Did you know that frogs live on the edge of the desert?

Now that my routine was different, most all tourists had left, and my day included more early morning walks through the village. I saw lots of sick animals and I helped as many as I could either with medicine, food, or getting them to the animal shelter, Moroccan Animal Aid. The concern of the animals in my neighbourhood became a stress factor on my daily walks. I could not walk past an animal suffering and do nothing. But it got to the point where I would start whispering small prayers at the beginning of my early morning route, ‘Please, universe, don’t let me see any broken animals today, I just want to feel good and not start the day with sadness.’

One day, I spotted something moving on the ground. When I looked closer, I saw a beautiful brown and gold frog. I bent down to pick it up. As I lifted it I saw it had bleeding and dangling,damaged legs,.. ugh! and I thought, ‘Typical.’, it would just have to be a mangled frog and not ‘just a frog' because you know, this is Morocco. I deposited it gently in a bush, covered it with a leaf, and wished it all the best.

The European bubble, the one you'll find in any tourist town, had burst, leaving behind the real bones. The dirty, worn, unpolished truth of my environment was in plain view and there were no distractions to divert my attention away from what I was now seeing.

Inside myself I observed small seeds of discontent that were starting to grow. I had observed in the past, after the rush and thrill of embracing a new life had settled, there would be a point I would arrive to and feel a different type of awareness. I would start to be more critical of my new world, and begin an internal reckoning in which I would either reject or accept what was around me. You can choose what you want to see, but you can’t be totally blind to what’s around you. I had now reached that point, there in Morocco.

The Pancake Sunday that went on forever. That’s what I called Lockdown.

During a worldwide pandemic, any thing as comforting, and simple, that grounded each day in normalcy was welcomed. Eating pancakes started each day with that blessed Sunday funday feeling.

The few pancake pounds I have yet to work off were a small price to pay for the comfort of this daily dose.

On the back of this situation of isolation and lack of friendship was born a new connection with my 2 estranged sisters - one in Denmark, and one in Washington State. My sister in Seattle had decided to check up on me and then we made a WhatsApp sisters group called the Whiskey Sisters. I told them what I was feeling and how I was coping or not coping. We talked about what was happening in our countries and how life was now playing out. She offered a little financial support and words of encouragement. One day, she spontaneously sent a Paypal deposit with the words, “For heavens sake, take this and go buy some bottles of good red wine. You need it girl! Am here for you sis!” Having been in emergency budgeting for the end of the world scenario, with no alcohol shops in sight, it made me laugh hard when I read the message. She made me feel loved and understood.

Oh, how badly I needed a glass by this point! A bottle of wine was the greatest luxury at this moment in time. The bars were shut, and booze was almost illegal and very much taboo in the best of times, so this indeed was a deliciously appreciated contraband. Like water in the desert, in other words. Since that time my sisters and I have all shared weekly updates, celebrations, letdowns, fears, and I feel like I found family again and that I am not truly alone. To feel like someone has my back was and continues to be a great comfort.

Parenting Challenges and Mommy Therapy

Parenting during this period was not an easy task. Pre Lockdown, I was already challenged with emotional, logistical, economic implications that were happening, and it was difficult to be engulfed in Sienna’s frustrated world and to know I was partially responsible for it. I had been waiting for four months to start my new work contract and was aware that some things were being sacrificed to reach my goals. But I believed that it would eventually pay off.

Parenting was intense, confusing, frustrating and in the beginning completely insular. I had no support of any kind - logistically or emotionally.

I didn’t know how or who to reach out to for help. Listening to my daughter breakdown crying deep sobs, after a temper tantrum, and hearing her shout how she hated Morocco, she missed Ireland, she missed her family, she wanted to go home to her home in Belguim, touched my heart with sadness. She missed her toys, she missed her street, the park, the coffee shop, all of the things I still didn’t miss. She sat sobbing one day in the dark, in the corner of my bedroom. After throwing a screaming fit for an hour, I heard a loud, “I HATE THIS WORLD!!!!!”.

What 8 year old says this?

It was awful.

In this moment, my frustration and anger immediately melted to patience and love. I felt totally sorry for her. I could only try to explain that this was a temporary place in time. Things would get better again. She didn’t accept this and even I sometimes wondered if the world would ever shine again. It was sunny outside but it felt hollow, grey, and teetering on a type of turmoil between mother and daughter, a slow simmering pot of resentment and anger. I knew the tantrums were not her fault, it was her own way of expressing her losses. Where I could, in my personal solitude, pass the time being productive in so many creative ways, from music, to art, to creating social media, figuring out how to pivot my business in some way, etc., she was bored and miserable.

I tried to keep up a work day in the beginning, starting to sit down to my computer with notebooks and to do lists, and enthusiasm and excitement for what I was about to accomplish or create. But within the first half hour I would be thrown off course. By the second hour in I would be so irritated that I couldn’t focus or complete a hardly a single task.

I counted being interrupted around 2 7 times per working session

Eventually this wore down my own positive attitude and perserverance to my productivity expectations and goals. I rarely spoke with my father, but one day I called him in despair and on the verge of crying, and said, ‘Dad, HOW am I supposed to work, run a business and make a living with this situation!? it is utterly and totally IMPOSSIBLE!!!” I had become redundant in the work environment. I was now merely a housewife and it wasn’t enough for me.

He admitted he couldn’t help me.

No one could.

Babysitters were not allowed to enter our building, as discussed with the landlady’s family, and I didn’t know anyone that willing to break the rules of confinement. My routine of working was broken and with it started a crumbling effect to all my previously built up good habits, that were building blocks on momentum; like working out, eating only healthy food, playing music, reaching measurable goals. I made mistakes by letting go of good habits. The disciplinary muscle that is used for good habit setting connects to the other good habits, and so the downward slope to the bottom goes the same way.

Sienna walked into the kitchen one afternoon, as I tried to hide a spoonful of Nutella (probably my 5th) and said, ‘Mommy what are you doing eating the Nutella!?”(I seldom if ever would buy this product before), and I replied, “It’s Mommy Therapy”. And it was, I needed comfort. I began to eat chocolate frequently. I used to only eat dark chocolate 80% cacao, 2 pieces only during coffee time in the afternoon, and I had moved on to eating a cheap milk chocolate bar every 3 days, the WHOLE thing! I was buying two bars and hiding one from her so I could eat it myself in secret. I always got caught out, kids have a way of walking in on you when you’re halfway through the bar, mouth full.

I was eating bread, because it was cheap and easy, I was eating so many nuts, healthy but fattening, and once we discovered that the liquor store was open in Agadir, am embarrassed to say, I bought a bottle and I finished it in two days. I bought a bottle of vodka for the first time in a year, and started watching the sunset over the village, for my own private cocktail hour.

Rooftop cocktail hour was trending. Everyone was up top. Pungent scents of hashish, drifted in the winds, and the younger shop keepers seemed to get up later, and later. I had the feeling half of Taghazout was stoned half the time. My drinking, not in excess but quickly becoming a habit, a crutch, made me sleep worse, which made me more tired in the morning. My wakeup time of 6am started to slip into 7, 8, 8:30 and headed towards 9am. I knew what I was doing, but I wasn’t yet ready to take alcohol out of my habits, because I was bored, and lonely, and uninspired.

I discovered a taste for whiskey during this time. Whiskey was strong, comforting, spicy, indulgent. Expensive by Moroccan standards, and versatile. Whiskey was fabulous with fresh squeezed orange over ice and soda, or in hot water with honey and fresh squeezed lemon and cloves. An obvious choice also, in an icy cold coke (oh my God, I was even buying Coca Cola!). Whiskey was good straight up with ice, or with no ice.

Whiskey was the drink of Lockdown. Strong drinks for hard times.

I laugh because I used to hate whiskey and only picked up the bottle of Jameson because when I saw the bottle I realized, I too, missed Ireland. It connected me with cozier times, sitting in a warm Irish pub with friends. There is a fiddle tune I play, in Irish traditional music that came to mind one morning. ‘Whiskey Before Breakfast’ it’s called. Well, there were quite a number of dark days where whiskey in a coffee before lunch seemed like an excellent idea. It was a luxury in the time of no luxuries except ‘time’. Decadently bitter and leaving such a nice soft hum to my jumbled thoughts and feelings of frustration and pent up anxiety.

Re-dependance on family

As the tourist industry had collapsed, so went my job/income. Of course and thank God, my family, primarily my father, stepped up to offer some assistance through the period of time until work again will be secured.

We anticipated that travel and business would resume by winter.

I am so grateful to receiving support, but with this comes a price. Previously untethered from judgements and not being in any emotional debt over my various actions and decisions, I was now entering back into the familiar and unpleasant pull and push of guilt for not doing what my father and his wife wished me to do and be.

Everything I updated my father on, every sentence written in an email or every online video that we had with my daughter and how she behaved would be judged, discussed between he and his wife and very often put in negative light back to me. I would again feel the sinking feeling in my stomach, a queasy kind of sick knot would settle with most interactions. The communications and relationship never had the easy going naturalness that I grew up with living in the States with my mother and other US relations. Rather there was uncomfortable spaces and a feeling that I had to report things only in a simple way, in a positive way, as a ‘report’ with expected results and expectations, rather than an emotional expression of what life situation I was experiencing.

In terms of parenting, I will say during this time, that I discovered some valuable tools online.

I also learned that I was learning how to dive deeper with problem solving. Through the isolation I suffered but I also found answers. I discovered some excellent articles on how to deal with temper tantrums. What I took away from these articles was how to give a child space to express their emotions and how to hold firm but loving boundaries, and I learned that children’s behaviour is sometimes a test to see how we respond. What I needed to show her is that I would be unruffled by her explosions and give her space to express her emotion. I was giving her a safe place to vent, and would still be there for her. I also learned that a very important thing to show her was how I would behave when she pushed limits. I needed to show her that I would be calm no matter what. Easier said than done, but worth aiming for. This sentence I read in an article, really spoke to me, “Our relationship is the best tool we have for our child’s success in life and behavior and everything. So we don’t want to threaten that.”

My new found younger sister, whose son is now in his 20’s, funny enough became the one person I could turn to and share these parenting challenges and frustrations with. She sent me these words, ‘We don’t want them to obey other adults without question. That means they need to PRACTICE pushing back somewhere…and that somewhere is us. We’re the safe ‘somewhere’’. *Dandelion Seeds Positive Parenting - Sarah R. Moore.

I started to be more proactive to understanding childrens’ behavior. It gave me a few tools to fall back on and how to cope better emotionally. I also decided to ‘schedule in’ on paper an activity or time period to spend with Sienna. As an artist I can get wrapped up in my creative work for many hours, without stopping. During that time I need minimal distraction. Having a child has challenged this previous way of working that I was accustomed to, creating resentment on both sides. So delving deeper into how to work around this and problem solve in new ways was the only way forward.

The Power of Podcasts

To keep positive, I found some much needed connection, as well as inspiration, online. Through podcasts, I found an incoming stream of positivity and insight from modern female business owners. I was drawn to the people, whose ideas and actions were reaching forward, in this new time, and in a positive direction. I really loved the 5 to Thrive and Next 90 Day Challenge by Rachel Hollis also the inspirational IG of Lisa Messenger, and keeping some good at home training sessions and seeing personal stories from the Salty Souls Experience. I couldn’t further my surf but thoroughly enjoyed discovering the personal stories on the Water People Podcast, and Ocean Riders Podcast.

Is My Shirt Too Tight ?

When Sienna was in the school in Agadir, before Covid, she started to become overly concerned with the length of her skirt. She began to wear pants, telling me the kids were asking why she was always ‘dressed up.’ I found myself also feeling overly concerned with my normal attire, which was yoga gear. As my natural routine is to run outside, jogging through the village and along the beach dressed in leggings and exercise tops had been fine, as all the tourists were dressed more or less the same. Now that there were rarely, if ever, any European women about, I found myself worrying about the length of my shorts when I would go run, (they were not short at all by EU or American standards).

I didn’t like being stared at. I didn’t like comments being made. I found myself digging through my closet looking for long t-shirts, of which I had perhaps only one, to cover my sports tops and fall past my hips and hide my butt. But this made me feel frumpy and not myself. I felt however that I was consistently being judged. Something like having ‘nipple marks’ showing or if men could see the curve of my hip made me feel like I was drawing unwanted attention to myself. I had this instinct that it was best to become invisible and unattractive. I remember feeling a little irritated and angry when I noticed Sienna’s discomfort with the social criticism of her attire. I was on the defense of anything that would make her feel ashamed of herself or her body. Admittedly, now I was experiencing the same discomfort now that the population of similarly dressed women had disappeared.

Under the surface, I felt small bubbles of a quiet anger on sensing that my daughter’s, and now my own, body image and pride in being feminine was under a kind of internal assault.

Sweeping judgements, assumptions with lack of understanding, paired with negative emotions must be checked. I knew I could not say that all the men, or people in the village were the same. And certainly there were a couple Moroccan men in my immediate surroundings, and within my new world, that certainly were quite positive. Seldom a day passed when we weren’t met by a shining face with a huge glorious, beaming smile - despite missing a few teeth - and always greeting me with a loud, booming ‘BONJOOOOUUUUUUR!!!!, Bonjour, bonjour!!’ This was the bakery man down the path from my house, whose job was to load up the bread from the bakery into brightly colored plastic laundry baskets and deliver it around the village to all the little corner shops and a delivery truck. He always was a sunshiny moment in my day, to wipe away the Covid blues, and he was always so happy to see Sienna. He was mightily impressed we were still sticking around when everyone else had left. And the truth is, it was something I was proud of working through too.

Also, there was Rashid, the shopkeeper who always asked, ‘Good morning Samantha, how are you? Are you happy? Are you happy today like me?”. I always interpreted his oddly pleasant yet serious inquiry as sort of a Buddha master in secret, checking my spiritual pulse to see if it was in tune and still beating. Often my answer to was a genuine affirmation.

‘The world has gone to pot, but yes, thank you Rashid, I am happy.”,

or,

‘Actually, no, Rashid I am feeling like shit today because the police shot the dog I loved’.

Or ,

with tears running down my face, ‘no, the sick kitten,’ sob, ‘died in my arms,’ sob.

He always regarded me with a calm and sympathetic demeanor, no matter the circumstances. Neither disregarding my emotions, nor inquiring further into details. He was consistently pleasant and consistently calm, no matter the news. It was a good balance to my yo-yo-ing emotional state.

And then there was Saleh, my neighbor, a good natured, bright eyed, wirey young man, always friendly and authentically down to earth. Whenever I had some trouble to solve, he always just happened to be walking down the street and would stop to help. He had thus far helped me rescue from deaths door, a small pigmey donkey, slashed by either a knife or wild boar one would never know; a cat with epilepsy having fits stuck under a car, and at least two or three blinded, and rather gooey sick kittens - all dramas of the day on the streets of Taghazout. Ever available to lend me a needed screwdriver to fix something or shovel, to bury something. He helped me climb the roof to my terrace when I was locked out, could hire me a reliable private taxi for vet runs, or booze runs. He could always give me the surf report for the day, and kept me informed of the neighbourhood Lockdown updates. Sienna and I once got locked in our bedroom, and after shouting his name out the window for half an hour someone went and found him so he could go explain the situation to the landlady and let us out. He was like our personal rescuer at hand.

With these three smiling faces, I kept the balance of going totally off the rails in a no-women world.