again. 

Walking into the salon with lavender walls, white molding, and black metal mesh separating the room in half, three small children run towards me.  The three-year old girl stops suddenly, looks up at me and says, "You're English?"

Her word for English is not the Japanese word describing those from Great Britain.  It's the word for the English language.

"I am," I reply.  "I'm English."  She looks up at her mother, the woman I came to see, and says, "Mama, she's English."
I say hello to my friend, realizing her working day is done, and that she stayed late just for me, her kids along with her.  Crap.  This is not good.
"Come in, come in," and she's all smiles.  As usual.
The three-year old tags along behind me, and takes a seat at the nail booth next to mine, eyes still on me.  Her mother and I look at my chipped nail, agreeing I get a new color on all fingers.
"Do you really have the time?  Your day's done, isn't it?  I'm so sorry I made you stay late."
"No, no.  It's fine."
I settle into the chair, and look towards the two girls, the three-year old and her older sister, maybe eight.  As mama takes my nail polish off one finger at a time, the evidently not at all shy three-year starts singing the Alphabet Song.
"You speak English!" I say, and she beams.  I start singing with her.  Around "G" her letters start sounding the same, and she's inserting plain old foreign-sounding noises as she sings along with the melody.  Then she starts counting to ten.  I count with her.

My friend asks me what color I want, and we look through the selection.  I choose one, pay her, and tell her, "Let's make this quick.  You need to go, don't you?"

The little boy, maybe 20-months or so, comes over to his mother with a bag of cookies. 
"Open this for him," she tells the oldest daughter.  He fills his mouth with cookies, spilling crumbs over the floor.  The black and white checker design is bold. 
"I love your carpet," I tell my friend.  "The floor in my kitchen back home is like this, too."
"Really?  It's pretty wild, isn't it?"
"It is.  Not just anyone could pull this off."
"Especially not anyone here," she grins, and I laugh along with her.
"I know.  You're good.  It works.  It suits you."

Mama says to the girl eating animal crackers, "Get the vacuum cleaner out and sweep up these crumbs."  The boy takes over the vacuuming, pushing and pulling the little machine all over the room.

"What's this?" The three-year old holds up a cracker shaped like a bear.
"Bear," I say. 
"Beaaaaa," she repeats.
"Yes!"
"Jes," is what I hear from her mouth full of crackers.
"This?" The older one holds up an animal.  I can't tell what it is.
"What is that?"
"Porcupine," she tells me.
"Oh, that's a hard one.  You want to try?"  Both girls nod.
"Por-cu-pine" I say slowly.
"Popupi," or something like this, comes from the three-year old.
"How about this?" and I next see a hippo.
"That's even harder.  I'll bet you can say it though.  You ready?"  They nod again.
"Hippo-pa-ta-mus" and I wait.  The three-year old, undaunted, comes back with "hipo-papapa," and we all laugh.  She smiles, too.
"You can just say 'hippo.'"
"Hippo," she says.  "That's easy."  Proud.
We go through the rest of the animals in the bag of crackers.  They marvel at how many animals have English names they already know.  Lion, pelican, panda.
"You know," I say, my nails done, "You both know a lot of English."

I'm serenaded by the two girls singing the Alphabet Song again as I take my leave.
This working mother in Ofunato has my respect all over again.  I vow to work on developing skills to not chip my nail polish, lest I need another emergency color fix.