aqui para ahora

december!

2011-12-21T15:40:00.000+03:00

Grant loves loves popcorn. At this Christmas party, he parked himself by the bowl.

Claire has a friend here who knows her mama likes to bake! This season Claire has been helping to frost cookies, making sure to lick the spoon between each. Mmm.

We have a collection of photographs by Claire. She's getting good at not cropping heads.

One of our favorite things to do: color.

The Hilton hosted a Christmas tree lighting. What fun evening!

finding quiet

2011-12-12T15:07:00.000+03:00

Quick post. It's naptime here. Quiet. Quiet: I can here cranes and hammers and saws outside. Apartment buildings fly up six or seven stories, as long as it takes to lay concrete blocks one on another to divide rooms and make windows. I can look out the window and see men across the way shouting down to the ground, directing where the loads of rods or blocks are placed. The owner of our building bricked off part of the courtyard and is building a secret. There is a single storey building and the next lot is filling with palm trees. Sometimes you can hear a man sitting at an electric saw running bricks through, cutting them in half for the face of the outside walls.

Yesterday we walked to our local grocery, more of a bakala or cornerstore than a grocery. The road in front of our apartment extends further now and we can guess how the other roads, when they finally arrive, will meet ours. Piles of dirt disappear, reappear. Holes are dug, holes are filled. Justin thinks our road will get streetlights soon and I think soon means another year or two. I finally got Claire not to pick up so much junk from the ground when I said, "People pee and poop out here. Leave that alone." The entire desert is not a toilet, but we've seen enough men on their way across pause by a building or squat at a rubbish pile.

I ate breakfast out this morning. I took a book and some school work and sat at a great little place, had an omelet and hash browns. On the drive there, I turned off the radio and sat at a light in silence. I looked to the left and saw an abandoned building, an old salon. Salon was spelled correctly, instead of "saloon," which made me think a Westerner owned the place. There were no window panes, only yawning black of the inside rooms, empty. The front gate was shut but I wanted to go in and see the place. I wondered what I might find. It's cold here so maybe strays found the rooms away from wind. Maybe an old cupboard, hairbrushes, a bottle of dried nail polish. Shadows where mirrors hung. Wires where fixtures were. In the building next door, laundry hung from a balcony. You see that a lot here: the laundry hanging from windows and balconies. You can guess lives by the laundry. In our neighborhood there are a lot of men, so I like seeing the balconies with tiny sweaters and pants pinned to lines.

We hang our own laundry on lines Justin put up in our little laundry room. It dries quick enough. A friend of mine used her apartment rooftop's lines; in the summer, her laundry was dry in an hour. Winter is dry enough here it would probably be not much longer. Justin talked about getting a dryer or fixing an old one, but I like our lines better. Though a nice warm towel, or tumbling a sweatshirt on high for a minute or two: that would be nice right now.

the latest here

2011-11-29T14:36:00.000+03:00

I mentioned the chance (smidge of, distant, remote) of an Arab autumn here a couple posts ago. Between then and now, I had the opportunity to ask a Kuwaiti man about what I'd been reading in the papers. Let me say this: the papers, my friends, do not publish everything. Nor will I repeat much of it here since I'm not stepping out into the world of investigative journalism via small blog. While he explained that what he relayed to me and the few others gathered was common knowledge among Kuwaitis, I cannot blab based on that alone.

Unless you email me.

The thing is, most countries like to be seen in a polite light. Moonlight. Candlelight. Lamps set around a room. No one says, "Turn on the fluorescents."

Anyway. In the news yesterday and today: the Prime Minister and some other members of Parliament resigned. The Emir accepted the resignations but asked them to remain on as part of the "caretaker government" as the New York Times put it. Imagine how excited protestors were about that. Read the Kuwait Times' article. The last paragraph of the Kuwait Times' article reads:

"A stalled economy - despite 12 consecutive years of multibillion dollar budget surpluses - has left many frustrated as Kuwait has been overshadowed by fast-growing Qatar and the United Arab Emirates in the past 20 years. 'It's becoming difficult, almost impossible, to reach a compromise that will put our country back on the right track to achieving its aspirations,' wrote columnist Sherida Al-Maousherji in the daily Al Jarida."

I wondered about this shortly after arriving in Kuwait a couple of years ago, expecting to find clean and organized and discovering that our neighborhood had no paved roads and trash floated through the sky on breezy days. (The least of it, really). I couldn't figure out why such a monetarily wealthy country didn't have the best educational programs, healthcare, or infrastructure. Or why the country's generous citizen welfare didn't also extend to many of the poorest worker residents. So while I have heard sentiments like the one above expressed, I hadn't seen them in print before. (Probably because I didn't look hard). I know countries and governments need to sort themselves out and I do hope that Kuwait does. There is much to be gained.

poetry

2011-11-27T15:44:00.000+03:00

I love to write. Next weekend I will talk with people about the value of writing practice and journaling. So I may use this space to practice some of my ideas. My creative writing students begin workshopping poetry this week. I must say: I love teaching creative writing. I get to write alongside. I get to try some of the forms again (again again) and try to generate a few new phrases or ideas.

I don't get bored. Sometimes I would get bored mid-Gatsby or something because Tom and Daisy never ever figure it out at the end. But teaching writing, writing alongside: near impossible to get bored.

The following is a try at terza rima. Not too intimidating, but enough of a form to make you work a bit. I wrote it during a class exercise and was thinking about something I said to my students before we began. I used that as my first line:

don't worry about being brilliant
write it down work it out leave it on the page
understand the corner of your mind called migrant

let her wander live another page
allow her games of twists and turns; pretend
you get it. call her sloppy words sage

your reward is a notebook of no end
words in margins at the edge of your next thought,
interrupting with three lines burned

on you tongue: you ought
to get it down on a page a scrap your palm
ink it let it sit until she has bought

your undivided attention; then you write long
lines in quiet loud shallow deep places.
she feeds you line after line until leaving at dawn

So I had fun with this. I typed it pretty much as is in my notebook but will likely play around with capital letters, punctuation, and sound. I get really excited about longs poems like sestinas because you can go on and on and on. But I also appreciate the economy of poetry and should probably cut some words for this. When I revise, I'll bring this back to you.

I have a writing blog that even fewer people read, so I'm posting this here. I should revive the writing blog and have that as the place for things like this, and keep here as the place for things like my long thoughts and short whines. Or short thoughts and long whines! Regardless, I encourage you to write a bit of poetry today.

arab autumn?

2011-11-18T17:46:00.000+03:00

A few weeks ago I read about a protest here that demanded to know what certain members of this government did with a lot of money. Rumors of secret accounts, bribes and personal use of government funds that could be otherwise used to improve (or just provide) infrastructure or schooling or other services. When you are talking about billions of dollars, you don't have to pick just one thing to improve. That particular protest didn't recieve much international attention, though people in the region likely noticed. I read about it in local papers and wondered if something would catch but didn't think it likely. That's because I'm snarky about how much apathy money can buy. Truth: corruption is corruption. And good for the few here who are calling on their government to clean up their house.

So this week, there was another protest that did wake up the press. You can read about it here in a BBC News article and here in a Kuwait Times article.

an oasis

2011-11-12T16:01:00.000+03:00

There is so much about Kuwait that doesn't say oasis. But after returning from our summer in the States, I began seeing how our time here has been like drinking good water, sitting in shade. When we first arrived, I went through months of second guessing the course of my life, hating decisions I had made alone or ones made with Justin, sensing loss more than gain. I wrote about that here and here. Then I entered a stretch of seeking to know God, understand my faith. I remain in that stretch.

I am not tidy. I wish I were neatly packaged. There is a lot that I learn and undo and examine and pray about and the days here stand in front of me saying Ha. Learn this. Most of what I'm learning is grace and peace and what it means to love with a genuine heart. What it is to forgive. What that looks like. So I read the Bible, many times reading the same passages or chapters again and again, gleaning bits as I go. I am learning to be honest in my prayers.

And you know, it does feel odd to write this plainly. Living my faith is an exercise in humility. Because, as I said, I am not tidy. I think I have figured out how to be content or how to not be jealous and am met with a situation saying Can you really be content in this? My pride speaks. I fall.

To oasis: the different challenges of living here give me better understanding of my desire to live for God. What that really means, right where I am. I think about some of what I've learned in this past year or so and I have wondered if I might have learned the same lessons elsewhere. I don't know. Maybe.

Learning: Not to worry. To be content. No gossip. Character over reputation. Be kind, even if they aren't. Be gentle with my words. Open my home. Listen. Share. Speak carefully. And more.

Life and faith should be growing. For example, I can see now that I do not worry myself over what people think as much as I did a year ago. To get to this place, I walked through hurt and discomfort and misunderstanding and anger. And it sucked. And I wanted to quit and return to the familiar worry about every little thing you did wrong and the very favorite be nice so you are liked because both are such easy games. Instead, I reached a point where I was sick enough of my games, seeing them for that. A competition in my head that I would never win. I quit the worry. I would start down a worry thought path and stop. I acknowledged the thought and said: I am choosing not to dwell on this. And it was very hard to learn to do this. Very hard to leave the easy worry and redirect my mind. Because I am not finished, I keep learning this in different ways.

I want to tell you more about the freedom I feel too. Not flaky I feel so great because God's so good freedom but freedom that reassures me I am being refined, good work is being done in me. But I have a lasagna I need to put together, so I need to wrap this up. I have thought so much about how cruddy it is to live here, bumping across sand to get to a paved road and bad traffic. Missing family. Missing green trees and running paths. Missing libraries. But something is changing in me and I can say I like Kuwait. Sometimes I want to tack on a list of qualifiers, but I can say it. Because I am growing up in my faith here. And a year from now, I want to see further change in my mind and heart. I want my time here to be praise to God. In my everyday regular life. If not in Kuwait, where? Where would be a better place?

recent

2011-11-10T21:12:00.000+03:00

rest

2011-11-06T14:16:00.000+03:00

We have a week of rest. We aren't traveling. We are resting. Still up early, still to bed early, but resting the days. When you get a week the first couple of days, the week seems endless and full and great and we could do just anything with our time: paint another couple of walls, go to the aquarium, cook something other than pasta or curry!

This morning Claire and I walked along the Fahaheel seawall, shared that time with friends. She is getting to be such a big girl. Last year was tough, to add Grant to the family and be so busy with the newness of two little ones. This year, we're all sleeping at night and I am finding it such fun to have Claire and Grant around. I like the little games we play, the giggles, the singsong. Claire gets going on a song and just throws any lyric in so that Mary Lamb is Mary Lamb is Mary Lamb and I have to reminder her "Mary had a little lamb" to get her back on track.

I smile a lot these days.

ten minutes

2011-10-20T16:41:00.000+03:00

I give myself ten minute chunks to do a lot of things: go online, type an email, clean. Ten minutes of cleaning, when you know that's it, is so so manageable. So here are ten minutes of blogging:

We are in Kuwait. I started teaching part-time, on campus every other day. I really enjoy my classes and my students. The challenge is that I'm "on" at school and then "on" at home. I think that if I taught full time or was at home full time, there would be enough down days to come along. Like, not every day at work would be super busy and not every day at home would be packed.

Watch for further thinking about that!

Grant is one! Claire is three! I am sleeping at night! Justin and I are back to our insanely early wake time: we get up around quarter to four. He bikes, I run. I do think about Someday. As in, Someday early will return to five in the morning and that will feel virtuous enough.

I drink a lot of espresso. Lattes and mochas. I have learned to make each but still go to Caribou. I go to Caribou more for a table to myself, reading and writing, than for the coffee. But the coffee helps.

You know what, though: my life is more than sneaking away for a coffee and an hour alone. My time is up, and I don't have the right words to explain any of this, but Kuwait has been an oasis in many ways. I never thought a desert place would see me deciding how to be alive.

two posts in one day: must be guilt

2011-08-25T00:08:00.000+03:00

To counter my not quite ready to die post of this afternoon, I offer a quick list of Summer 2011 Good Things:

1. Did not have to give up my iced mochas, but did perfect making my own iced latte using a stovetop espresso maker. Thanks Mom for showing me how.
2. Running early. OUTSIDE.
3. Villa Pizza, High Rock Cafe, and Emy J's.
4. Siblings. Siblings everywhere! And nieces and nephews. It is neat to see us older three with little ones of our own.
5. Catching up with friends. It's nice to have relationships that pick up where left off, fill in gaps quickly and just enjoy the present.
6. Justin biked. OUTSIDE.
7. Fast internet. Given what awaits us in Kuwait, I am tempted to go nuts on iTunes.
8. You go to a grocery store and it's there. It doesn't matter what it is. It is there. That is very American.
9. Eavesdropping.
10. Rain. Thunderstorms. I ran in rain and there is not much that I find more cleansing. I get very metaphorical when I run in rain.
11. Magazines and libraries and bookstores.
12. Free babysitting. Which gives me time to:
13. Write and read.
14. Dryers. We line dry in Kuwait. There have been a couple of times when we used a dryer just because we could. Warm sweatshirts, ahhh.
15. Driving. We enjoy being on the road and there isn't much road in Kuwait that is actually enjoyable so it's been fun to drive. Really. Except when someone (or two) are screaming in the backseat.
16. Thinking returning to the States wouldn't be that bad. We aren't planning it for anytime soon, but it was nice to realize that the States are okay. We could live here. I could get used to number 8.
17. It didn't snow.
18. Hills.
19. Watching my Dad and my father-in-law be grandpas. Both are great.
20. Enjoying other people cooking for me. We've had some wonderful meals. It's been nice to be spoiled like that.
21. Justin and I have enjoyed a few dates. I keep wanting to call our dates "escapes." We get a chance to talk about what may come next and what we're in the middle of now, and to be together alone. Together alone. That's good for a couple. We've also had a growing time as a family. I think we're settling in to this Mama Papa thing.
22. Walking and biking with the little ones.
23. Big thoughts and little thank yous.

summer home coming to a close

2011-08-24T23:33:00.000+03:00

If I posted weekly you'd get a sense of the fun we have had all summer. But since it's the end of the adventure, I keep thinking of my brother Nate and what he said shortly after I arrived to Wisconsin with the kids. He and his family had been in the States for a bit and were gearing up for their last week or two. He said, "I am tired of traveling. I would rather be dead." He is back in Korea now, so he made it.

But I get the sentiment. The thought of going one more place makes me itch. I tallied all of our places this summer has taken us: seven. We have slept in seven different places. And switches? The back and forth? Eleven times. We have moved from here to there to there to here to there there there eleven times. Eleven times to set up beds for Claire and Grant and to see if we remembered the toothpaste. Now let me say that each of our hosts has been lovely. Really. We've enjoyed our visits.

But at one point my mother-in-law answered a question about lunch or what to do this afternoon with, "It doesn't matter. We're on vacation." She was on vacation. Me? Oh, this is not vacation. This is a diversion. It is fun. It even manages to be restful at times. But it is not a vacation. A vacation will be when everyone poops on the toilet and carries their own backpack. Perhaps it has something to do with the length of time allotted: a vacation ends after one or two weeks and then the novelty of someone else's bed dishes bathroom wears off.

So, yes, I miss Kuwait. And, yes, I know it will be hot when we get there. And I know I will hate the traffic. That's been one of the nicest parts of summer: such easy, mindless driving. Another nice part has been ther running. The green green world here. The moderate summer temperatures. Seeing family and friends. Watching my kids grow in a month. It's been a good summer.

Justin and I have been thinking about next summer. Yeah. I know. We should just stop. I think we want to talk about it while this summer is fresh. We are at the dragging end of it. We don't have a clue. Here is where I try to think of something more upbeat than, "I am tired of traveling. I would rather be dead." I wouldn't rather be dead. I would rather be home though. A few more days and we'll be there. And after a few more weeks, we won't recall the burdens of suitcases and we'll talk about next summer and say that this summer wasn't so bad. We all had a lot of fun, you know. And that's true. We have had a lot of fun.

flying home

2011-07-03T19:21:00.000+03:00

Home. One of them, right? This week I head to Wisconsin with the two little ones. And while I am very excited to visit with family, I'm also a little nervous about the flights and, you know, I'm not sure what to expect from the States.

I had a difficult time returning to Wisconsin after just one year in Colombia. And the summer between Colombia and Kuwait was just nuts since we were deciding what to cram into six suitcases for our new life in the Middle East. This summer should be relaxed. No move to prepare for. Instead, at the end of August, we'll be returning to a home we've made: our apartment walls are ours, we've got wardrobes and cabinets and drawers full of our stuff, we know the grocery store and our favorite restaurants. We'll miss being here.

I think that's a good thing.

Two years away. Wow. In the past two years Claire learned to walk and talk and has quite the personality. We had a son, sweet boy Grant who might be the most cheerful baby I've ever met. We've traveled a bit. I committed to a writing habit (if you're going to pick a habit...). I decided treadmills in and of themselves are not evil. We found a church we like and are developing a deeper faith. We have friends here. Kuwait is a dusty land - dust that collects on window ledges like sifted flour, dust that hangs in the air like fog - and we like it.

Not the dust, but the land. Kuwait. I can't really talk about Kuwait without getting soap-boxy or sentimental and I haven't got the time for either right now. Just to say: I don't regret moving abroad. We don't live anywhere glamorous but our eyes are open. This is our fourth year abroad and getting ready to take a trip home, well, that home is beginning to seem a little foreign too. What won't feel foreign is my family's dining table or my college town running routes. What won't feel foreign is a bear hug from my Dad. Oh, it'll be good to be home. Yes, it will.

dead sea & wadi rum

2011-04-24T20:33:00.000+03:00

petra

2011-04-20T18:19:00.000+03:00

madaba

2011-04-18T19:59:00.001+03:00

jordan!

2011-04-16T14:19:00.000+03:00

I will post pictures within the next couple of days, but must say: we really enjoyed Jordan. Justin planned the vacation a few months ago and I balked at the idea of carting two little ones around a country, hopping from one place to the next for a week. I balked a lot. Balked is a nice way of saying: whined.

When I realized that balking was not going to get me out of the trip - and that Justin wasn't going to take Claire and Grant by himself - I decided I should pack. I got out a big suitcase the day before our flight and counted out about forty pairs of pants and underwear for Claire (a wee bit accident prone, ha ha) and two pairs of pants for Grant. That's right. Two pairs of long pants, one with cute puppy dog faces on the feet (excellent since they kept him from eating his socks and also quickly transitioned into pajamas!).

I forgot a lot and could probably write an ironic poem titled What I Didn't Pack for Jordan, but what is a sink for, if not washing underthings to dry in the rear window of your rental car so they're ready for tomorrow?

And we weren't the only one with kids on the road! We saw a handful of families with young ones as we toured from Madaba to Petra to Wadi Rum. At Petra I met a couple - she Italian, he German - with their eight month old son. "I thought we were the only ones!" I said in greeting. And you know, people are really nice about toddlers and babies. Once I settled into This Is My Life and decided to enjoy the limits of exploring a country with a baby strapped to your front, I found much good.

So much is about contentment, right?

And while we enjoyed our week away, even daydreaming a move to such a culturally and historically rich country, I was really glad to come home. Claire's school hosted an Easter egg hunt today and one of her teachers told me sometimes you don't realize you need to get away until you're away. And it's true. I'm glad Justin took the time to plan our week away. We needed it.

why i wish i knew more about the middle east

2011-03-19T17:31:00.000+03:00

Well, I'm in the middle of it. Living in Kuwait, disappointed that the pyramids will have to wait until after Egypt's election (and hoping said election is peaceful and resolved after the votes are counted, not marred by corruption). Living in Kuwait, sad for the people in Bahrain. Living in Kuwait, wondering who else might head for Saudi when their masses congregate to protest. Living in Kuwait, looking at Yemen and Libya and Lebanon and praying peace for a region that has had little rest for centuries.

And living in Kuwait, a little surprised - aren't we all? - by a fruit vendor in Tunisia.

When the protests in Egypt began building, we called Justin's parents and told them not to worry about us. They weren't. Kuwait is oil money. There isn't a big reason to want change as long as oil keep producing cash. This February, Kuwait celebrated fifty years as a the State of Kuwait, twenty years since liberation from Iraqi invaders, and five years of the current sheik. In a spirit of celebration, the government gave one thousand Kuwaiti dinars to each citizen. That would be like the US government giving every citizen about thirty-five hundred dollars for the Fourth of July. Go buy some fireworks.

Kuwaitis are very private. Kuwaitis are only a third (just over a third, I think) of their country's population and are careful to keep their business theirs. This means some expats have loud opinions about Kuwaitis, because there is a bit of mystery and because it's easier to assume than to know. This year I really wanted to get to know a Kuwaiti family, learn their culture from the inside. Not inside inside, but maybe sitting in the front room inside. Last year when I was in the classroom, I felt comfortable enough to ask some of my students questions about Kuwait; at other times, they volunteered opinions or information that added to what I knew about the country and its people.

But anytime I think I have an opinion about the country or its culture, I hesitate. Because I have heard a lot of loud opinions from expats, and because I've heard some loud opinions bounce around in my own head, and because I don't want loud opinions to escape my mouth. Totally. Unfounded. Or. Stereotyped. Still, there's talk. And sometimes I add to it.

For example, I've heard it said that the one thousand dinar amounts to a bribe: don't protest us. Or a reminder: the government provides you with all this. Fast cars. Big houses. Cheap labor. Education and marriage and child stipends or bonuses.

I would like to ask a few Kuwaitis if they felt bribed by their government's gift.

More though, I'd like to ask a few Kuwaitis if change needs to come to their country. It's easy to have an opinion from the outside. I want to know what people think on the inside. Kuwait has had a few protests in the past weeks - residents who would like to be citizens and so be granted all the rights (and money) of citizenship. And I have heard that there is a movement among some Kuwaitis to press for a more Islamist government, but that was last year - I'm assuming that the desire for an Islamist government still exists, just as the desire for a more liberal or more conservative goverment always exists among Americans.

I'd like to know though: how would Kuwaitis like to see their country change?

Meantime, Justin and I feel safe. We are where we belong.

using my 30 minutes wisely : )

2011-03-09T13:49:00.000+03:00

Our friend Erin has a talented mom named Nan. She made these quilts for the little ones when Grant was born and I finally got around to taking a picture of them!

march's post: online time

2011-03-06T15:18:00.000+03:00

This may be it.

I am becoming one of those bloggers who let their blogs hang for weeks. Sometimes I feel bad about that. Worse, I might become one of those bloggers who apologizes for her absence. I'd really rather not. It seems too assuming.

So. I'm limiting my online time. This is born of necessity but more so of desire. I like to catch up on a few blogs and do that once a week or so. I do read the news daily (usually). I check email two or three times a day but could probably cut that to once since most of my inbox is promotions from Backcountry or Rogan's Shoes and I haven't ordered from either in years.

The necessity part: Two children. That's it. Also, one husband. Also, cooking and baking. Also, I still enjoy writing and am working on completing short essays for submission.

The desire part: I am being more conscientious about what I feed my mind. There is too much junk in this world. I get sucked into worries that aren't mine. I find it is easier to be content if you spend more time with what you have than looking at what you don't have. (Shout out to Facebook).

I think the Great Online is robbing people of living. That sounds so dramatic. But I doubt I am alone in this thought, that screen time takes something away from me.

I love the Great Online. I love that I can email family and friends and see pictures of babies I get to meet soon. I love that I can Google a word I don't know, or find out what is happening in my home state. I love that I can order stuff without leaving my apartment. (And that my Mom will ever so kindly pack it and ship it to me).

But there's a limit. I've been thinking about what my limit is. And here it is: thirty minutes a day. I am going to try this for one week. I'll let you know how it goes.

i heard you, grams : )

2011-02-20T14:59:00.000+03:00

no fast getaway (and other parenting truths)

2011-01-26T14:11:00.001+03:00

I have never been a patient person. Sometimes I am more patient than other times, but most of the time I am screaming inside. When I try to go all calm, I forget to breathe.

I am (/have been/ always will be) working on this. And I might be a decade ahead of schedule since I have a toddler and a baby. A toddler and a baby demand patience. I read a parenting book that reccommended just slowing down. When you spend time with baby, be on his time. Don't hurry through that diaper change. Don't rush the bath. Just live a little more slowly.

So I am living a little more slowly. Sometimes a lot more slowly. This is why it can take twenty minutes to round up a sweater and shoes for Claire and buckle Grant into his car seat before walking out the door. Twenty minutes might be a conservative estimate because here is what else must be done: one last potty trip, socks, water bottles, cut an apple, make sure I've got a diaper and wipes for the Little One, bring a change of pants and underwear for Firstborn, find keys and phone, put on mascara (yes, must), sunglasses, hat(s), and okay: out the door.

Anyway, this morning we met friends at a cafe. Other moms, babies, and a three year old girl. A nice group. Claire sat on a chair and did well most of the time. Then she got bored.

And here is where I really, really struggle. Claire is not a Sally Sit Still. To be fair, not many toddlers are. Claire likes to walk jump run chase spin. She likes to go limp when you want her to stand on her own two legs. She thinks all of life is a game, and at two years old, I guess it mostly is. So I am trying to see her energy as a gift. Many days, I just enjoy who she is, just love the little person I get to spend my time with, and am amazed by how quickly she learns. She cracks me up. She amuses me with her stories. But sometimes I just want to sit and drink a coffee and taste the food in front of me instead of playing Distraction Tactics.

Anyway.

So today I found myself saying I thought I'd rather parent a teenager. Partly because there are some days when I don't think I actually sit down for longer than two or three minutes until two in the afternoon. A teenager sleeps in until two in the afternoon.

But then you've got this camp: hold on to the sweet moments time passes too quickly you'll miss this time cherish cherish cherish. Only my own Mom told me me the truth that I might not miss this time. She didn't say that in a mean way, or even a particularly knowing way. She just gave me permission to not love every little bit about parenting a toddler and baby. It's exhausting. It's a constant pull between being selfish or selfless.

Being a mama is a refining fire. And I want to be the mama that Claire needs and the mama that Grant needs; that means meeting them where they are at, leading them gently. Teaching them manners and obedience and healthy curiousity. And it means being God's love in their life. And love means being patient. Among so very many other things. But that is what I was thinking about today. Being patient. I get so frazzled. My impatience isn't a part of my self that I am pleased with; I know I need to let go. Just relax into patience instead of thinking of Patience as a project I've got to tackle. Quit fighting it, you know?

When I was twelve or thirteen my Dad gave me a Bible and on the inside cover he wrote "Be there." That is a piece of advice that sailed over my head then. But in the years since, I have found myself thinking about those two words many times. Sometimes I wonder if he meant it for that adolescent present or if he was thinking of my furture self, the mama who would need to be reminded to just be there, right where I am. Be here.

With my two-year-old and my baby, sweet ones.

Edited to add: I do enjoy the sweet moments. I do cherish this time. Don't think that I really wish it away. I love watching Claire learn something new - the other day she worked hard to color in the lines, something I've never said she should do but something she must have seen us do. She likes to read. I enjoy reading books with her. And Grant is turning into such a smiley guy, but we still have to work for his laughs. He looks around with wide eyes. I think about a year from now and who he'll be - one year in childhood is such a difference! And I think about who I might be in one year too, how my life will have changed for another year of being refined.

on hair

2011-01-19T08:41:00.000+03:00

There are many wonderful, serious, thoughtful, deep things I could write about today. But I'm going to delve into something trivial, because that is what I can handle before breakfast. Hair.

A few months ago, I read a comment in a magazine about the healthiest way to maintain hair: not to wash it. No chemicals. Just water. Scrub rub rub those roots. And I thought I'd give it a go. My hair hadn't gone all gorgeous luscious thick in my second pregnancy; instead, my hair was tired dry flat. So, logically, I quit washing it altogether.

"Have you noticed anything about my hair?" I asked Justin one night. Really, we hadn't been noticing anything about much of anything between his teaching and coaching, Claire, Grant, getting through dinner to bedtime. So, no, he hadn't noticed anything.

"I haven't washed it in four days," I said, "Can you tell?"

He couldn't. It might have been because I asked him in the shadows of turning off all absolutely unnecessary lights in the apartment so Claire would stay in bed rather than investigate the party (re: sacked out on the couch watching The Office) in the living room.

If you couldn't tell by day four, you could tell by day seven. I scrunched my hair and it held its shape. Natural product! I thought. And then I spent the day just knowing that my hair didn't look naturally product-ed but just unwashed. Greasy dirty. Day eight welcomed two shampoos and scalding rinses, squeaky clean tired dry flat hair.

I went to the internet. Just google "natural hair care" and you'll be directed to some of the same sites I visited. I read about all the best most natural wholesome earthy perfect ways to treat my hair and decided I would manage the baking soda and apple cider vinegar routine, adding both to my grocery list and feeling only a little silly setting them in my shower.

For about two months this is what I did every two or three days: rubbed a baking soda paste into my scalp, rinsed throroughly, then dumped diluted apple cider vinegar over my head and let it sit (soak soak soak) before rinsing thoroughly. After the first time, I raved to Justin, "My hair! Is so soft! I love it! Feel it!"

Then my soft! hair started falling out. Thanks, Grant. I was rocking the mom ponytail and smelling of apple cider vinegar. Rubbing baking soda into my scalp, and then pulling my fingers through the cider-soaking strands, I pulled out gobs of hair. Gobs and gobs.

"Maybe it's the vinegar," Justin said, perhaps just a little impressed by my matted hairbrush.

"It's hormones," I retorted. I sniffed the ends of my apple cider hair. Justin wanted to know what I'd read online next.

A few days ago I was flipping through a UK magazine called Healthy and read an article about hair woes. One of the hooks was a promise to solve thinning hair. Cannot remember what they promised regarding that, but I did read a quick blip that it's okay to use shampoo daily. You won't die. You are not less wholesome for preferring a synthetic fruity smell over apple cider vinegar stinging your nose. I took their shampooing suggestion. So now I am using a penny-sized dab rubbed in both palms, running my hands over my hair but not scrubbing. Just enough to clean the hair. I think I like this best. Mostly because I get the fruity smell back.

Well. Now you know entirely too much about how I wash my hair. Look, I really can be quite deep.

if i stay there will be double

2011-01-08T16:18:00.000+03:00

Not every job comes with the opportunity to uproot every two or three years. International teaching does. After fulfilling your initial two- or three-year contract, you can peek over fences annually to see if the grass is greener in Thailand or Bulgaria or Tunisia.

We aren't looking for a new school this year. After a (too) short two year stay in Colombia, we decided to commit at least three years to Kuwait. Maybe four. And now that we're here and realizing just how comfortable it can be to not move, five years doesn't seem too unlikely. But while we aren't actively seeking employment elsewhere, we've been watching a few friends go through the Stay or Go debate.

And it's a bit infectious. We aren't leaving Kuwait, and still Justin and I both popped onto a couple of international teaching websites to check out schools in other countries. I watched a woman we arrived with carry her suitcase out the courtyard, knowing she was headed for a job fair; I felt a little flutter of envy. Not because she is leaving Kuwait at the end of the school year, but because she gets the whole New Experience thing again. She gets to fly to a new country next August.

We'll get to fly back to our sandy land. Which is fine. And a relief, really. We have friends here. We have places and routine. We have an old Pajero that takes us to our friends and places, through our routine. But I think it's the nature of any international teacher to annually flip through all the countries and wonder if you would really like living in Bolivia or Kenya.

So the other night, Justin asked me where I'd like to go next. I haven't really thought that much about what might come next - probably because my present is quite enough to manage. When I do think about where we might move, I imagine this big cloud called Eastern Europe or another equally fuzzy option called South America. Which means we'll likely end up in the Midlde East. Wait.

I told Justin I would like to move somewhere with sidewalks and clean parks for the kids. (My list is longer. I don't want to digress too much though). I mentioned our original plan B - we were going to move to Alaska if we didn't find a job abroad. We could move to Alaska and I could become an ultra runner wearing bells to keep the bears away. Justin could bike through a wildlife calendar picture every day. Claire and Grant could build forts and fish salmon for dinner. That's what it's like, right?

I asked Justin where he'd like to go. "Africa," he said. I waited for more. That was it. Africa. We know people who have lived in Africa, traveled to Africa, want to return to Africa. But Africa is big.

"We'd have to choose our country carefully," I said. I'd like to witness a lot of things in my life, but a military coup is not one of them. So maybe Africa. Go on safari before all the elephants die.

We talked about Our Next Country. When we move again, we want to move to a place where we really want to live, not a two year stop on our way to a place where we really want to live. So that is why we aren't in a rush to leave Kuwait. We don't want to hop about too much. Still, Stay or Go is a fun game to play. Easier if you aren't really forced to answer.

give me give you

2010-11-30T20:27:00.000+03:00

The other day I came home and told Justin that a new mom we knew got an iPad for a push present.

"A what?" he said.

"A push present. You know, because she gave birth."

You know, because after spending almost ten months of her life growing another human being (which might entail not sleeping despite insane exhaustion, throwing up at the whiff of a french fry, and watching stretch marks map her belly) - after all of that, she then has to push that human being into this world.

And some celebrity dads thought that deserved a bonus, and then regular dads picked up on the idea.

"So where is my push present?" I said.

Justin stared at me. Finally, he said, "You got a baby."

Indeed. Two.

We are a couple who fails at gifts. I bought Justin a French press to celebrate a Friday morning, and that was at least a year ago. I cannot remember what I bought him for Christmas (if anything) last year, and I usually mark his birthday with a sweet letter but no surprise. The last gift gift - like, it was purchased to celebrate an occasion and was actually purchased before the arrival date of that occasion - the last gift I remember Justin giving me was a hand held Kitchen Aid mixer that I picked out for Christmas and begged to open early because I had dozens of cookies to bake. That was six years ago.

But I want gifts. We decided to "do birthday gifts" and I assumed that because we decided this before my birthday, I'd get a gift. Surprise me! Instead, I spent my birthday half-waiting but fully knowing that there was no surprise. Still, at the end of the day, I asked. Justin apologized. I pretended it was okay.

The next day he brought home a few groceries and handed me a plastic bag. "This is for you," he said. Inside were a bag of parmesan Goldfish crackers, a box of golden raisens, and a small tube of M&M Minis.

"Happy birthday?" I said.

"Yeah."

Which means I'd better think of a good gift for his birthday or we'll continue this sad, sorry cycle of lousy post-birthday gifts.

We aren't alone. I know other couples who skip out on gifts. And we aren't lacking for things we just want. Last year in India I bought some beautiful silver bangles and a pair of green amber earrings. Anytime Justin goes through an airport, he stocks up on books. We buy things for ourselves, but don't often buy things for each other. A friend of mine mentioned the effort it takes to get a gift: just a little bit of sneaking around to get the gift, the secrecy of hiding it. It is easier to just slap a gift card or cash into an envelope, or to say "Honey, why don't you pick something up for yourself in Jordan?"

But I want the fun of that effort. Christmas is coming.

the glamour of it all

2010-11-28T19:12:00.000+03:00

Sometimes I think that would be interesting to post to my blog. An entire post devoted to Kuwait highway signs that read "Speed = Death" and "Be Aware of Drugs" among others. Or the latest Claire anecdote. Or my mamaland musings. Maybe a link to some recipes I've been trying or a list of the books I've been reading.

But then life happens. You can count on this post being short and random. It's bedtime for one thing. I've just bathed Grant and he's sitting next to me sucking his fists. I don't want him to fall asleep before I nurse him and put him to bed. Claire is finishing up her bath. She loves all things bath, except getting her hair rinsed. We've yet to convince her that looking up really works.

It isn't a sudden realization and it isn't a new one to me, but life is mundane and fast. I want mine to count. I want mine to be one of joy and peace.

I've been learning to listen instead of just firing my requests in prayer. I want this and this and this. Quiet, I tell myself. Be still. Learning to be still is agonizing. I am much better at listing everything that God needs to do by tomorrow and then wrapping it up with a quick thank you for all He already has done. I don't always give Him much time to talk. So I'm trying to learn to empty my mind of me so that I can really meditate on things above. I hope He honors the fact that I am actually trying very hard to be still.

This is not spiritual or insightful at all, but: I'd like to fit into my skinny jeans again one day. My body has changed with both pregnancies and breastfeeding. I have a greater respect for my body and treat it much, much better than I did even five years ago. But I'd still like to fit my pants from five years ago. Vanity. I'll let you know if it happens. Or if I just throw out the skinny jeans.

Well, now Claire is on the toilet. And Grant has given up on getting milk from his fist, and I have a haphazard blog post. All done.

what he does do: a lot

2010-11-07T17:17:00.000+03:00

So the last post was about one thing Justin doesn't do: wake up at night. He has stepped in a couple of times since Grant's birth to change a midnight diaper or see to firstborn if I was busy nursing in the night. And a couple of times when Grant was inconsolable, Justin got up to calm him and let me take a break. But yeah, night is mostly my job.

Oh well.

If it were all my job, then we would have a problem. Instead, Justin is very "on" when he arrives home from work. That impresses me. I get to four in the afternoon, five o'clock and I want to be done. He gets home and knows he has a wife waiting to be done, and he steps in to take Claire for a walk, or out to play, or holds Grant while I get dinner together.

Someday the kids' bedtime will really feel like our downtime. Right now, Claire is in bed at seven but Grant is usually still getting his last evening meal and neither Justin nor I are always able or willing to put our stray coherent thoughts into words. Sometimes we park in front of the latest episode of The Office and eat Baskin Robbins ice cream out of the tub. Or we just read. On our more let's-be-couple-ish nights, we play gin rummy or Sequence.

Then we pass out. Around eight-thirty. Yeah, eight-thirty.

So it's a tired time for us both. I keep thinking a five and three year old will surely be less exhausting. But what energy I might gain in nighttime sleep, I'm sure will be burned chasing them. And I doubt I'll mind too much. Most days.

A: pretty much all. the. time.

2010-11-06T16:14:00.000+03:00

Q: What is, "When is Sarah tired?"

Claire was sleeping through the night by six or seven weeks. She still woke up at four-thirty or five in the morning, but I could count on a nice seven hour stretch. Grant is not sleeping through the night. He might wake up once or three times. I cluster feed him in the evening, hoping he'll be stuffed enough to give me a good night's rest. The longest chunk of sleep I've had since he was born is five hours - and even then I woke up once to make sure he was still breathing.

I know he is only two months old.

But I am still tired.

In the morning, Justin might ask if Grant woke. In my weaker moments, I've fantasized blowing an air horn each time Grant wakes.

With Claire, and now again with Grant, I've excused Justin's sleeping while I fumble to get the baby to my breast. I've said, "Well, he has to get up and go to work." But a few weeks ago, a friend told me that she and her husband took turns with the night feedings too, even though she is also a stay at home mom. "I mean, I have to get up too," she explained. Since then, in my tired-er moments, I consider this: I have to get up in the morning too.

And while I'm not teaching algebra or grading quizzes or keeping teenage boys from sneaking into the bathroom for a cigarette, I am teaching a two year old to stay in her bedroom until the more reasonable hour of seven (instead of wandering out at five o'clock asking for juice), and I am feeding an infant every two to three hours, and I am preparing lunch and dinner (not always very involved or creative, but we are eating, aren't we?), and I am doing all of this on interrupted sleep.

Love isn't about keeping score though, contrary to the short list I just started above. I don't want to trade my days with Justin - although I miss lunch break with colleagues and mid-morning coffee orders. I just want to sleep. I want to start my days rested. But none of that makes me special as a mom of two. I still remember our friend Phil - after congratulating us on our first pregnancy with Claire - adding that our sleep would never be the same. And I look at my nervous, just pregnant self half-laughing at Phil's quiet comment and want to tell her: No, really, it will never be the same.

worry

2010-10-26T14:35:00.000+03:00

Well it's been a week since my last post. Not sure how that happened. My mom wants me to post pictures, but this isn't that post. That post will come soon. Promise.

Today's post is brought to you by Worry. Oh, I worry. I worry about getting it right. I worry about saying the wrong thing. I worry about saying the right thing and it being taken the wrong way. I worry about tone of voice. I worry about miscommunication. I worry about a lot of really petty things. I worry about things I said or did a week ago, a year ago, five years ago. I worry because those words and actions still seem too alive to me. A little too present. I worry when there are bumps in my relationships, when things feel off. Sometimes I worry about what others think of me, as they know me. I worry about sudden death, but not as often as I could. I worry about being good. I worry about intentions. I worry that I am not transparent enough. I worry about terrorist attacks very little. Instead I worry about the terrible drivers here. I rarely worry about money, but I do worry about the quality of our life experiences. I worry that dinner will burn. I worry because you didn't email me back. Something must be wrong. I worry that halfway around the world, life is unraveling and I won't hear about it until tomorrow.

So today I was writing in my writing notebook (getting back into the regular practice of writing), and worrying about a situation that has worried me for months. And I got to a point in my writing when I thought: I have worried this all before. Telling the same old story.

And then I thought: I just want to be done. I have thought this before - I just want to be done - about different blocks or hurdles or mountains in my life. I have thought this before about Worry. I. Just. Want. To. Be. Done. So then I spent a good page writing about why I just want to be done with Worry, free. Replacing worry with peace or confidence. I thought about what God says about worry - essentially: don't bother with it - and wonder still:

Why is it easier to worry than not? Oh, I am a Work In Progress.

homesick

2010-10-19T09:22:00.000+03:00

First, let me tell you I will be more bloggy. At least one post a week. I think I can manage that. Now: homesick.

My friend is heading home for a month, very soon. The other night we were talking with her and her husband about the break they'd get from Kuwait. She is planning to go for nice, long, slow runs. Outside. In beautiful country. Run one for me, I think.

And this morning on the treadmill, I thought about Wisconsin running and my favorite routes - some of which I may never run again, but still replay, still miss.

Sometimes I think about moving back to the States, but like my friend and her husband - and many of our friends abroad - we still aren't ready. The odd thing is that when I think of returning to the States, when I feel homesick for the States, I am missing something different from what I left behind.

I don't want to return to where we lived before. We joke about how much we like our college town, except that it's also Justin's hometown and we don't want to live next door to parents. (Now, watch that happen in ten years). Instead, I idealize places I've driven through or read about, states my abroad friends are from. When my brother was in college, Justin and I visited him in Minneapolis and those few weekend trips are the entire basis of my thinking that the Cities would be a great place to live. A book of gorgeous pictures showing Maine through her seasons - a book I picked up at the library maybe ten years ago - still has me thinking coastal Maine would be the perfect spot to live. Mountainous Colorado or drizzly Portland sound nice. An international school in Boston told us to keep them in mind when we were ready to return to the States: we'd be broke, but living in Cambridge. And I once drafted a letter to the Canton, New York school district to inquire about teaching jobs for Justin and me because I saw enough of the town on a long, rainy morning run while on our honeymoon, heading for Canada - I saw enough of the town to think we could live there, happily. Maybe we will yet.

The thing is, I can close my eyes and picture myself in too many places for one life.

running during second pregnancy

2010-10-05T14:44:00.000+03:00

I posted periodic running updates during my second pregnancy, but here is a quick recap:

Running through my second pregnancy was different from running through my first pregnancy. I was very pleased with my running during my first pregnancy and surprised that I was able to continue as long as did, stopping a week and a half before Claire was born. This time, I ran through the end and actually managed a five mile run the day my labor began. Running through my second pregnancy felt smoother than with my first: I had way fewer aches or pains and no injuries. I think there are two main reasons for this:

First, I didn't immediately drop my pace or miles when I became pregnant. I continued with my regular running of forty to fifty miles a week, averaging mile times in the low eights or high sevens. I kept my running comfortable and didn't push too much beyond. When I began teaching and had to get up early, I became too tired to manage a daily run in the morning and too drained to do much in the afternoon; that's when I began cutting miles to about thirty or so a week. After the first trimester, I added a few of those miles back and spent most of my pregnancy maintaining forty miles a week, sometimes just under and sometimes just over. During the last two months of pregnancy, I ran around thirty or thirty-five miles a week.

I did see my "feel good" daily run drop from nine to seven miles. I was fine with that. Near the end, I found it much easier physically and psychologically to run one day long (seven or eight miles) and one short (five miles), resting every two days.

With my first pregnancy, I ended with pace in the ten minute mile range. This time, I was able to keep my mile times just under nine minutes. I decided to run what felt best. Sometimes going slower feels more difficult.

During the second trimester especially, my running felt unencumbered. I loved feeling my body move in a familiar, energetic way. This is partly due to the second reason why I found running through this pregnancy to be smoother: I ditched the maternity support belt.

Near week thirty during my first pregnancy, I began wearing a support belt while running. This time I had the belt, but thought I'd wait until my belly felt too heavy. And then I decided to not bother at all. Not wearing the belt forced me to be attuned to my posture and stride while running, and to check in with my lower ab muscles. At no point did I feel like my belly was too heavy to run.

Though I did feel ridiculous sometimes, stepping on the treadmill with my moon of a belly, running when I couldn't see my shoes. Every runner has to talk themselves into getting out there at some point. What I knew (still know) is that running feels good. Give me an endorphin kick. Give me an hour alone.

I did become a little concerned about the effect running might be having on my weight gain. I only gained fifteen and a half pounds this pregnancy, about four pounds less than with Claire - though I delivered Grant two weeks early, while Claire was a week late. During the last month with Grant, I gained almost nothing despite cutting some miles. I am not sure that it was primarily running that affected my weight gain. I continued to eat well (a lot), but also had a toddler to chase. During my first pregnancy, I had the luxury of laying around more. Still, Grant's ultrasounds showed that he was gaining weight even if I was not.

Postpartum Weight and Running (So Far)

I am not sure what I weigh. I have my six week checkup soon and I'll find out then. I do know that my body did exactly what it did after Claire: dropped a lot of weight in the first two or three days, and then puffed out. My body is holding fat reserves for nursing - in fact, my body gained fat that wasn't there during pregnancy. Which means I cannot button my favorite pants yet. Maybe in another month or two or three.

Oh well.

I am back to running. I waited two weeks before beginning and then began slowly. Peed my pants through the first two kilometers I ran (oh, those pesky stretched out pelvic floor muscles!). I am now five weeks postpartum and running five or eight miles five times a week. My pace remains just under nine minute miles and though I am tempted to pick it up, I have no reason to, and do not want to risk injury. Now that the weather here is cooling, I am looking forward to getting outside for more runs. Until then: my treadmill, my friend.

thus far

2010-09-18T09:01:00.000+03:00

I celebrated my due date yesterday by nursing a very hungry baby boy, saying thank you thank you thank you for already being here.

On Thursday evening we headed to Fahaheel to walk around and pick up a few groceries. It was the first family outing, all four of us. We ate a small dinner at Paul, the French cafe we usually visit for fruit salad and croissants. The wait staff were happy to see Grant. Later in the evening we saw a woman who works at a Caribou Coffee near us - she knows me as "milk chocolate iced mocha" - and she was excited to meet Grant too.

So before Grant was born, I asked other moms with two what it was like. Kind of like I'd ask what Toronto was like, very casual: So, what's it like to have two little ones? And then, nearer the end of pregnancy, I began sounding a bit more desperate. More like: what is Toronto like when you arrive with only a toothbrush and five thousand pesos? Another mom at a play group Claire and I attended is due with her second one in December; we both wondered why you can find loads of parenting books for babies and toddlers and teenagers, but so little is written about managing two little ones at once. Maybe a chapter here or there, but not a definitive volume that says: This is how you do it. (And not go nuts).

That would sell.

What moms of two told me was (bear with the paraphrase, mashed from a few mouths): It is difficult for (two weeks to three months), but you figure it out.

Thanks. I neared the end of my pregnancy feeling very prepared to just keep both Claire and Grant alive until three months out when (hopefully), we'd all be sleeping through the night again. A few days after Grant arrived, I began thinking that it'd be at least three years before the volume of parenting (read: diapers, nursing, diapers, messes, food throwing, diapers, laundry, potty training, laundry, diapers, potty training) eased enough to think a third baby might be nice to have around.

But it is true, what these moms said, and I am starting to figure it out. Right now I need to not make my list of Onces: once my body is fully healed, once Grant is sleeping through the night, once I am able to get my usual runs in the morning, once I fit into my pants again, once I have time and energy to commit to potty training Claire. All those onces deprive me of my here and now. And the here and now isn't so wildly difficult as I'd imagined. I have energy reserves I dredge up from somewhere. And when I don't have the energy, a good cry settles me. I nurse my baby. I read books with my toddler. I understand that this is a short time in my life and that soon my two kids will be pouring their own milk on their cereal and whispering secrets or bickering at the breakfast table.

And that leads to a bit of advice from a mom of two that I am trying to heed: Be nice to yourself, she said. Be patient with yourself. Especially right now, I gather, while I am figuring it out.

grant nael

2010-09-10T13:42:00.000+03:00

Look who joined our family on September first! Grant Nael, surprising me by arriving two weeks early. He weighed just under six and a half pounds and measured nineteen and a half inches. Such a sweet boy!

We've been enjoying quiet days, getting to know Grant and settling into a new normal for our family.

staying for the summer

2010-08-27T20:21:00.000+03:00

Most of our friends said we were crazy to stay in Kuwait for the summer. We may have been, just a bit. But honestly, it wasn't bad. Staying put was good for us this year. When most expats are hot (ha ha) to leave, staying seems ridiculous. There is a mass exodus of Westerners heading west when schools let out for break, and then at the beginning of Ramadan, more people (Westerners and Kuwaitis alike) board planes to escape. So at the beginning of summer, while Justin was busy teaching remedial math and I was learning how to stay home with Claire, I was lonely.

I felt left out. I felt a little stranded and unsure what to do in this sandy land. And I quickly realized I had to stop wondering what I was missing in the States and just figure out how to enjoy what was before me in Kuwait.

Through a friend, I met two other women who were staying for the summer. And you know how it works when you meet someone and they introduce you to another and soon enough I was busy taking Claire to morning play groups or enjoying an afternoon coffee with a new friend. I took a step and began going to a play group hosted at a nearby Montessori school and through that group I met two other moms and we make up a weekly play group with a fourth mom and her son and baby daughter.

And then I decided to do something about wanting to understand and deepen my faith and so joined a moms' Bible study. The moms' part just means that no one faults you for bringing your toddler to romp about while you share and listen to different perspectives about the text you're studying. Because their toddlers and kids are also romping about.

Soon enough, I wasn't feeling left out at all. Instead I was seeing the shape my year at home with Claire and the new little one will take. My days won't be empty or listless. I have new friends outside of the school community. We have a weekly play group. I have a Bible study to attend. It's been a busy summer, learning new routines and meeting so many new friends. And that has made staying put in Kuwait worthwhile. Nevermind the one hundred and twenty degree heat. Or humidity.

food from where?

2010-08-18T19:58:00.000+03:00

I just saw this NY Times article, "For Some Foods, You Just Had to Be There," and immediately thought about all the foods from different places I've visited - foods that are linked in my mind to a particular trip or time.

On our honeymoon, we drove through Pennsylvania and New York to get to Quebec before heading on to Ottawa. I think I ate a croissant with Nutella each morning while in Quebec. I might have eaten two croissants each morning. Right now I have dough for a dozen croissants waiting to be rolled and folded before baking tomorrow morning. Perhaps I'll go buy Nutella too.

Gather two or more Wisconsinites and we'll talk cheese. A couple of weeks ago I went shopping with a friend and bought about forty dollars worth of cheese at Dean & DeLuca. Later I joked that I'm not a shoe girl or a bag girl - I'm a cheese girl. I am already looking forward to a couple of trips to local dairies next summer for squeaky cheese curds and cave aged Marisa.

And sometimes I find myself standing in the middle of the kitchen wanting a food that was in my fridge in Colombia. Avena drink. Or I wouldn't mind a walk to Carulla for a guayaba pastry. I'd like a jar of uchuva jam for my toast. And just to snack on lime Choclitos again. Mmm.

Since our visit to India at Christmas, I've been asking around for Indian restaurant recommendations here. I want paneer and naan bread. A whole pile of naan to sop up a curry.

Makes me wonder what tastes I'll take from our time here in the Middle East. And what tastes I've yet to meet elsewhere. Actually makes me quite grateful to enjoy eating and taste, the privilege of eating a variety of foods.

tantrums & toddler-ese

2010-08-10T20:44:00.000+03:00

Whenever I imagined being a mom, I imagined having kids. Not babies or toddlers. Kids. I glossed over the ragged days spent keeping an infant alive after a night of no sleep. I skipped the potty-training age entirely. I jumped right into having four or five year olds, taking trips to the zoo and having mini-adult conversations. But babies, toddlers, kids: none of them are mini-adults.

I may sometimes be an adult-toddler though.

So I've been reading online about toddler discipline (I even cut and paste the best ideas and highlighted key phrases so I can quickly remind myself: When they test the limits they are asking you to show them how dependable you and your limits are. Okay. Gives an understanding to why Claire looks at me and then runs in the opposite direction when I say, "Come here, please.") Anyway. Then a friend loaned me "The Happiest Toddler on the Block" dvd, hosted by Harvey Karp, M.D., an energetic pediatrician who has great advice about handling todddlers. I am going to start playing it on a loop.

Karp offers a strategy for speaking with toddlers. Toddler-ese. Speak their language. Keep it short, use repitition. Make sure that your child knows you understand what he or she is communicating. For example, Claire wants hot cocoa and she needs to eat her oatmeal first. I say, "Claire wants cocoa. She wants cocoa. She wants, she wants, she wants cocoa. I know you want cocoa, Claire. But first, you need to eat your oatmeal." The other part of toddler-ese is about showing your toddler that you really do understand what they are feeling. So if they are angry, you don't dismiss that anger entirely by speaking in a quiet voice. Instead, I use my face and voice to show Claire, "Claire is angry. She is upset. She is upset," and from there, bring the emotion down to a calmer level, "I know Claire is upset. You are not happy. You can calm down now. We can calm down."

I'm typing this and realizing I sound like a nut. But sometimes this toddler-ese works. Claire stops and realizes: Oh, Mama gets it. I'll point out that while my success with toddler-ese remains "sometimes," it always works in Harvey Karp, M.D.'s dvd.

In my non-Harvey-Karp-M.D.-dvd-life, there are times when Claire is hysterical and struggling and we're both sweating and tired and my instinct tells me to just hold on to her tightly so she doesn't smash her head against the floor or tear my hair out. Keep her safe. And if we're out in public, it's just horrifying. In public, my instinct is to yell to passersby that EVERYTHING REALLY IS OKAY. KIND OF. CARRY ON. My instinct is not to toddler-ese my way through her hysteria.

Still, I'm going to stick with toddler-ese. See how it goes. I count it a blessing that Claire isn't given to frequent tantrums. But when she throws herself into a fit, it's a grand fit. And I guess it's my grand job to sort out how to be mama to her when she unglues.

Advice, ideas, suggestions, encouragement welcome.

new due date

2010-08-04T13:22:00.000+03:00

I am keeping track of weeks: currently thirty-three weeks, five days. Early on in the pregnancy, my doctor said I was due September 10. So that stuck in my mind. I didn't sit down with the calendar and count my weeks. I just held September 10 as the due date.

Guess what?

By weeks, I'm actually due September 17. Had I figured this out, oh, I don't know, FIVE MONTHS AGO, it wouldn't seem like a big deal. Now, though. Hm. One week. One week. Just a change of date, not weeks. I know I've got six weeks (and two days) left, but that takes me to September 17, not the tenth as I'd kept in mind for months.

This baby has a chance at being born on his big sister's due date, the twenty-fifth of September. Or maybe he'll come a week early. Wouldn't that be sweet.

our "all at once, and nothing first" pajero

2010-07-31T16:24:00.000+03:00

Today the AC quit working in our car. Today was also the first really sticky humid day in awhile, so we all arrived at the grocery store pink-faced and damp. The Pajero is at the dealership being dealt with and once we get an estimate, Justin and I will decide how much we want to continue dealing with our new decade-old SUV.

I didn't mind not owning a car in Colombia because taxis were easy, relatively cheap. Here, taxis are more expensive and I'm picky about who is driving. We have a driver we really like - Badur - but the prospect of loading a toddler and an infant in a taxi anytime we wanted to shop or go for a walk outside of our own sandy neighborhood was enough to make us just go buy a car. When you just go buy a car - a used car, because you figure you want to save more than you'd pay for a lease, and you aren't willing to commit to monthly payments knowing you'll eventually have to resell when you move; a used Pajero because you see loads of old Pajeros with gas tanks strapped on their backs, boxy bodies on the roads; a used Pajero that happens to fit the cash you're willing to immediately part with - well, when you just go buy a car, you just don't know what

might

happen

next.

We say: Let it live for two years. We get two years out of the beast, we'll be happy.

And if we'd bought a shiney new SUV, we'd probably have immediately wrecked the paint job in a parking lot anyway. Driving an old Pajero makes me super aware of all the young, pert BMWs Saabs Volvos Porsches BENTLEYs (!) haphazardly lounging in the lots, straddling lines on the diagonal, daring you to look too close. Needless to say, parking lots make me sweat. I find myself taking deep yoga breaths and telling Justin to just stop talking leave me alone I've got it. In five maneuvers or less.

So there we are, thinking we were making a smart decision a few months ago when we bought a car that has, since then: blown its head gasket, had a flat tire, begged for a new tie rod (I don't even know what that is), and now pooped out on the AC. Oh, and the radio doesn't work. None of that could have happened in the three months before we took ownership. Our very own One-Hoss Shay.

one more from beirut

2010-07-22T19:09:00.000+03:00

Justin read my last blog post and wanted to know why I didn't mention the military police we saw. Or the tanks. I had to think about why for a minute. The omission wasn't to spare my parents or in-laws (look where your grandbaby has been!) or to make Beirut seem a safer city than it is. We felt very safe in Hamra, the area we stayed, and in the Downtown, where we walked. Parts of the city are a bit dicey for Westerners - so I've been told - but every city has those streets that you're told to avoid. And not all regions of Lebanon are open or friendly toward Westerners. So as with travel in any new country, we were cautious.

While we were in Lebanon, a friend of mine traveled with her family to Athens. She'd campaigned for a trip to Lebanon, but her husband hesitated, believing it wasn't the safest option. (And really, it probably isn't. The safest option might be Sweden, unless you've been reading Stieg Larsson. But that's just me idealizing those Scandanavian countries). Anyway, they arrived in Greece to riots protesting government taxes, while wanting government aid.

So riots happen. My friend and her family were fine. They loved Athens. I think we'll love it too, when we get there. No enforced sales tax (one catalyst for the riots).

But back to why I didn't say anything about the military police or the random tanks parked off the side of a road. Well, because they didn't register as anything unusual to me. They seemed to belong. Perhaps that says something of how I've changed in the past couple of years, to not blink at a young man in camoflauge holding a gun and gaurding a street in the Downtown.

beirut

2010-07-17T22:02:00.001+03:00

Paris of the Middle East. We arrived in the early afternoon and driving north from the airport to our hotel in Hamra, I saw stacks of apartment buildings, their balconies waving flags of laundry. Another cramped, dirty city with cranes and dump trucks, men on motorbikes weaving between cars. I didn't see anything that said Paris. That didn't bother me. The name was given to Beirut long before her civil wars. Still, I have yet to meet a Lebanese person who does not praise their country. And after just four days there, we will return for more.

We loved the weather. Hot and a little humid, but not Kuwait Oven Hot. So we walked everywhere during our time in Beirut. One morning we walked down Bliss Street and visited the American University of Beirut. Beautiful campus, lots of green. It was the green - all over the city - that we enjoyed most. We saw some of the same flowering trees we knew from Colombia, and stopped a couple of times to just inhale the smell of living, green things.

More living green things.

This is a church in the Downtown area, pockmarked with bullet holes.

Roman ruins, also in the Downtown area. The Downtown pictures to follow show the success of at least part of this city's rebuilding process. The area was gorgeous, expensive, and spoiled pedestrians with several streets closed to traffic.

Place De L'Etoile.

On our walks, Claire would say, "Give me flower" and Justin usually obliged, picking a flower from a tree overhead. Here she finds her own. (And check out my belly. My head is the less attraction, I guess).

The entry to a mosque in the Downtown.

In the evenings, we went for a walk on the Corniche, along the Mediterranean Sea - a nice stretch of path to enjoy the cooler evening breeze. In Kuwait, there are enough Western expats that a blond haired kid isn't too much of a curiousity, but in Beirut, it was similar to being in Colombia or India. People stared, smiled, snapped their fingers in her face, wanted to touch her, kissed her, fawned, and pointed. She takes it in stride. When she feels like it, she smiles back and graces with a, "Hi-low."

The Rouche Sea Rock. You can see Beirut stretching further along the coast.

We do hope to return to Lebanon, the next time to drive around the country. But this short trip was a gift in the middle of our hot summer.

back from beirut

2010-07-14T15:47:00.002+03:00

We just spent four short days in Lebanon. Loved it. I dreaded the travel - just have not felt like going anywhere lately and was not excited about packing up for four days in a city.

"It'll still be hot," I grumbled.
"The plane ride," I complained.
"I'm pregnant," I whined.

And then I had to go anyway. We kept our itenerary (oh, let's just pretend we ever have one!) open, but had each picked a couple of things we wanted to do or see. Me: the Mediterranean, eat lots of Lebanese food (sort of fattouch-ed out after a couple days), walk, sleep, read. Yeah, I really didn't have much I was dying to do or see. Justin did a much better job of preparing for his trip and had a short list of culturally relevant places to see (which meant I got to see a few culturally relevant places too); he also wanted to find a pair of Birkenstocks (the last pair he bought in Ottawa and I think he wants to start a World City Birkenstock collection), and a Lebanese flag for his classroom.

The Lebanese flag has a tree on it, which beats Kuwait's variation of the Middle East redgreenblack theme. The old Kuwait flag is prettier, I think, but I guess leaders don't pick flags for pretty.

This trip coincided with my reading Muhajababes: Meet the New Middle East - Young, Sexy, and Devout by British author Allegra Stratton. The first part of the book covers her time in Beirut, so I learned a little about the city and brushed up on a short history of Lebanon while there. Always a little fun to read about a place and know you just ate lunch in that same area.

I'll post pictures in the next couple of days.

on deciding not to lick this shoe

2010-07-06T10:00:00.000+03:00

In high school, a friend of mine put together a jokey email he sent out to friends once a week or so. Think The Onion covering high school gossip. I did something - probably something small - to annoy him and I was off the list.

"Please, please, please," I begged, "Put me back on."

"Okay," Ian said, "If you lick my shoe." He stuck out his leg, rolled his ankle, his chunky skate shoe taunting me. "Go ahead. Lick it."

I don't remember if I licked his shoe or not. I probably did. And that only illustrates the grovelling-approval-seeking-wimp part of my personality. A kind of trait most people hope they leave behind with the freeing toss of mortarboards on graduation. (Here is where I admit: I didn't toss mine that high because I didn't want to lose it; at the time, that square cap seemed like something I should hold on to forever). Anyway, no one wants to be a shoe-licker and while I manage to be fairly-confident-pretty-content-mostly-pleased with my life decisions, sometimes I imagine a row of dirty sneakers, scuffed heels, worn flip-flops, and I feel compelled to lick them all.

Exhibit A: The insane urge to contact every person I have intentionally or unintentionally wronged/hurt/angered, with or without their knowing, and apologize. (I had a couple of stellar years during my early twenties when I thought I knew what I was doing). Truth: most of those forty-seven (rough estimate) people would probably ask, "Sarah who? And what did you say you did? Oh. I don't remember that." Lick, lick, lick.

Exhibit B: This whole overthinking living abroad business.

Three years abroad. All my family is grilling out and playing Bananagrams in Wisconsin. I am pregnant with my second child who will not meet grandparents until nine or ten months old. And I was unnerved to realize we really don't know what comes after Kuwait. So all of that together made me want to lick shoes to get back on the list. (The list our parents are keeping, an imagined list titled Good Sons and Daughters Who Do as We Hope, Like Live Next Door*).

Reality: Our departure from Wisconsin, and then from Colombia, did not leave gaping holes in either place. At schools, we were easily replaced by other teachers. In neighborhoods, someone else began paying rent. And after the first year of missing Gurnee weekend with Justin's family or Thanksgiving with mine - well, it became normal. Running partners and bike buddies still head out on loops and trails. The little normals we were part of seal up, replaced by new little normals. And meanwhile, we are doing the same thing: making our new normals.

It is rather self-important of me to think that our living abroad so greatly affects the friends and family we still miss. I know our families would enjoy weekend visits and our friends would start potluck Wednesday again, but their lives are not incomplete because we live in another time zone. Perhaps most of us (me!) wish our absence will be daily noted, mourned a little. Like: life just isn't the same without Sarah Marslender to keep me company.

Oh, but it probably isn't that much different either.

Realizing that, I don't think I need to lick any shoes about living abroad. Our choice isn't devestating. It isn't a wound. And if not always optimal, living abroad does not need to be a barrier to keeping home relationships.

I'd love to meet Georgia or Stetson for a run; grab a coffee with Kate or Nira; enjoy dinner with Jason and Michelle or Scott and Sonia; have tea with my mom or Rollene. But I can't right now. And that is okay. Right here in Kuwait I have friendships to enjoy and new normals to embrace.

And no shoes to lick.

* I don't think this list really exists. If it does, they should burn it before they die and we have to go through their stuff.

overthinking living abroad summer slump travel plans

2010-07-03T20:09:00.001+03:00

This past week I have been thinking a lot about living abroad. I had a conversation with my friend Kate not too long ago and she wondered whether the United States would ever feel like it wasn't our home anymore. Will we get so used to being overseas that returning seems undesirable? I have been turning that idea over in my mind and Justin and I talked about it too. Our standard response to living abroad is, of course we'll return to the States (eventually, sometime, someday). But after Kate and I talked and I said the same thing to her - of course we'll return to the States - I realized: we really cannot say that with certainty.

When we decided to move abroad, even then, we didn't know how long we would be away. Five years seemed reasonable. But then we went to the job fair and at the welcome-orientation-go-get-'em speech, an overseas school administrator stood behind his podium and said, "When I first moved abroad, I thought I'd be gone for a year. Twenty-three years later..."

And Justin nudged me and we glanced at each other, silly grins. Moving abroad had been my idea - a non-negotiable when we started talking about our future together - but that weekend at the job fair, he said to me, "I can see doing this for a long time." Granted, we were heady with a few successful interviews and offers, and energized by all the conversations we had with other expats (soon we would be expats too!), but still, that was the weekend when we began to think maybe ten years? twenty? why not twenty-three years abroad?

So I've been thinking about our reasons for moving abroad, and reasons for staying abroad, and reasons for returning to the States. And in the middle of all this thinking, I hit a summer slump.

International teachers travel. Oh, give them a long weekend and they will go find a bus to board. Winter and spring breaks are made to add stamps to passports. Someone usually knows someone who has been to Bulgaria and if you need a Lonely Planet Egypt, just whisper it at a barbeque.

Well, we are international teachers, but we are not traveling much right now. So with most of the staff gone for summer holiday, and the few remaining summer school teachers getting ready to board planes within the next week, I am feeling slumpy. I don't even really want to travel because I am close to uncomfortably pregnant, and I have a toddler, and it's an expensive season. But still. If I wasn't pregnant, we'd be standing in a customs line, thumbing a Lonely Planet.

Since we aren't off on a long summer away - a short trip to Lebanon will have to keep us happy - we've been talking about where we want to go next. Justin and I were sketching travel plans over the next two or three years, and I pointed out that if we were still in Wisconsin we wouldn't be taking big fat yearly vacations on our teachers' salaries. So why feel compelled to take big fat vacations now? So scrapping the big fat vacations, what do we really, really want to see while we are in this region of the world?

Oman. Jordan. The pyramids, because we'd kick ourselves if we didn't. And Turkey, because everyone raves about Turkey. Oh, and Greece. Maybe Malta.

Anyway. There was a subtle shift in how we talked about our loose travel plans. It became okay to feel less urgent about seeing this or that, because we have also started to be realistic about how long we may actually be abroad. There is no rush to hop over to Paris or spend a week in Irish countryside. We'll likely get there. We might be taking our teenagers along, but we'll likely get there.

Even writing that here makes me want to rush to assure Stateside family and friends: of course we'll return to the States. Eventually, sometime, someday.

Edited to add, so I don't panic the folks back home.

Talking about what may happen in the next decade is what it is: talking about what may happen in the next decade. Another friend of mine, Christine, and I were discussing this whole messy thing about living abroad - what to say when friends and family ask about your return. Truth is, it's much easier to just say what we've been saying, someday we'll head back to the States.

I'll likely blog about this more later, but the prospect and process of returning to the States sometimes seems more difficult than the decision to leave was. Justin and I are not opposed to returning and settling. We aren't opposed to living in the States for awhile only to go abroad again. But that's just it: we aren't opposed to too much right now. We simply cannot say what our Big Life Plan is yet. (How many of those Big Life Plans go your way, anyhow?) So moving back to the States at this point presents way more issues - personal, location, financial, lifestyle - than any resolution or relief.

I make more of this than it is. Mostly, whenever I think about why we aren't ready to return to the States yet, I think of what our parents and my siblings might want. Then I think about what I want. I think they should all move abroad, so we could get more passport stamps on holiday.

running into third trimester

2010-06-27T13:53:00.000+03:00

Running during this pregnancy is going well. During my first pregnancy, I made myself get out and run, keeping close to my pre-pregnancy miles through the first trimester but dropping my speed significantly. This time, I cut miles and maintained speed during the first trimester and picked up a few more miles during second trimester while slowing the pace just a bit.

I kept to eight minute (or just under) miles for most of first trimester, sometimes throwing in a few fast days. Second trimester saw 8:20s become 8:30s, and I'm still most comfortable running around an 8:35 mile. I am hoping to finish running through pregnancy without going too far over a ten minute mile.

Weekly mileage is still thirty to forty miles. I actually keep track of my runs in kilometers since that's the measure on my treadmill. A regular daily run is 13k, which converts to just a smidge over eight miles. Once a week I aim for a 14.5k run, or nine miles. I am learning to be okay with shorter distances - I don't know why I have an issue running under seven miles, but today I ran 10k. I was tempted to tack on an extra one and a half kilometers to round out a seven mile run, but decided: let's be rational. 10k felt good, leave it at that.

In fact, running feels good! During my first pregnancy, I experienced much more pain in my hips and groin during a run, with general achiness after. Perhaps by not suddenly dropping my speed this time, I kept an efficient stride. I had some hip and groin aches early in the second trimester, but I haven't had much discomfort since - even my lower abs are still feeling strong.

Because I usually feel good during a run, it is just a matter of talking myself onto the treadmill. Really, somedays it seems ridiculous that I'm still running. I look at my belly where I used to see feet, I feel the baby shift his weight, I know I will only get slower and heavier. But when I'm in the middle of a run, breathing even, and my feet are landing right: I am coordinated and strong, content to check in with the parts of my body, pleased that I am still able to run.

Sometimes while I am running, I do not feel the limits of pregnancy at all. I remind myself to run tall. My baby belly which makes eating, sitting and bending over to help Claire with her shoes a challenge; my baby belly which makes rolling over in bed a sport - that belly doesn't yet bother me on a run.

I know it will. I am twenty-eight weeks pregnant and in a few short weeks, this boy will be packing on his weight, getting ready to be born. And I'll be slowing down, growing heavy and talking myself onto the treadmill.

it isn't me, honey, it's kuwait

2010-06-26T16:12:00.000+03:00

Parts of Kuwait literally stink. Eau de Oil Refinery. Sometimes, driving toward the refineries, you can see great flames shimmering orange against the white sky. When I first saw that, I thought an apartment building was burning. It was just the gas.

Gas. (Segue here).

We'll be driving around and the air will suddenly stink. "Justin, did you just -" I'll say and before I can finish he says, "No, I didn't fart."

So I've quit asking.

That's what Kuwait smells like sometimes. Like a big fart. And then you'll be through the bad air. I still do not understand exactly why Kuwait smells like this, pockets of noxious gas that make you think of guys sitting around in hunting cabins after a supper of beans and beer.

The one advantage I can think of to living in such a spontaneously stinky country is that you could fart in a closed car and blame it on Kuwait. No one would know.

pt chronicles: part two

2010-06-24T18:28:00.000+03:00

Potty training woes no more. I just hid the underwear from Claire. She gets up, she sits on the toilet reading and chatting, and we head to breakfast. She continues to talk about the potty, mostly saying "Poop! Poop!" and even though I explain wet and pee, it's all poop right now.

Important thing is that I am not going nuts, and that she and I are leaving the apartment. The bathroom is like this background music in our lives right now - it's there and sometimes we stop to hum along. (Terrible analogy perhaps. But it's better than the bathroom being the gong that rings every half hour). I am not watching the clock. Claire comes to me if she needs a change and she is beginning to realize when she has to go before she goes.

Like tonight during bathtime, she stands up and pats her bottom and says, "Poop?" so I set her on the toilet and we read and chat. She gets tired of waiting and returns to the tub only to pause in her splashing to again sit on the toilet. And she pooped! Then she leaned waaay too far into the toilet bowl to look at what Mama was so happy about. Later she was running around - naked time - stopped, announced "Poop" with some authority this time and so we walked fast back to the bathroom and she almost made it! Peed at the door. I set her down on the toilet to finish and we got all excited about that.

So we'll see what happens next. Thank you thank you thank you for telling me to relax about all of this. Claire might be potty trained in a couple of weeks or it might be another month or so before she's dry during the day. Either way, I'm fine.

Think she'll mind that I blogged this? I don't think I've said poop so much in my life as in these past couple of weeks.

pt chronicles: part one

2010-06-21T13:39:00.000+03:00

PT, as in Potty Training. As in, I could have titled this particular post: The Mom Who Thought She Was the Toddler. As in, I label it "part one" knowing that an unknown number of parts will finish out these particular chronicles.

Let me start by saying that I didn't prepare for Claire by reading gobs of books about how to parent. I read about birth and breastfeeding and then counted my experience as the oldest of eight as good enough reason to assume I would intuit any parenting situation. But I didn't actually raise any of my siblings and I was in college or on my own when most of the little ones were born. So any really relevant baby and toddler raising experience I gleaned was from weekend visits home; and even then, Justin was usually the bigger hit because he let them climb all over him and knew about things like Legos.

But I did - and still do, for the most part - assume that most parents are given an instinct to understand what their child needs. I think it helps to watch others parent and to ask questions of those who've been there, but I didn't think much about devouring expert advice. I just figured that I'd get it.

And then God gave me a very willful independent busy social little girl who moved quickly from walking to raising ruling ambitions. And about this same time, I thought: well, we should probably begin potty training.

I borrowed Toddlerwise from a friend and read it in two days, reread parts even. It was full of helpful ideas about creating a schedule and how to discipline, and it included a chapter on potty training with suggestions about letting your toddler pick out her underwear and buying loads of juice and treats to ensure that her bladder was full to bursting at each visit to the bathroom. I read this book while teaching and thought: Can't wait until summer when I'll have time to do this! and I returned the book.

Then I started getting really serious about the upcoming potty training. Claire followed me into the bathroom and learned pee and toilet paper and wipe and flush and wash hands. She wanted to sit on the potty. I thought: Awesome. So we spent a couple of weeks casually sitting around the bathroom, Claire on the throne. That was fine, I learned, when another friend of mine emailed me a scanned copy of the potty training chapter from the Toddler Whisperer.

What I really like about Tracy Hogg's approach is that she thinks of potty training as a process rather than an event. She points out that learning to walk takes longer than the first toddling steps; walking begins with the baby pulling himself to standing and finding strength to balance. That's the start of walking, but most of us don't recognize standing as a walking milestone. So she was encouraging to me, essentially saying: Take your time, relax. But be consistent.

Okay. I can do that.

First week of summer vacation: Claire gets up and we go to the potty. She eats breakfast and twenty minutes, thirty minutes, or forty minutes we go to the potty again. We tried all those times, a range from a variety of sources. Her diaper might be wet or dry, but we sit on the potty. Raggedy Ann joins us in the bathroom and we sing songs and read Peter Rabbit and talk about the illustrations. Claire dribbles and I am ecstatic. Overboard, just like the book says. She beams.

It doesn't happen again for me.

The Toddler Whisperer chapter advocates early potty training but assures me that Hogg's "second favorite time" to potty train is the eighteen to twenty-three month window when toddlers are still fairly interested in pleasing their parents. That window is the same window when toddlers are beginning to rehearse for actually turning two, so it's still a little dicey. The advantage to beginning in this stage is that Claire can understand most of what I say (I am not sure that is always an advantage). So you begin by just putting her in panties.

Which I did at the start of our second week of summer vacation. On day one of Panty Potty Training, Claire was thrilled with her underwear, pointing to them and saying "Pant-tees, pant-tees" and pulling her waistband lower to see Dora the Explorer. We marched to the bathroom every half hour and sat, chatted, sang, read. But didn't pee. She did tell me when she was peeing though, on the floor, standing on the stool, in the middle of the kitchen. We spent day one missing the opportunity to have a Potty Dance by minutes. We would be on our way to the the bathroom, or she would have just hopped down announcing "Aw done!" and Claire would pee and I would wash her panties, give her dry ones and we'd return to coloring or blocks.

Me, just waiting to get it right. That is what it began to feel like: I had to get it right. Something I was doing was not working. I kept missing the cues to shuttle Claire off to the bathroom. I just wanted Claire to make the connection: Peeing on (not next to, or within ten feet of) the potty is GREAT! So when Claire peed in her room (our fourth or fifth almost-made-it-on-the-potty) - "Pee-ing, pee-ing" - I got up and went to my room and cried.

I hated my life in general and potty training in particular. Really, really hated potty training. I thought: Who cares if the majority of kids outside the U.S. are potty trained before age two? And what kind of nut sits their infant on a toilet? Is it really scarring to waddle around in diapers until you're three or four? And if Claire gets potty trained within the next week or two, it just means we'll spend our upcoming vacation to Lebanon searching for public restrooms (which, wait a minute, I'm pregnant: we'll be doing that anyway). Okay, I'll give day two a try.

Today is day two. So yesterday, Claire's bladder was a clock and today it was a time bomb. I kept waiting for her to poop. I thought it'd be terrific for Claire to hit jackpot and poop on the toilet. Claire thought it'd be terrific to say "Poop, poop" and send us running to the toilet, just to sit and flip through Peter Rabbit. I kept trying to summon patience. Claire wanted to live in the bathroom this morning, even if she didn't want to actaully use the toilet. We had two misses, just after nice congenial potty chats and on the second miss, I set Claire to washing her hands and left to cry. I went to the kitchen and cried.

What do I need to do!? Surely the Catholics have a patron saint for this. Perhaps I should convert and light candles for a few weeks. I am standing at the counter, raging at myself for not getting this right! and so upset I think I might toss the dishes out the window. I felt the need to be dramatic. And in the middle of this, I realize: I understand Claire's tantrums! I'm having one myself! Revelation! But still: what do I need to do!? First: get a grip. Breathe. Go make sure the bathroom isn't flooded. And second: just relax.

In the bathroom, Claire is having a grand time at the sink. "Poop, poop," she says, and I empty her panties into the toilet - "See, this is where poop goes!" - and plunk her in the tub for a quick wash. I don't cry, and I count that as success enough.

The measure of my mamahood is not whether Claire goes pee and poop on the potty. I have just spent two days obsessing about potty training and Claire's liquid intake and timing trips to the bathroom. And it's just made me cry and want to smash my dishes.

I was looking forward to hanging out with Claire once I was finished teaching. She's a neat little girl and I enjoy her company, but I've turned our last two days together into something more about me than her. And I've forgotten that potty training is a process: I just wanted it done. Now.

So if having Claire wear panties just means I'm washing out panties (new bathroom decor) and mopping up pee (yea for tile!) and feeling failure at each miss, then I need to give this a rest. When Claire gets up from her nap this afternoon, I'll take her diaper off and we'll go do our bathroom chat with Kitty or Froggy or whoever is joining us today, and then I'll put her back in a cloth diaper. I'll keep an eye on the clock after meals and hope we get a few successful trips to the toilet, but I need to let go the frustration.

I'll call it Potty Training Lite.

in the heat

2010-06-15T08:06:00.000+03:00

Today's BBC forecast for Kuwait is 51degrees Celsius. That is 124 degrees Fahrenheit. I hesitated before deciding to go ahead and make that conversion. Knowledge is not always power. Right now it sounds nicer to say fifty-one and think Wow, that's hot without knowing just how hot.

Yesterday Claire and I went grocery shopping. We get out into the morning heat and she pinks up, tugs at her shirt and looks at me, "Hot. Hot." Once at the Sultan Center, we stand in front of the cool cool air conditioned meat counter and drink water. Claire is a champion water drinker. Back from our errand, her head is damp with sweat and her hair dries in curls.

I am seeing swollen ankles in my future.

Inside, our apartment is comfortable. We get morning sun and keep our drapes closed until midmorning. Our air conditioners can keep up. The other side of the building isn't so fortunate. The afternoon sun is hotter, merciless, and their air conditioners struggle to keep the indoor temperatures in the low thirties (in the 80 or 90 degree Fahrenheit range). There are men securing themselves with ropes tied to our stairway banisters, hanging out hallway windows, fixing AC units all day long.

Since we cannot walk comfortably in the heat, Justin and I will probably start our Mall Routine today or tomorrow. Just heading to a mall - any mall - and walking around in the ice air. Claire has a baby doll stroller she likes to push, drag, or carry. The alternative to wandering a mall is laying on a couch. Somedays that will be the better alternative.

I think of this summer as my Wisconsin winter. Winters keep people inside. In Wisconsin, the winter days are short; the dark and the bitter cold and the wind and the crummy roads say: Watch Oprah. Skip your run. Here, you look outside at a blinding sun, the Gulf a beautiful silver and it looks like it should be perfect summer, but it is just hot hot hot. And we're here for it. Our hot winter.

out for summer!

2010-06-10T09:26:00.000+03:00

I am waiting for my first period students to pick up their report cards and go home.

But this semester was good for me. Not always ideal, but good. I learned a few things as a teacher and I'll carry them to my next job, whether here in another year or two, or at another school.

1. Grading was incredibly manageable this year. I usually balk at the stacks of paper and when I finally sit down to actually read and grade essays, I waver over minute points. Not this year. I did put off grading the research paper - a beast that I was tired of by the time it was due - but when I did sit to grade, I just graded. Rubrics help. But more so, it helps to not second guess every point deducted. Seven years into reading student work and I am finally getting the hang of recognizing an A paper compared to a B paper.

I sometimes lack confidence in my ability or knowledge to grade. I question whether this thesis really is strong enough: maybe it is? is it? hmm. That just adds piles of time to grading. Perhaps I've met an unnamed threshold in essay grading and I finally just know what I'm encountering. I am a much more accurate grader for the experience of just grading - all that practice adds up to understanding how to grade. And I think that makes me more fair.

My attitude toward grading - particularly toward doling out poor grades where deserved - has shifted over the years. Starting out, I would frequently award credit just for completing the assignment and while I still have a few of those grades on my books, I realized it was unfair to give equal points to two students who obviously invested radically different amounts of time and thought in a project. It was also just lazy on my part, and not doing my poorer students any service by feeding them the illusion that garbage work was acceptable. I think that one reason I hesitated to be more demanding in my grading was a. For the first four years of my teaching, I counted it an accomplishment if most of my students even turned in an assignment. Out of a class of twenty, getting twelve or thirteen assignments was good. And b. Aren't we all a little indoctrinated by the You are so special speeches? Giving a failing grade seemed like saying You are not so special. How discouraging.

I haven't sorted out all of my grading qualms, but I definitely felt much much more at ease with my grading this semester. And part of that might be owing to

2. Time management! When I accepted the semester job, I was terrified at how much of my time would now be eaten by stacks of essays and unit planning and rereading novels. I would be teaching several works I hadn't taught previously - so I would need to learn how to teach Their Eyes Were Watching God and Death of a Salesman among others.

Then I decided: Just don't bring work home. Go to school, work work work at school, come home and be home. I compromised and decided that reading or rereading at home was fine, but no grading or planning. Leave the business at school. It worked. It helped that I was very motivated to keep work at work and home at home. I still carried worries home - student issues, parent meetings that I needed to prepare for - but I'm that kind of person: an overthinker.

Showing myself that I could keep most of my work at work was good. I needed to know that. Unfortunately, while my teaching time management was strong, my personal time management faltered. I still think that full-time is too busy for me as a mom; I would frequently get frustrated that I was so tired at the end of the day - too tired to really enjoy Claire, too tired to fix dinner, too tired to want to invite friends over for a visit. I was not happy that the bulk of my creative energy was geared to teaching well, and that my Book Project became That Thing I Think About and Feel Stupid For Trying. I am looking forward to a couple of months' recovery: cooking regularly, writing consistently, enjoying my time with Justin and Claire.

3. If You Enjoy It, They Might Too. With the exception of a few grammar lessons and some of the SAT prep, I really really liked the works we read and the discussions we had. I found that when I felt an interest or joy in what we were learning, that same energy was returned by my students. (Not all, but enough).

I also sensed a camaraderie in my teaching team. This is the first year I have consistently collaborated with other teachers teaching the same class as me. Previously, I was the ninth grade teacher or the grade twelve teacher, so this semester was a treat to work with three other grade eleven literature and language teachers. They had ideas, I had ideas and we put together some good work for ourselves and our students. I appreciated their collective knowledge and insight and never felt awkward about having stepped in mid-year. Also helped that we could all joke together - humor on the job oughta be a law.

So overall: A good semester. I needed one of those.

in defense of boredom

2010-06-02T14:23:00.000+03:00

The past couple of years, I've had my students read The Boston Globe article "The Joy of Boredom" by Carolyn Y. Johnson. I love this article. If she'd been speaking from a pulpit, I would have been waving my hand and shouting "Amen, Sister!" (And I am not a hand-waving-"Amen, Sister"- shouting kind of gal).

What I began realizing was that many of my students had a different childhood than mine. We didn't have a television for years and when we got one, I watched "Little House on the Prairie" with my mom after school. Consequently, I know nothing about most of the old 80s and 90s sitcoms my husband references: small price. And then I began realizing that my students are enjoying an adolescence that is very very different than mine. While I had access to a home computer and Internet through high school, I didn't own a cell phone until I was twenty-three (I know!). And I wasn't interested in an iPod until I realized treadmill running sans NPR meant counting steps minutes laps, and imagining whirrs and thumps in my treadmill motor that weren't there. But today, the majority of my juniors have mobiles, Blackberries, iPods - and sometimes all three tucked in their pockets. Constantly plugged in, sucking down text messages and song bites from the sky.

So I make my students read Johnson's article, partly because I want to know what they think of her ideas. I don't think they were all waving their hands and shouting "Amen, Sister!" And that's okay.

Last week, as part of our unit on technology - specifically, our personal use of and daily relationship with technology - we had a Break Up Day. If students wanted to participate, they did so by spending one whole day without _____. They sacrificed Blackberries, iPods, Internet, television, their laptops. I gave up Internet and didn't feel too much of a pinch, except that I compulsively troll news websites and Break Up Day meant I had no non-news to chew on.

I didn't find myself bored without Internet, but I have continued to think about the ideas in Johnson's article and what I want my time and mind to look like. Granted, I am not so dependent on a mobile or Internet that my day is defined by constant texting or FB updates. Granted, I spend more downtime reading books than computer screens. But still. I could stand to quiet my mind further.

Elizabeth Gilbert talks about learning to meditate in Eat Pray Love. She talked about how the practice of stilling and focusing your mind and spirit isn't limited to one religion. When I pray, it is often in short breaths, little sentences winged toward God. When I pray, I often forget to practice being still so I can also listen. In "The Joy of Boredom" Johnson clearly illustrates all the ways our minutes are taken from us: we give our time away to short bursts of distraction. Perhaps it is a leap to say that limiting our distractions and embracing a bit of boredom may actually lead to a more meditative state. But at the very least, letting our minds be bored for awhile may open the way for new ideas and insights.

One of my favorite quotes from Johnson's article: There is a strong argument that boredom -- so often parodied as a glassy-eyed drooling state of nothingness -- is an essential human emotion that underlies art, literature, philosophy, science, and even love.

Isn't it though?

book club selections

2010-05-27T06:32:00.001+03:00

Thanks for the suggestions! Here are the choices for next school year, beginning in September.

Island of the Sequined Love Nun by Christopher Moore. I hadn't heard of this author before but that's part of being in a book club: reading something new. This guy sounds nuts, and I hope his humor delivers.

Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage by Elizabeth Gilbert. I just read Eat Pray Love not too long ago and spent the first third of the book wanting to hop on a plane to Naples for pizza. I've heard that Committed - being nonfiction - is much less confessional than her memoir so the style is either more or less appealing depending on what you thought of Eat Pray Love. (Quick aside: I went to Gilbert's site shortly after finishing Eat Pray Love and read that she didn't expect the memoir to be so widely read. I wonder if that expectation - a small audience - freed her to write more for herself than for the book clubs. If you write, you think about things like audience and honesty; the memoir is a slippery and beautiful form. Her Thoughts on Writing is worth reading - glean what you may).

Cooking Dirty by Jason Sheehan. A chef memoir! I might never want to eat at a restaurant again!

The Peep Diaries: How We're Learning to Love Watching Ourselves and Our Neighbors by Hal Niedzviecki. I found this book on Oprah's recommendation list and read the first chapter online. I was going to have my juniors read it as part of our unit on technology (too much? not enough? such a personal relationship we have with our cell phones!), but much of the content was an echo of criticism we'd already read. Essentially, Niedzviecki is calling us out for being self-absorbed and thinking that other people are (or should!) be interested in what we are doing or saying. One chapter in and I'm already wondering why I really blog.

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. I didn't start reading Kingsolver until a couple of years ago and my favorite book of hers remains the first that I read, The Poisonwood Bible. This year's book club read Animal Dreams, one of her older novels, and now we're going for more recent Kingsolver.

Better Off: Flipping the Switch on Technology by Eric Brende. I actually read all but the last ten or twenty pages of this memoir a year ago, forgot the book in Colombia, and have yet to finish it. I liked the book a lot and look forward to a reread. It's about a young couple who purposefully spend a year living without modern technologies; an Amish-like community allows them to live within their norms while the couple sorts out what they want and don't want from the modern world. I'm going to hunt around for an update on the couple and their children - I'd like to know what their lifestyle is like now.

Nikolski by Nicolas Dickner. I know very little about this Canadian author but am glad to meet another one, eh. He'll be joined by two other Canadian authors I read occasionally, Margaret Atwood and Timothy Findley.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Recommended by several people. I know little about the book or the author but am looking forward to the story.

The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga. Another book about India to add to my list. One person I know highly recommended the book as an insight into modern Indian culture; since there are many Indians living and working in Kuwait (including our nanny), some understanding of their country and culture is relevent. But another person I know could not even finish the novel. So. I am not sure what to expect.

There you have it: our book club selections. So looking forward to placing a book order soon!

hanging on

2010-05-21T19:07:00.000+03:00

So Claire is a lovely girl. She really is.

But last weekend a friend of mine was talking about her little girl, also a toddler, and how emotional this age is. Think about it: in the course of an afternoon, Claire might cry once or twice or five times. How exhausting that must be, to confront frustration and "no"s and bumping your head. She doesn't have the vocabulary or emotional understanding to articulate or explain why she feels what she feels, so she cries.

Right now we are learning to obey. We have been learning to obey Mama and Papa for a little while now and usually all goes well and I say, "Thank you, Claire" and "Good girl, Claire!" Sometimes, like this afternoon, learning to obey looks more like tears and snot and heaving sobs because putting the book back on the shelf is just too much to bear. Sometimes learning to obey looks like me checking my watch and thinking of bedtime.

I am not always emotionally rational myself (re: Spanglish Stove Meltdown, Paperwork Couscous Coup), but I keep thinking that if I continue to speak in a calm, even voice, Claire will be a calm, even toddler. I really don't know why I expect this.

At dinner Claire was still in fit mode. Back arching, angry that we wouldn't let her stand in her high chair. She got worked up. Hysterical. I tried ignoring. I couldn't. Snot and spit all over the tray. So I leaned over and gently took her shoulders in my hands. "Claire," I said firmly, our faces inches apart, "Calm down. Be calm. Stop." She looked at me and then I bent over, let her head rest on my shoulder and we stayed like that, she holding onto my shirt and arm, me rubbing her shoulder with my thumb. She ate her apple slices like that, and a couple of grapes. Just hanging on.

So I've had days like that, when I just needed a day-long hug. When eating dinner or picking up my socks seemed impossible to do all by myself. I read about parenting and I ask about parenting and I watch others parent. Today at dinner part of me thought: well, that book said to let her calm herself down and then she may finish eating. But my instinct said, just let her hang on. She'll finish a lot of dinners on her own.

maybe we'll move to scandinavia next

2010-05-20T14:39:00.000+03:00

Where the good mothering is. I just read this short (short) article delivering the news that Norway is the best place to be a mom and Afghanistan was "at the bottom of the 160 countries listed." The U.S. is near the top at number 28 but "below Greece, Portugal and virtually all of Western Europe," ranking "just above Poland and most of the former Soviet bloc."

The rankings don't surprise me - the healthcare and maternity leave in many European countries is generally more equally generous for women of different socio-economic statuses than what you'll find in the States, and the article points that out - but what did surprise me was the photograph chosen to banner the article.

It's a photograph of a group of presumably Afghan women wearing abayas and veils, standing in a stark mountainous region, organizing great big bags of food or other supplies. No kids in sight. I'm wondering why the Times didn't post a photo of a pale, rosy cheeked Norwegian mom luxuriating in her extended maternity leave, two fat little babies on either side.

There's a book called Material World: A Global Family Portrait that came out several years ago. It's definitely worth checking out from your library to see a quick comparison of average households the world over. I read it shortly before moving abroad and was fascinated by the different normals.

Perhaps a book about mothering around the world would be interesting to read. See what it's like to be a mom in Argentina, or in Los Angeles. See what it's like to be a mom who stays home or a mom that is the breadwinner. What does the day look like for a mom in Kenya as compared to the "to do" list of a mom in Slovakia?

book recommendations wanted

2010-05-17T06:41:00.000+03:00

Our book club is choosing next year's book selections. I've gone through a few "best of" lists and found some new titles I'm interested in reading, but I'll bet you have some good suggestions too. Please post fiction or nonfiction titles or authors that you enjoy. I'll let you know what we choose.

Super excited about getting a new list of books to read! A Kindle is on my current Want List, and Justin just might be convinced after we tally an overseas shipping order. Let me know if you have a different online reader to recommend too - I know there is Sony's eReader (?); I've also heard that Google might be introducing a product you can use with iTunes books (coming soon?), Amazon, or Barnes & Noble. I haven't done much research on Kindle alternatives, but if you've got insight, do tell. Thanks!

what i need

2010-05-13T14:24:00.000+03:00

I was listening to a 60 Minutes broadcast during my run this morning and Andy Rooney started his weekly rant. I usually skip him because I can only take so much rant about the postal service or unemployment or whatever. But he said something about how we eat even though we aren't hungry and we buy even though we don't need and so I listened. He wondered if we could create a pill that would deaden want want want.

Lately, I've found myself if situations where I stop: want or need? A friend of mine is leaving Kuwait and selling an armchair and ottoman and I want that furniture because it's fat and comfortable. But it's also expensive and I don't need it. With the school year ending and teachers moving, there is a scramble to buy and sell and I am trying not to get too caught up in the want want want.

Today I started running through a list of my recent wants: new Birkenstocks, half the stuff still packed in my parents' basement, M&Ms and Reece's Peanut Butter Cups (here but expensive and gone too quickly from my cupboard); new running shoes, more color on the apartment walls, new dishes, a pizza cutter, a French rolling pin and a pastry board, a nice dining set, more plants for our space.

And yet, I live. I'm learning to wait for the first want impulse to pass. Then I decide.

shout out

2010-05-10T16:07:00.000+03:00

To my sister-in-law Joie who has finished recording her first album. Joie has a beautiful spirit and the voice and musical talent to share her insights through song. I haven't listened to all of her songs yet, but last year she emailed me the track to "Walk in My Light" and I was grateful that she was given words that also spoke to me.

Here is her music page on her blog. I encourage you to take a look and listen.

cat's cradle in a religious society

2010-05-08T17:18:00.000+03:00

Last week I was called in to the assistant principal's office to talk about a writing assignment I gave my students. We're reading Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut and in the book there is an invented religion, a forbidden religion that is all the more attractive because it's forbidden. Bokononism is a joke. It's full of silly little proverbs and senseless parables and the satire is on any religion itself.

So I asked my students to write about why people may be skeptical of organized religion and why people may choose to follow a religion. We talked about the difference between organized religion and personal faith. A separate writing prompt asked them to invent a religion - with no worries about it actually catching on - and I made clear that this prompt was given because in the book, a man invents a religion.

Anyway, after twenty or twenty-five minutes of focused writing, we discussed what we'd written. Most students chose the religion prompts to write about (there were three other prompts on the list), so our discussion centered on opinions about religion and faith. The discussions were honest and thoughtful. The list of reasons why people are skeptical of organized religion were typical: conflicting passages in a holy book, hypocrisy close to home or seen in religious leaders. And as for why people choose a religion: family tradition, a sense of community or belonging, insurance for the afterlife. But then they also delved into faith: that leap we make to believe what we cannot fully comprehend. Most discussion was thoughtful and respectful, though there are arguments - always points of disagreement when you talk about religion or faith.

I learned a lot. The majority of my students are Muslim and while we never branched into a comparison and contrast of major world religions, I did see an everyday-ness to their religion that I don't think I'd find in an average North American classroom. Granted, not all of my Muslim students are strict. There is a spectrum to most religions: how closely you choose to adhere to texts and tenets, whether or not you intrepret scriptures literally or account for historical and cultural factors. Just how ______ are you? Can you pick and choose? Can you be Muslim and not pause at each call to prayer?

(I'll admit that I expected the society to shut down during prayer times, especially since there are mosques scattered conveniently and most malls have prayer rooms for men and women. The first time we were out shopping and heard a call to prayer, I was shocked to see all Muslim men and women continue eating their meals, buying their clothes, chatting on their cell phones).

Anyway. During one class period, a student mentioned that you might doubt parts of your religion if you line up verses that seem contradictory. Another student immediately argued that nothing - nothing - could be contradictory in the Qur'an. The argument went nowhere. I tend to think there are always questions believers of any religion have about their scriptures. I stepped in to say that, and that I don't think asking a question is always wrong: that questioning can lead to searching for an answer, which can lead to a strengthened faith. If the questions pile up, then a person might begin to look at other beliefs. A few students agreed. But the one repeated that you could not doubt a word of the Qur'an.

At the end of the day, I checked my school email and saw there was concern about the writing prompts I'd assigned. I went to the office. I knew that you could not say anything against Islam or the Emir of Kuwait, but I hadn't thought that the phrasing of my prompts was inflammatory. In fact, Islam wasn't the only religion discussed.

What I learned is that in Islam, you cannot ask questions. That's an uncomplicated way of putting it, a short answer later given by a Muslim friend. Asking questions - for example, pointing out contradictions between different verses - is not allowed. You follow because you follow. Okay, so this clearly is not how all Muslims live and believe. But since not questioning is a religious expectation, my prompt asking students to think about why people might be skeptical of organized religion was inappropriate. You are simply not supposed to be skeptical. And asking students to "create a religion" just as Bokonon did in the novel is probably close to sacrilegeous. Or, as our Arabic principal put it when I apologized to him the next day, "It is very dangerous."

So I wasn't in trouble, exactly. The issue is an issue because, as my assistant principal kindly reminded me, "This is a religious society." There is evidence of Islamic practices everywhere in this country, from the absence of pork and the presence of abayas to laws allowing men multiple wives. But I'd never sat around and thought: I'm smack in the middle of a religious society. Afterall, I can still practice my own different faith, even attend a Christian church. But as a teacher, I need to remember that the Ministry of Education isn't informed by current Western curriculum, but by respecting Islam. I honestly did not know that the prompts might offend. I told my students that the next day, when I un-assigned the religious prompts. And I assured them that my intent was not to offend or to suggest that they create a religion to replace Islam. Most students were understanding.

But now I am still wondering: Is questioning or doubting my own Christian faith also wrong? Am I to take the view of my Muslim student who repeated that you cannot ask a question if you believe? Or is God patient with my questions and doubts - and is it okay if some of my questions are never completely answered, if some of my doubts are not satisfied by assurance? Can I still claim my faith then?

six weeks

2010-04-30T21:25:00.000+03:00

Until the semester is finished.

When I was a CA (Community Advisor) in college, I remember my Hall Director telling me that you are remembered for how you finish a job. I think she was speaking that as a warning. Middle of the night lock-outs and roommate disputes and puke on the stairs gets old fast. And when a job gets old, it becomes difficult to be gracious.

Last year when I decided to stay home with Claire this year, part of my decision was based on my fear of burning out. Teaching is a sucky job sometimes. I was beginning to wonder if it was my profession or just my job. Was it okay if teaching was just a job? Could I be a good teacher if I didn't martyr myself with loads of nightly grading? In college I took an English methods class with a woman who equated teaching with becoming a nun: both require total devotion. I remember a couple of the other students nodding in agreement. I wondered what I'd gotten into.

The first couple of years teaching were terrible. Every day is trial and error. At my first district, I taught a student in my junior/senior class who was only two years younger than me; the freshmen were near intolerable and the only reason I didn't hang myself was because my eighth grade students were still kid enough to not be too snotty. I hated it. Not all the time, but a great deal of the time. Most veteran teachers say that the second year is better (it usually cannot get too much worse), so I spent the first month of my summer off talking myself into returning the next year. Then Justin's new district called me for an interview and I was hired there instead.

I learned a lot at that district. About teaching, about myself, about parents, about politics. I had good classes and bad classes. I had moments of inspiration and moments of frustration (oh, I'll just say it: I wanted to bang my head against the cinderblock wall). I figured a few things out. I wanted to figure out a lot more. The thing is, it can take a lot of time to gain confidence in the classroom. When we moved abroad, I felt like a first year teacher again, trying to figure out what to do with a classroom of students and not enough books. I taught some great classes and some muddling classes. I began to read more about how to teach, and to revisit advice given by past teaching colleagues. Last year, I think I was a better teacher. Not brilliant, but better.

And last year, I was also ready to be done for awhile. My friend Karla once told me about an English teacher friend of hers. This English teacher friend did not stay an English teacher for long. He began to hate English - the literature, the writing - because his students seemed to hate it. He was trying to share something he loved, and they weren't interested. So he quit. A lot of teachers quit.

They probably become engineers and business managers to replace the ones who idealistically leave their careers to give back to the community by starting charter schools. (That's meant jokingly, but could also be true).

So this year - the year that I was going to stay home, learn to plan a weekly meal menu and grocery budget; the year I was going to write my book (still have until July 31!) and think about what might come next for me teaching-wise - this year, I stepped back into the classroom for second semester and realized: I'm actually getting the hang of teaching. This is my seventh year in the classroom and it is finally clicking. I'm not as incompetent as I sometimes fear. I do have enthusiasm for what I teach (except straight up grammar instruction: gag). I continue to learn from my colleagues and my students. And I enjoy teaching.

What happened? I'm counting down to a relaxed summer schedule and looking forward to staying home next year, but I am not rabidly anxious to be out of the classroom yet. And that is a good feeling: to realize that this job I have isn't that bad. I rather like it.

Now I need to rather like it for six more weeks. Graciously.

halfway (i hope)

2010-04-28T17:42:00.000+03:00

Twenty weeks today. After school, I laid on the bed, palm on belly and felt Boy kick. I called Justin in and he felt the baby kick too. Claire was interested in my belly for two seconds; then she was interested in sitting on my belly.

I am feeling good. Mostly. Still running - managing between thirty and forty miles a week at a good pace, between eight and eight and a half minutes breathing easy. Very happy to be running with little discomfort: I am paying close attention to my posture and stride and I think that helps. If I am consistent about stretching, my legs are happy.

Right now I have an odd stitch in my side. When I breathe deeply, I can pinpoint a pinch in my upper right ribcage, just below my armpit. The pain isn't across my chest, just in this one tiny area the size of my thumbprint. For three days now, I've been waiting for it to disappear, reaching my arms up and stretching the length of my side.

I am not a hypochonriac. (I was much relieved to read an article by a hypochondriac and realize that I was not nearly so wild as he with my self-diagnosis). Nevertheless, Google feeds my worry that this little pinch is just the beginning of some rare illness and that I'll spend the next seven months seeing specialists who shake their heads. I type in "upper rib cage pain" or "side rib cage pain" and learn that I could have osteoporosis, arthritis, pleurisy (which can be caused by pneumonia or tuberculosis), or gallstones. Great. I just spent all of March and early April coughing up my lungs and stashing kleenex in every pocket; I don't need May to be My Month of Imaginary Diseases.

I need May to be My Month of Holding It Together Until the End of School.

pregnancy update: quickening

2010-04-22T21:25:00.000+03:00

I went to my nineteen week appointment yesterday. For some reason, I got stuck in the loop of have regular four-week appointments the week previous to what I think of as the Pregnancy Milestone Weeks. That's okay because I like odd numbers better.

Anyway, I sat down and Dr. S asked how I was feeling. I almost cried on the cab ride to the hospital. During the past week I cried at more news articles than usual. So I said, "I'm feeling very emotional. Hormones."

He nodded.

Yes. I have decided to stay with Dr. S. I did ask around about another big hospital in the city and learned that their delivery room policy doesn't even allow for fathers to attend; I am not comfortable with some of the other facilities available here. So Boy will be born at the Royale Hayat, unless he arrives in the car. And if the hospital says no to an attending doula, Justin will be summer reading birth stories and doula blogs. Just like me.

(I still have mixed feelings about all of this. I would rather have a midwife, labor and deliver at home, and not see a pair of stirrups. But I have also talked with other patients of Dr. S and I think he really is respectful of my decision to have a second natural birth, even if he doesn't understand why I want that. That might need to be enough right now. I do not want to confuse visualizing a strong, healthy, and safe delivery with a fantasizing about the perfect birth story).

So back to being emotional. (If I ever entirely left that). I don't remember being weepy during my pregnancy with Claire. I was elated and terrified by the prospect of being a mama. This time I don't feel quite so worried about whether or not I'll mess up my children, but I worry about the world in which we are raising them. There is so much that is garbage about this world. So many terrible things that could happen. Today I found myself thinking that agoraphobia was just a teensy bit appealing, along with avoiding newspapers and unplugging the phone. I found myself listing places we could live and realizing: nowhere is safe. I already knew that - it made it easier to leave the States understanding that we could get schmucked on a county highway in Wisconsin as easily as our bus could slip on a mountain curve in Colombia. (Don't make me pick one).

I talked with Justin about this: realizing just how much I have no control over when it comes to my babies. And I've started to see something about me. I spend a lot of time reading articles and opinions and learning about what it going on in this world - good, bad, ugly - but I don't spend nearly as much time reading or absorbing what God says about living in this world. I do not believe He wants me to live in fear. So I need to learn how to daily walk secure in Him, being wise and careful, but not being consumed by fear.

On the ultrasound, Boy pushed his arms and legs, held one hand in a fist and the other open over his face. "Amazing," I said, and Dr. S nodded.

"You feel the baby now?"

"Yes. A little."

"That is called 'quickening.'" Dr. S wrote something on my chart and looked up, "You are textbook. Right on. Keep doing what you're doing."

I was still thinking about that word quickening. When a mother feels those first whisper kicks of the baby growing inside her. I feel the baby move and I pause, wait for more, want more, my hand placed over my belly.

I think I feel my spirit quickening too.

news story

2010-04-21T09:51:00.000+03:00

This story is making me sad. "At Top University, a Fight for Pakistan's Future."

I teach students from Pakistan and reading this makes me very sad for their country. I've been reading bits about Pakistan in other news sources; until this year, it was a country I didn't pay much attention to because it was just a land of poverty and religious extremism. But knowing people from Pakistan, including a friend who will be returning there with her husband and child, the country is on my mind.

Living abroad has changed reading the news for me. I can't read the news in a vacuum anymore. While in Colombia, I paid attention to what was happening in South America; news stories from that continent still catch my eye on the screen. And now I'm unable to call the Middle East a place on the other side of the world. Even though I do not always understand the complexities of this region, I read about its people and governments. And I have faces that come to me when I read: people I know who are Iranian, Iraqi, Saudi Arabian. The news isn't so distant.

peeps!

2010-04-16T08:55:00.013+03:00

A couple of weeks ago my parents sent us a box with my maternity clothes and some of Claire's bigger sizes, shoes, a few books and treats. After digging through the top layer, I forgot the box in the corner of my room (didn't need the maternity clothes quite yet). The other day I dug through again to sort what needed washing and ironing and found a box of Peeps tucked along the side. Peeps! Well, let's see what Claire makes of fluffy marshmallow dipped in yellow sugar...

Very suspicious. I expected to get a shot of Claire's puffed cheeks. Here's what happened:

We took a break, offered snack crackers, and tried again. I was starting to think that maybe getting a kid to eat Peeps doesn't warrant the same effort that should be extended to fruits and vegetables. I don't even like Peeps myself. I like watching them poof in a microwave, but we don't even have a microwave.

Looks like all the Peeps now belong to Justin.

Don't even try a third time. Leave me be!

Well, that's over. Yawn. Moving on...

the name game

2010-04-09T16:22:00.003+03:00

The other day, Justin and I asked for baby boy name suggestions on Facebook. Friends and family have weighed in with suggestions both serious and joking. I've been visiting nymbler and making pointless lists. The thing is, naming a child is important. With Claire, I had two rules:

1. Name cannot - absolutely cannot - appear anywhere on the Top 10. Or 25. Yes, cannot be in the Top 50. We'd like a name and I'd visit the Social Security site to check its rank.
2. The middle name should be Colombian. Latin American. We wanted the middle name to honor the culture into which the baby was born.

Claire's name was ultimately suggested by my mom. She said she'd always wished she had named a girl Claire. (She had five chances, and I do wonder if I'd be someone a little more polished, a little more resolved with a name like Claire). I liked Clara but Justin and I decided that Claire was nice. Our nanny, Francis, calls Claire Clara, and I like that.

I think Claire was ranked 65. Even that was a little iffy for me. I am a Sarah and graduated in a small class of 92 with seven or eight other Sara/hs. I did have a moment of doubt when a friend of mine told me of two baby girls born to friends of his, both named Claire.

Oh, and I think I had an understated third rule: No stupid nicknames. If I give my child a nice name, I'd like them to be called that nice name. This eliminates more names than you might think. Even so, when Justin spoke with his father after Claire was born, saying that her full name was Claire Juliana, I heard my father-in-law say, "Oh, CJ." And I thought: No! Hideous! No, no, no! Initials are not names. Claire is Claire.

So we're sticking to these rules for baby boy. And I've been thinking about the importance of the name we give him since reading this Motherlode post about baby-name regret. So when I run names through my mind, this is how it goes:

Jude. I really like this name. I like this book in the Bible, and I like this name. I also live in a very, very anti-Semitic region of the world and am not sure a little boy named Jude is the best idea. But then again, we'll probably leave before he begins school.

Timothy. Justin's middle name. I really, really want to be able to consider this. But when I think of Timothy, I think of McVeigh's last meal before execution: two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I still like mint chocolate chip, but Timothy is linked to that odd fact which in turn makes me think about what kind of person McVeigh might have been if or if and how sad it all is.

Ziad. For a middle name. I love this! In Arabic, Ziad means enlarging. Not sure what to do with that. Then I googled Ziad and learned that one of the September 11 masterminds shared that name. Well, probably every name is linked to something unsavory (illegal, wrong, frightening, criminal). Will keep looking.

Then there are names ruined by former students. Ask any expectant teacher about ruined names and they'll likely rattle five off without pausing for breath. And then there are names that went to pets first. I like the name Jeremiah with a possible nickname of Miah, but my in-laws have a cat named Maya. I also like the name Oliver, but we had a cat named Oliver. I wouldn't want my son to think I'd named him after an orange cat with a white belly.

So we have names we toss around. I still call my belly Boy. I am comfortable with waiting to meet the little guy before giving him a name, but Justin is a planner and needs to arrive at the hospital armed with a first and middle name to bestow. Whenever we finally choose a name, we'll keep it quiet until the birth. I'll know its meaning, popularity, and whether it risks a dopey nickname. I'll picture it on report cards, resumes, and under yearbook photos and signed in Christmas cards (because someday we'll send those). I'll imagine whispering the name Good night, Mama loves you, and yelling the name Get down here for dinner! And when I finally meet my baby boy, I'll say, "Welcome to the world, ____."

Can't name a kid blank though.

dubai & spring

2010-04-08T11:18:00.010+03:00

Easter morning, celebrated after we returned from Dubai. Nothing quite like a chocolate fix before breakfast.

On our trip to Dubai, Claire loved (loved!) to help push the suitcases. She was a trooper, walking much of the time.

Claire and Papa in Kuwait, on a walk we've recently discovered. The taxi drops us off a ways from the grocery store, and we walk a path along the Gulf. Sometimes Claire is put off that we don't let her run wild in the sand and water.

Our high school NHS put together an Easter party for teachers' kids. This is the egg Claire found. She opened it and immediately stuffed the foil wrapped chocolates in her mouth. She lived. (Plastic Easter eggs are in short supply here - small wonder - so we recycled her lone purple egg for her basket from us).

Claire at the cookie decorating table at the Easter party. Frosting and mini M&Ms. Banner day. Sugar high, sugar crash.

Why we went to Dubai. I was feeling miserable this entire trip - head and chest cold - so I didn't care that we did little except spend Claire's naptime in a bookstore. I think we'll go back in January - there's a 10k/marathon and we'll make it a long weekend, actually enjoy more of the city.

This is a sign in the Mall of the Emirates. Translated, it asks people to dress modestly, keeping shoulders and knees covered. Funny because what Justin and I both noticed first when we walked into the mall were all the shoulders and knees! A bit of culture shock after Kuwait's more conservative public dress.

coming up: dubai

2010-04-03T05:30:00.004+03:00

We are headed to Dubai for a couple of days. Short short trip to renew my visitor's visa (I have spared you all the lastest paperwork rant. Only this: the Ministry passed a new law which requires me to obtain a document stamped, kissed, and blessed by the U.S. Federal government if I want residency here. Justin, for the record, did not have this hassle). Anyway.

So, expats living in the Middle East flock to Dubai for long or short weekends for a few simple reasons: alcohol, pork, and shopping. Probably in that order. Sometimes these quick trips are called "whiskey weekends." Our two days will be less whiskey, more pork.

The thing is, I haven't felt like traveling since arriving in Kuwait. Visiting Nate and Joie and their two at Christmas was great, but we'd had that trip planned for awhile. Right now I don't feel like choosing a destination and flipping through guidebooks for things to do and see; I don't feel like spending hours looking for flights and hotels. I just feel like staying home. Leaving home means: a lot of work.

On Thursday, students and teachers were ready for break. I saw a few teachers haul their backpacks (headed for Egypt or Malaysia or Turkey!) on campus. I felt a little jealous and a little relieved. This is just a quieter time for our family. We aren't trekking all over and that's okay. We have a toddler who cannot sit still on a plane, and that's okay too. Soon enough, we'll add a little baby to mix, and we'll nest. By Christmas, I'll be ready for a trip. And I'll happily plan next year's spring break. But right now, two days in Dubai is enough.

The real reason we picked Dubai is for their selection of uncensored books and magazines. Friends have been offering restaurant and sightseeing suggestions, and I've been saying, "Well, we're actually going for the bookstores." Maybe we'll head back to Dubai over Thanksgiving break and see the aquarium and the gold and spice souks. I'd like to visit the souks especially. This time though, I want a fat chair in a bookstore.

And a plate of bacon.

from where we lived!

2010-03-31T09:21:00.002+03:00

Fun to see the places where we've been or lived in the news. (Uh, in a good way).

Here's an article about animal rescue in Cali, Colombia, called "Through Cage Bars, an Exotic Peak Into Drug Wars."

And a related video link. If the video doesn't pop up, you can search for its title, "Abandoned Animals in Colombia."

doulas and doctors

2010-03-30T14:04:00.003+03:00

A friend of mine here is also pregnant and sharing the same concerns as I regarding doctors. For her, it's a first pregnancy, but she is well read in birth and midwifery and knows that she wants a natural birth. We've been comparing doctors - running into similar vibes, at the same hospital - and talking about options we have.

She has been very encouraging to me, as have your comments on my previous doula post. With my first pregnancy, I did seek to switch doctors. At my consultation with the new doctor, I learned that he and my current doctor were good friends. "Dr. A is a very capable man," the doctor told me. And capable he was - but that didn't change the fact that I was only the second unmedicated birth Dr. A attended in his decade long career. I don't think he knew what to expect. At all.

So this time around, I'm thinking: make a switch. Do it now. Don't worry about Dr. S. He'll fill his appointments. There is a difference between shrugging your shoulders Sure, go ahead and have your baby your way and actually being supportive.

Finding a doctor who is willing to navigate a natural birth will be difficult. (Why is that, anyway?) But I will start calling hospitals and doctors and asking for recommendations. Spring break project.

I did find a woman who is willing to be my doula. She was a practicing midwife in Lebanon and misses that. Her primary concern right now is childcare for her school-age children if I give birth outside of the school day. So she hesitates to commit to being there for the birth, but wants to help me prepare throughout pregnancy. I'll be talking with her again about childcare options, and with the hospital regarding their policy of allowing birthing mothers only one other person in delivery.

That's where I am. I'll keep you posted.

countdown

2010-03-29T16:05:00.002+03:00

I have a countdown until the end of the semester: ten weeks, after this one, and including our spring break.

And a countdown until spring break: three days now that school is out for today.

Justin and I counted down to our wedding day; it seemed we stayed in the nineties and eighties forever. Then we counted down our departure for Colombia. We couldn't totally countdown for Claire's arrival but I did start counting up after her due date came and went. I didn't count the days remaining in Colombia, because that made me sad. Justin kept track of our time before arriving in Kuwait, and then our trip to India, announcing the number at dinner.

There is always something to countdown. Days until vacation, months before the baby is born, minutes left of a meeting. Sometimes I wish I could be more surprised, forget to mark this week off the calendar and then the next couple until: wow, only seven weeks of the semester! Why, that's only another thirty-five days of getting up at quarter to four! Excellent! But I mark the days and months, staring blankly at the dayplanner I forget to use. I flip pages looking for the next thing to countdown.

a boy, a doula, and a next step

2010-03-26T08:59:00.006+03:00

Justin and I went to my fifteen week appointment together. Saw the baby's ribs and spine, all parts measuring fifteen weeks. Dr. S told us we are having a boy.

"That is the femur. Here is the other leg...I can't quite see. I think something is there." He paused to press and roll my abdomen. He looked again, "There. See that? A little penis. See?"

"That white speck?" Justin said.

Dr. S gestured at evidence of our son. I saw black, white and gray fuzz. I didn't see a penis. Then again, he estimated the baby to weigh 125 grams, so I was looking for a very tiny manhood.

Justin pretended he saw it. Maybe he did.

"Yes, I am sure of it," Dr. S said, "A little boy."

Justin grinned. I was hoping girl. Just because I thought two little sisters sharing a violet room would be fun. Hand-me-downs and hair ribbons. The three of us going off on girls' days while Justin hammered away at something in the garage. But a sister and brother: that's nice too. I grew up with one of each and enjoyed them both.

Back at Dr. S's desk, I asked about a doula. I wished we had had one when I delivered Claire because neither Justin nor I knew what to expect right there in the hospital, and my doctor - as good a man as he was - was also impatient to deliver. When time came to push Claire, two nurses flipped me from kneeling to flat on my back and at each contraction, my doctor told Justin and a nurse to press down on my belly to move the baby down faster. At that point, I could have used someone to speak for me: I was tired and managed to tell Justin I was afraid my ribs would crack, but I didn't have energy to fight with my doctor over what seemed a ludicrous, uncomfortable birthing position.

I really don't want that kind of birthing experience again - I felt like a bit of an inconvenience for letting my body be in control of the delivery.

So I asked Dr. S if he was willing to work with a doula.

"What is that?" He scrunched his face; I explained what a doula was. He said, "You're allowed one person. Take your pick."

Hospital policy is that one person is allowed in delivery with the mother. Justin wins. But I'm making him read doula websites and birthing books all summer so he can be mine.

At my eleven week appointment with Dr. S, when I said I hoped for a second natural delivery - no epidural, and this time (please, please) no episiotomy - he leaned back in his chair and said, "If you like pain, great. I do not like horror shows, but if this is what you want..." So that's when I thought: doula, I need a doula who can speak when I'm too deep in labor to be bothered. After asking another expectant mom I know here, I learned that the other doctors share a similar philosophy, preferring epidurals. But after delivering Claire without an epidural, I gained a new respect for the female body and also our minds; I found both my body and mind were capable of managing the intensity of labor. I view birth as a natural, not medical process. (Of course I understand that medicine has brought babies into the world that would have died, has saved mothers from losing too much blood - I am not against medical advancement or necessary intervention. I just think that women have been fed enough scary birth stories and most of us need a renewal of faith in our own bodies).

So I said this to Dr. S at my fifteen week appointment. "I just want to make sure you understand that I think of birth as a natural, not a medical process."

He collapsed back into his chair, "How many times will you tell me this?"

Until I sense that you will not warp into some maniac in the delivery room, irritated if pushing takes longer than you expect. Aloud, I said, "My last doctor was impatient. I don't want that again."

"You want to do it on your own. I am there only if there is an emergency," Dr. S said.

"Yes," I said and added, "I am sorry if I am being rude. I just need to make sure."

But I'm not really all that sure about Dr. S. So at this point, I'm wondering if I stay with Dr. S or if I try to find another doctor with greater respect for natural birth, or if I should insist that I be allowed a doula present (in addition to my husband), or if I can trust Justin to be wise and fully supportive in the middle of my labor, or if I start seriously investigating a midwife and home birth. I am not jumping to a decision yet.

I can hear a chorus of voices saying, "At the end you'll get your baby, and isn't that what's really important." Sing-song. Well, yeah, of course that's what's really important. But I trust my body to deliver my son and I want a doctor that celebrates my strength and ability to labor and deliver. I want a midwife who knows how to reposition the baby in my womb, or move a shoulder at delivery, rather than a doctor calling for cesarean. I want a Red Tent. I want a bunch of women in awe of how we've been designed to bring babies into this world.

pregnant pants

2010-03-23T16:30:00.004+03:00

Well, tomorrow I mark fifteen weeks. Twenty-five to go before we meet this little one. Okay, probably twenty-six until he or she makes an appearance. And after tomorrow's appointment, I'll know: he or she.

My parents mailed us a box of my maternity clothes and some clothes I'd set aside for Claire's bigger days. Since we aren't going home this summer to collect what we left, they were kind enough to ship it to us. Bella Bands! Yes! And none too soon.

After reading Salty's post about pregnancy weight gain, I was trying to remember and compare my first pregnancy with this. I don't keep close track of my weight - I don't remember my starting weight with Claire, but I do know I gained eighteen pounds that pregnancy because I checked total kg with my doctor, curious. (I'm bumping that to twenty pounds because I know I must have gained in the last week Claire decided she needed before she was born). I don't know how much I've gained this time around; I guess I'll find out tomorrow, if I want. What I do know is that my pants are tighter, and not just in the waist.

With Claire, I was very active. Running, walking. I ate well. My belly didn't show much until close to five months along. I wasn't too concerned about weight. This time, my first trimester coincided with me going back to work for a semester and my energy was sapped. As the first trimester progressed, I cut my miles because I couldn't find the drive to run more than every other day. In the afternoons, I was too tired to go on a walk to the store for orange juice or bananas; those trips became Justin and Claire's time together, and my chance to nap.

Second trimester has arrived and I'm much happier. I have the energy to run two or three days in a row now, though my afternoons are still an illustration of: beat, tired, wiped. I'm just not as physically active this time around.

So that means: my thighs and hips are fuller. My upper arms are softer. My belly isn't just baby. I remember when this happened when I was a freshman in college. I looked at my soft arms in the mirror and thought of Renaissance paintings and liked them. (Then I proceeded to gain thirty pounds of Chinese take-out and pizza delivery that weren't quite as romantic as those curvy naked ladies). So my soft arms are here again and I have to say, it's nicer to know it's a baby backing this gain and not a midnight order of cheese bread.

But, oh, that cheese bread. Doesn't that sound good?

about what? kuwait, that's what

2010-03-20T11:09:00.003+03:00

I tell Justin I'm going to post to my blog and he says, "About what?"

"I don't know. Just a post. Let people know I'm alive and kicking."

"Oh. I thought you were going to do something Kuwait-ish."

"What?"

"You know. Something about Kuwait."

Yes, indeed. I am working on a couple of different mini-essays (destined to be posted at some point) about life here in Kuwait. At some point, I'll tell you about the traffic here. We bought a car and take possession in June, so I've been keenly aware of frightening driving habits. One friend told me that you can't really look when you enter a roundabout here: you just have to drive in and hope for the best. And I've been noticing things like: paint scuff marks on the concrete medians, wrecked cars along the highway shoulders, a single red car door lying in the middle of an exit ramp median.

I'll also tell you about the concerns of some of my students: that Kuwait is losing hold of its traditional religious and cultural values, trading the old in for the Westernized. I have heard my students express opinions about other Gulf countries who have Westernized even more rapidly (Dubai, Bahrain), allowing alcohol purchase. There's a price to Westernization - one that perhaps even a few Westerners are beginning to realize - but there is also a greater challenge facing those who wish to return to tradition. Swimming against the current.

I'll also tell you about the contrast that stands up and waves its arms: great mansions lining littered streets; an astoundingly high diabetes rate among our host nationals when they have wealth to protect and care best for their bodies. I'll tell you about charities here extending help and hope to third country nationals who cannot afford groceries or proper clothing.

I think that it takes a long time to sort through a new culture. I have made some judgements already. I wait for some of my assumptions to be challenged. At some point, I want to try to put into words how living abroad has made me eat up stereotypes so that I'm always having to spit them out, blink to clear my vision. I keep asking God to help me to see people as people. Not lumped into this or that group. I think that teaching this semester has actually allowed me unique insight: teaching literature opens up discussion channels that other subjects don't always have time for; I've been learning a lot from my students - Kuwaiti or not - about life here.

And I also have to tell you about what I'm enjoying here: walks to the beach, looking out the window to see the Gulf. I have always wanted to live near a great body of water, and here I am. The food - my latest find is the shwarma, a wrap with chicken or falafel with lettuce, tomato, pickles and a sauce whose name I can't remember. I'll have to tell you about the malls, which I don't adore, but which give us places to walk in the heat and are beautifully designed. A friend who lived in the Kuwait awhile ago told me about the beautiful malls and I rolled my eyes: I'm not a mall person. But some of the malls here really are beautiful. And of course, I'll tell you about people watching, which happens to be my favorite thing to do at any one of those beautiful malls.

So this post promises more about Kuwait. Give me time to figure out how to say it.

up all night

2010-03-16T09:04:00.003+03:00

Last week, starting Sunday, I had restless sleep. Awake at one in the morning sleep. Wide awake. Like third trimester get ready for the baby! awake. Then I got sick, sick enough to ask Justin whether or not he remembered if we got TB vaccinations when we moved to Colombia. (What didn't we get vaccinated for!?) Finally, I decided to go to the clinic where the doctor scribbled something-bronchitis on a letter excusing me from school. Instead of laying in bed with wild, unspent energy, I was coughing and gagging the wee hours of the morning. After a night or two of this, I suggested Justin move to the couch.

(Well, I wasn't going to move to the couch, was I?)

So he's been sleeping and I've been coughing and sputtering and snotting all over the place. After staying home (sleepless zombie with an itchy throat, watching too much tv and eating fish fillet sandwiches with lots and lots of pickles) on Wednesday and Thursday last week, I returned to school this week. I've only had one horrible coughing fit during class, but I've spent more time bent over the garbage can gagging until my eyes water than I really needed to.

(Number of times average person needs to bend over a garbage can gagging until their eyes water: maybe once. Maybe. Just so you can sympathize.)

Amazingly, Justin and Claire are fine. Wow. Hearty stock, those two. And I'm finally getting better - down to four or five rounds of uncontrollable, body-shaking coughing a day.

As for sleepless nights, I found this series of posts in the NY Times called All-Nighters. Perhaps next time I can't find sleep, you'll find me in the kitchen. Uh, not coughing in the batter.

thursday litany: music!? while running!?

2010-03-11T16:10:00.008+03:00

A couple of weeks ago, I sent my iPod shuffle through the wash. I now have a very cute little paperclip. I bought a new one, a third generation because the second generation wasn't available. It didn't work. I took it back. They gave me another, this one pink instead of blue. (I thought maybe changing the color would also help. I don't even really like pink that much). The pink one doesn't work either.

So I started typing in all these combinations into Google, trying to figure out what wasn't working why. (I now know how to uninstall and install device drivers). Then on the Sony Vaio site, I found this little blip about Apple iPod USBs not always being compatible because of their "unique" design. My third generation shuffle USB is ever so slightly shorter than the second generation USB. Hm. Maybe I'm seeing things. So I got a male/female USB extension to see if I could hook up the shuffle to my computer via that. Gak. Nope.

The entire time: Do you own your things or do your things own you?

I have spent hours - hours! - trying to get this tiny little pink brushed metallic thingy to eat my NPR show so I can listen to them on my morning runs. I've been listening to Justin's iPod instead. Sometimes I like the novelty of music on a treadmill run. An album I haven't listened to in awhile, an artist that reminds of another time when. But usually, I am not that great at listening just to music. I can't do a song on repeat. I can barely handle short songs at all while running. I like to know that by the time this BBC documentary is over, I'll be a third of the way through my run. I like to be learning something or laughing at Wait Wait or listening to a good interview and all of this one song after another is driving me nuts.

Yes, I do realize I am probably very much in the minority here.

So what to do now?

I'm gonna start erasing all the eighties billboard hits off Justin's iPod and load it up with NPR, that's what.

Edited to add: So on Thursday night, Justin went to hang out at our friends' place. He took my iPod shuffle along to see if it worked with one of their computers. Ian looked at it and jammed the charger connector end into the shuffle all the way. It worked. That. Was. It. Nothing wrong with the USB. Nothing wrong with my laptop. Feeling stupid was overridden by feeling relieved that my next morning run included Wait Wait and Fresh Air. I shoulda kept the blue one.

yellow cupcakes

2010-03-10T15:55:00.002+03:00

Justin takes the early teacher bus, leaving the apartment just a little after five in the morning. I take that late teacher bus which leaves - unforgivingly - at six o'clock. Sometimes I like to complain about these annoyingly early mornings - you wouldn't believe how many people start their day at four in the morning so they can go for a run or to the gym or walk the dog or, uh, actually have a morning routine that includes eating breakfast at the table. The rationale behind the (oh, too many adjectives to choose from) early school start is traffic. If school began even an hour later, we'd spend twice as long getting there. Twenty minutes or forty minutes? To get up at five instead of four every morning, for a late night to be nine instead of eight, I'd take the forty minutes.

Anyway. Three days a week Amanda gives me a ride to school if I need the extra five or ten minutes in the morning. The other morning I almost walked out the door without my head, but I remembered to take a thank you thank you thank you for waiting cupcake.

"They're amazing," I said, and then realized how that sounded. "Whenever I brag about my cooking, I'm just bragging about following a recipe that turns out." She laughed. It's true though. I don't experiment much on my own. I've tweaked or combined a few recipes, altered ingredients to fit what was in my cupboards - but I like to have an idea written out that says add this to that and you'll get yumminess.

So here's a link to yumminess. The Pioneer Woman's yellow cupcake recipe. I made them for Claire's first birthday, for Justin's soccer girls, and for his birthday just this past Sunday. They have yet to fail me. Enjoy!

My only alteration to the recipe is this: Since I cannot fine cake flour here, I put 2 tablespoons corn starch in a one cup measuring cup and then fill the rest with flour. It's a good substitute. Oh, and another alteration: I don't have vanilla extract here so I use vanilla sugar. I also up the vanilla flavor by adding the vanilla seeds from one quarter bean; I add those to the butter and sugar.

Also, something I've been doing when I bake: I fluff the flour before measuring. Keeps the cookies and cakes from getting too dense. I've served a lot of hockey puck cookies in my time, but no more!

vbac birth article

2010-03-07T07:10:00.003+03:00

I thought this was interesting.

Perhaps rethinking "once caesarean, always caesarean" is a small step toward rethinking medical birth, period.

claire fix: a few favorite things

2010-03-05T18:46:00.007+03:00

Walks to the beach. Also, making Papa run into the waves chasing me.

Collecting rocks, shells, small pieces of plastic, more rocks.

Talking with family. My aunts are awesome!

Papa. And the Qatar soccer team.

Coloring with Mama. I just learned to draw circles. Loopdeloops, Mama says.

I won't fit this bidet for too much longer! I like to splash too much.

welcome, second trimester

2010-03-05T18:30:00.004+03:00

See that belly? Here we go!

two interesting articles from ny times

2010-03-02T14:06:00.004+03:00

The first is about the psychology of moving. We may have "pulled a geography" when we left Wisconsin, but I don't think we plan on doing that again. Lately when we've talked about Kuwait, it isn't I wish this were different but more Let's see what we can do while we're here. I imagine that when the time comes for another move, it'll be sad too.

I've talked with a few parents raising their kids abroad and a few adults who were raised abroad. Justin and I both want the best for Claire and the new one, but we aren't sure what that best looks like. I'll let you know some of what I've learned about the benefits and drawbacks of living childhood and adolescence abroad in a future post.

The second article is about a German homeschooling family who sought and won asylum in the States. They moved here because homeschooling is illegal in Germany. Since I was homeschooled through middle school and my parents continue to homeschool my younger siblings, I'm interested in subject. Homeschooling has evolved over the years and I find it fascinating that a movement which began as a largely religiously motivated choice now includes parents of a wide variety of political, social, and religious views.

clarifying: what i figured out

2010-02-27T18:22:00.003+03:00

So after saying I don't want to blab about inner-workings, I still think I need to add a bit:

The couple of months that I spent questioning the course of my life, past decisions and future unknowns, were a cruddy couple of months. I think most people do this - overanalyze and wonder what if...? - and while that introspection can lead to valuable realizations and deeper personal or spiritual insights, being in the middle of all that thought can be difficult. You can lose perspective or shift events, or rely on current feelings of doubt or despair rather than recalling moments of sureness or clarity. Muddling around. And the thing is, I tend to keep most of these muddling thoughts to myself, and that can be a dark spiral.

I do have a few close family and friends that can show me light when I sense only dark. And sometimes they say what I don't want to hear, but what I need to hear.

As for being a shy Christian... My sister-in-law Joie posted a comment about acknowledging God in everything we do and that for her, "that means being deliberate in expressing His presence in my life so that He gets the glory for anything good that comes of it." After being raised in a Christian home and growing in that faith at a young age, I am only just beginning to return to earnestly seeking God. Despite being familiar with the tenants of Christianity, and despite having lived a faithful life for a period, I now feel like a child relearning how to believe and trust and hope and pray and walk. And so I am keenly aware of all my imperfections, my "not-quite-Christian-enough" parts. I do wonder if others know that I am a Christian by the way I speak and act. Sometimes. And sometimes not.

nice first day off

2010-02-25T21:36:00.003+03:00

Long weekend: needed, wonderful, anything possible.

This morning started with blueberry pancakes and peach/raspberry/banana smoothies. Then we walked to a playground and Claire ran around and climbed and giggled and fussed enough that she was close to snoozing in her lunch when we got home. Justin and I vegged during Claire's naptime, watching too much tv. And I just got back from a girls' night playing Apples to Apples. Just a nice day, you know?

And we still have four more until we're back at work. Ahhh.

what i figured out

2010-02-24T13:37:00.005+03:00

The past couple of months have been difficult for me. I have spent a lot of time doubting every major decision I've made and, looking at my course over the years, feeling as though I simply let life happen without any sense of direction or purpose. I lay in bed absolutely paralyzed by regret, thinking about might-have-beens. Closing my eyes to an image of withering grass: my time here, now, soon forgotten.

It was a real party, my head.

Last week, I put it into words for Justin. I chose my university because they offered a small scholarship; I planned to transfer after two years. I didn't. Instead, I cycled through a few majors and tacked teaching certification to an English degree because it seemed practical and I'd always wanted to teach, right? (If playing school on the stair landing with your siblings counts as a natural interest in the field of education). I was painfully naive, didn't fit in with any one group and could have used a gap year to sort myself out.

During college, I studied creative writing, wanted to pursue that into grad school but didn't because I'd met this guy Justin and it seemed a smarter idea to find teaching jobs near each other rather than for me to leave the state and end our start. I wasn't even sure what we'd started until after a year of long-distance dating - first year teaching jobs did not land us near one another - when our second year of teaching found us in the same district, classrooms across the hall from each other. Aww.

So I'd lay in bed thinking of all these turns as utter mistakes. I should have gone to grad school. Justin would have found someone else to carve decades away in Wisconsin, more pleasing to her in-laws.

And then I'd continue: we chose Colombia but could have gone to Egypt. Truth: we just had to leave Wisconsin before I went batty. I'd already sunk grad school, married young, and the thought of axing a central desire - to live abroad - made me panic. That's how it seemed then: urgent, life half over already, missed opportunities piled in the gutter.

You see what I was doing to myself? I was finding fault, eating regret and seeing nothing ahead but bleak years unfolding by chance. No purpose, no achievement - just an eventual end to uneventful days.

So when I finally talked with Justin, he said, "I don't think you just let things happen, Sarah." And then he said something about God's direction, which I was in no mood to hear.

I am a Christian but I don't talk about my faith very often. I hold it like something fragile when it is my source of strength. I used to talk very openly about my beliefs and I remember not understanding my Mom when, sometime during my high school years, she said she wasn't comfortable talking so openly about her faith. "It's private," she said. And so I began to respect that my Mom shows her faith in ways that are stronger than words.

I try to do the same, partly because I think that saying "God will provide" or "Let Him comfort you" to someone in the middle of a big fat mess can seem more glib than promising. So when Justin said God and direction in the same sentence, I wanted to close my ears.

I have not always made the best decisions, but I cannot lump all parts of my life in the mistake category. Much good has come of choices that seemed just to have happened. As slapdash as my teaching certification seemed, I have grown because of my years in the classroom: learning human nature, compassion, endurance, and the endlessness of refining self. Painful growth at times. When Justin and I landed jobs in the same district, we began premarital counseling, decided to get married; why would I undo a relationship that has sharpened us both? And Colombia was more than a place for us: it was a starting point for a new sense of confidence as individuals and as a couple.

We prayed through many of our decisions. I want billboards and marquee lights and writing on the wall, but more often, we know our right direction by a sense of peace. And sometimes it seems that whether we turn to the right or to the left, we will learn and find and give and enjoy. Justin challenged me to reframe my thinking about my decisions and our decisions and when I did, I could better see the path leading us here - not through missteps and lack of options, but through turns and crossings that taught us a little more about trust, faith, failure and redemption.

I am not going to pretend that now I am entirely satisfied with everything my life is about. And I am not interested in posting all the inner workings of my heart and soul, revelations that come in pieces. Those are still very private to me, shared with few. But this - my last couple of months privately choking on doubt - now that I am finally tasting promise, how could I not share?

good things

2010-02-17T14:11:00.002+03:00

So you don't think I'm going over the edge:

1. I really enjoyed this week's episode of This American Life. Producers of the radio show asked their parents for show ideas and then made a segment out of whatever idea they were pitched. Would you ask your parents for an idea if you knew you had to do it?

2. Good run this morning. I cut my usual runs to eight miles, my old magic number for everyday runs until Mr. Nine took over. It's just enough shorter: I still run for a little over an hour, but I'm not spending the last ten minutes going When will this be over!? Soon enough, my daily run will be seven. Seven is a nice number.

3. Claire is endlessly entertaining. At night before bed, she gets a sippy cup of milk and lately, she's been sharing her milk with Bear. She makes little slurp noises while Bear drinks his goodnight milk. Justin and I absolutely melt over this. She also shares with us, points fingers in our eyes, and grabs our noses. We're learning face parts!

4. My parents took a little minibreak with my younger siblings and I've been spending this week excited to hear about the adventures! Things like this make me wish I could climb in the family van and hang out at an indoor waterpark, staying up late watching Gilligan's Island or Cartoon Network.

5. Class size. I have never been so grateful for small classes! I teach three sections of students, alternating Literature and Language by A/B days. Two of my classes have fourteen students and one has thirteen. Perfect for discussion. Perfect for manageable paper grading (Lit Analysis due soon! Research paper due soon!). And I know their first names, even if I still hesitate on pronunciation and have given up on learning all the last names.

6. Swedish massage. We have a long weekend coming up at the end of the month and I'm spending my sub money on an hour of loosened knots! I'd better make an appointment soon.

7. Another vanity: pedicures. I've been wearing shoes for three weeks now because my toes aren't so lovely anymore and I'm too lazy to take the iridescent blue polish off. (I was daring on my last visit to the salon). Tomorrow after school, a couple of friends and I are getting pedicures. Sandals soon, since the weather is turning warm.

Well, isn't this nice? I could actually keep listing good things. But seven is a solid, odd number and I'll stop there. Ah, I feel better.

worry

2010-02-16T15:14:00.003+03:00

I have been so worried with this pregnancy. When we found out we were pregnant with Claire, we'd just decided waiting a few years to start a family might be nice. We were so excited about a baby, but I also was surprised and if I'd miscarried, I'd have taken it as a sign to just wait a bit. If I'd miscarried then, I wouldn't have know what I'd be missing. So this time, I know all that I'd be missing and I know that I want all of that to be mine.

So I worry over every twinge. I worry if I don't feel as nauseated today as I felt yesterday. I worry about stress, even though I'm not feeling particularly stressed. (I'm busy, yes, but I get less riled about less than I have in the past).

I am very, very tired of worrying. I lay down for a nap and pray and rest and hope and then feel as though I will never figure out anything. But I am: figuring a few things out.

pregnancy comparison & contrast

2010-02-10T15:36:00.004+03:00

I woke up from a dream and knew I was pregnant with Claire. I just didn't know she was Claire yet. I took three pregnancy tests, until my doctor confirmed that, yes, I was pregnant; he told me to quit wasting my money. I'd just wanted to be sure. This time, I didn't have a dream or wake up sensing a shift in my body. I didn't think pregnant until I was already a few days late and then I thought of course! Two pregnancy tests this time, scrutinized: the plus on the cheap brand was just barely there so I went ahead and bought another at full price. Yup, pregnant.

Already, I was starting the pregnancy with a different body: one that had been there before. Meaning: knew what it was to be stretched. Only nine weeks along and my belly shows the littlest baby pooch. Which means that by May, everyone will be shocked when I say the baby isn't due until September. My mornings, as with Claire, are by far the best. I can eat and run and have energy enough; by afternoon and evening, I'm scraping the barrel.

I'm still running, though not quite as much as with Claire. I'm getting forty to forty-five miles in a week and am pleased with that! My pace is slowed a little - just me being conscious of my breathing and making sure not to stress my system. I run in the early mornings before school, which means I'm in bed by quarter to eight at night.

Sooo tired! I was tired with Claire, but then I wasn't coming home to a busy sixteen month girl. I was coming home to an empty apartment with my husband and he understood if I just wanted to lay on the couch and not do anything. Claire isn't so accommodating and I don't blame her. We come home after a day of school and she's got things to tell us, laps to climb, books to read. Justin is kind enough to let me nap if I need a short rest - I don't remember needing naps so often when I was pregnant with Claire, even though I was also teaching then.

Nauseated. Ick. Because I get up early (four in the morning) to run, shower and be out the door by six each morning, I am starving by nine in the morning. This is after a full breakfast - two bowls of cereal some mornings and orange juice - and a post-run snack (even if I don't run!) of hot cocoa and a banana. Still, nine a.m. and I am banging at the cafeteria door for lemon salted corn (surprisingly mmm) or a cheese bread (I still keep getting the Arabic name wrong).

I've learned to fill my belly during my morning break because by lunchtime, it is all I can do to eat half a sliced apple. Fruits and veggies are unappealing. I was like that with Claire too - carrots tasted like dirt and broccoli, well, broccoli can be overwhelming when you aren't pregnant. So I eat my mid-morning lunch and suffer through the real lunch and feel pukey by the end of school. Soda water helps. The bumpy bus ride home does not.

Dinner is - dinner is a lot of things right now. a) Unimaginative b) Standby pasta c) Steamed frozen veggies. Oh, it pains me. It really does. Sometimes we order a pizza and even that isn't good. We've started buying meals from a chef who lives in our building and his cooking is amazing, but I'm looking forward to really enjoying it. (Perhaps I need to eat his meals at nine o'clock in the morning?)

So right now, most everything I eat after one o'clock is followed by a gaggy feeling. But I don't throw up. I didn't throw up with Claire either. I gag a lot, to myself. I scrunch my face at icky smells. Sometimes I suspect Justin doesn't believe my stomach. Since I'm eating, I must be okay, right? I'm eating so I don't pass out, so I can continue running, and so the baby gets something, even if it is leftover cold cheese pizza. (Ick). I think Justin might get it if I barfed on him. Last night he was eating these delicious/noxious Lay's Yogurt and Herbs potato chips and then talking to me and his breath was wafting and I said, "Please. Please stop." And he looked at me and said, "What?" all chewing and breathing and I thought: If I could just hurl on his shoes, he'd really believe me. Instead I left the room, brushed my teeth gagging.

So that's my pregnancy so far. Quite similar to the first. I'm waiting for second trimester's burst of energy, but enjoying first trimester's bladder. Now for my nap.

whose house for summer?

2010-02-06T14:16:00.004+03:00

When pioneer families headed west, they went knowing that they might never see the family and friends they left behind. Perhaps a sibling or cousin promised to follow the next year or perhaps they planned to meet a neighbor who had already settled new land, but more often, mothers said goodbye to daughters and fathers to sons and families understood that this goodbye embrace was likely their last. Letters and photographs would keep the family ties but Sunday dinners and celebrations were now separated by a thousand miles. Wedding and birth announcements came months after the event; even news of deaths traveled slow.

I thought about these pioneer families when Justin and I moved abroad. I wasn't bold enough to think we were doing anything quite so daring or risky, but I sensed what they must have: this call to explore, to go somewhere new. Our decision was made easier by the fact that we'd have the luxury to remain in immediate contact with family and friends we'd left behind. Email, blog posts, Skype - it all connects. In fact, we can't really escape, can we?

After we began talking about this - living abroad - becoming our life for awhile, Justin and I had to think about our visits home. If we were going to make a new home for ourselves in a new country, did we need to traipse back to the States once a year to spend a month or so visiting the old home? We began thinking about our obligations to parents and siblings and friends. At what point, we asked ourselves, do we say: You need to visit our home? At what point does the visiting responsibilities fall to the family and friends we left behind?

A lot of expats ask these questions. When we had Claire, I began looking at what other families abroad do to keep their children connected with North American relatives. Some visit annually. Some trade off: Grandma comes this year, we go next year. I don't think there is only one way to settle this for your family. But we've been trying to find our way.

When we moved to Colombia, my father-in-law said, "No one will ever visit you there!" He was angry when he spoke, but he was also right. No one came to visit us there. One of my friends was saving money for her wedding, my sister's husband was a little nervous about her visiting Colombia. Plans fell through. We understood. But we watched other expats host their family and friends and thought: how do we get there?

You don't get there by moving to Kuwait. Come to visit and we'll enjoy our time together, probably take a side trip to Jordan or Egypt to see Petra or the pyramids. But we aren't holding our breath. The truth is, we want to share our life abroad with family and friends. We want people to see where we are and to understand our daily life and to enjoy what we enjoy about the places we know now.

So we decided: we're putting our foot down. Let's go home this summer, we said, and then spend next summer in Ireland or Germany. We'll rent a house, we said, and invite our Stateside crew to join us if they want. We get a visit, and they get somewhere more romantic than Kuwait. What a good, reasonable solution we thought: every other year. On the off years we go somewhere fabulous and new to us and likely won't bleed as much money as visiting the States. Family and friends can visit places that they don't have to explain to their coworkers why, exactly, they decided to go to _____.

Wonderful. Settled. All we had to do was tell our parents.

Then I got pregnant. Also wonderful. But this pregnancy means I absolutely will not travel home this summer - no desire to experience jet lag twice and drag my tired third trimester self all over Wisconsin. So we thought, let's go home for Christmas. A week with my parents, a week with his; and then we'll still get a rental in Ireland for the following summer.

Trouble is: I don't think anyone would visit. My parents are still raising five kids at home. Just flights for all of them to Europe would be astronomically expensive. Justin's parents are reluctant to travel, though they did just take a trip to Hawaii. Perhaps we'd snare a few friends with the free place to stay, but most of our friends are also in the middle of raising babies or planning to begin very soon. So very likely we'd enjoy a restful, green vacation by ourselves. Now, I like that idea, I really do, but I'm also keenly aware that Claire and the new little one will miss most family events as it is. And a week at the height of holiday season just doesn't seem to allow for a lot of grandma/grandpa/aunt/uncle/cousin/grandbaby bonding.

I thought about this for a few days before telling Justin. He'd been sending me links about valleys in Germany and travel destinations in Ireland. I rained on his parade. Maybe, I said, we owe it to our family to bring the little ones home for a few more summers. Afterall, if this is our life for awhile, we will hike in Germany and I will run in Ireland. He understood. We still aren't entirely settled on this. Selfishly, we want our month in Ireland whether or not anyone visits. But we also want lazy mornings eating blueberry pancakes at my house; I want to run while my Mom bikes along; Claire needs to chase her aunts and uncles and grandparents; Justin needs to find time to spend with his father. At some point, our family and friends will very likely come to us. But perhaps it's still on us to go to them.

mixed bag

2010-02-03T14:26:00.003+03:00

So I've taught four days now. All is well. It's busy, but I knew it would be. The students are responding to the abrupt change well and I think the classes will each be enjoyable.

I miss Claire though, and I knew I would. I get home in the afternoon and crash while Justin takes her for a walk or out to play. Then I pull together dinner and sit at the table sad that I have no appetite for anything. I eat but I don't enjoy eating right now, especially later in the day. Then we've got the bath and bed routine and half an hour after Claire is down, I'm down.

In the early mornings, I stand over her crib and whisper love, sometimes pick her up for a quick snuggle, and then I'm out the door.

Though I can manage this schedule for a semester, and though I actually do enjoy teaching here, I don't think I was made to mama a short three or four hours a day.

in the works again

2010-01-30T12:03:00.002+03:00

I'm headed back to teaching tomorrow. I'll be taking over a grade eleven American literature class after a teacher resigned mid-year. The good news is: I'll be starting at a fresh semester. Less good news is: it's a new school year in the middle of the year for both my students and me. I anticipate that the first week or two (okay, month) will be a lot of getting used to each other (my teaching and their learning styles), referring to my established discipline plan and class procedures (I am armed with a frightening load of organization this time), and testing boundaries and humor. As in, how many of my jokes and side comments will fall flat?

I think it should be okay. I went back and forth for a little while about accepting this position, but decided to after realizing a. it's for one semester, with no longer contract attached, b. my contract will literally double our savings potential this year since we can easily live on one salary here, which translates into c. less financially strapped travel opportunities for the next year. Also, d. I like American literature and, e. will enjoy being on campus again.

I will miss Claire durning the mornings - I love our mornings together - but by mid-June I'll be back at home full time to begin potty-training the little one. (Which will probably time out perfectly since I'll be into my third trimester and won't mind joining her every five minutes for a potty chat). Anyway, the mornings will be early since I do plan to maintain my running - though I'll likely cut miles for the sake of time during the weekdays - but I'll get home and rest for twenty or thirty minutes (door closed!) before tackling playtime, dinnertime, bedtime. So I think the four and a half months will be manageable.

When I accepted the job, I made a deal with Justin that we not travel during our spring break. I want that week to explore Kuwait (there are about three places here to see: should I see them all this year, or parcel them out? ha ha). He's a little grumpy about not getting to Jordan this spring, but I think he'll get over it. I suggested he and Claire make the trip to Petra while I stay home sleeping in and eating French toast, reading books on the couch and showering at noon.

So wish me well. I meet my new students tomorrow. We're beginning with two excellent texts, Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neal Hurston, and A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry. I'm not there yet. I've still got Saturday lunch to make for a girl who's throwing a fit!

heard a heartbeat today!

2010-01-27T17:18:00.003+03:00

Claire is joining the ranks of all big sisters this September!

We are very happy to announce our baby on the way. I am seven weeks along, nauseated by noon, and absolutely exhausted by two in the afternoon.

But oh so happy.

a sky that could be anywhere

2010-01-25T07:18:00.003+03:00

It is winter in Kuwait. Winter came suddenly this year, on a November morning. I had to go buy a pair of nice shoes since all I brought with me were sandals. I had to buy a couple of sweaters. I began wearing my husband's thick, warm socks around the apartment. I shiver here in Kuwait and I certainly did not expect to shiver in this desert.

Right now the wind is shrieking, tearing around the corners of our building. Sometimes the wind is so strong, the windows rattle. The screams wake me at night. I have yet to see a bad sandstorm, but when I hear the wind, I want to look out the window.

Thunder here is rare and I like it. Shortly after we arrived, all I wanted was a cloudy day. I wanted Biblical rain, like the fat rain that fell in Colombia and turned a hill into a waterfall. We get rain here, more than I expected, during the winter. It falls like marbles and carries the dust in the air to the ground. After the rain, cars are mud-splotched, windows are dusty. A few days ago, in the afternoon, I heard loud ping ping ping and went to the window to see hail bouncing off the window ledge.

The other morning, Justin and I lay in bed; the curtains were open and we were staring at the blue blue sky. "That sky could be anywhere," I said. The wind was whistling and if I closed my eyes, I could be in Wisconsin, warm in my bed while it snowed outside.

extra awesome

2010-01-20T13:39:00.002+03:00

Yesterday afternoon three of us went for haircuts. In the cab on the way to the salon, someone said bloomin' onion and we all thought must have one now. After haircuts, Ellie had to leave for another appointment, but Amanda and I decided to go find a deep-fried onion.
crispy
grease
onion
was an immediate need. The cab driver took us to Chili's for an Awesome Blossom (extra awesome) to go. We sat in the back of the cab inhaling perfectly fried (not soggy with grease, but crisp and hot) onion strings with sauce. Okay, I inhaled. Amanda was a much neater eater.

Sooo good.

An hour later I felt absolutely horrible. Way too much of a good thing.* But it'd been so long since I'd recklessly ordered and consumed that much grease in one sitting, that even though I can't really fathom wanting another Awesome Blossom for years, it was utterly delicious shared in the back of a cab on the 30 home.

*Lesson learned for the fifty billionth time in my life.

letting myself like it here

2010-01-17T14:20:00.007+03:00

Yesterday I talked with my friend Nira, who is still in Colombia for her third year and is planning to stay a fourth. I admitted feeling jealous of the teachers at Bolivar who stayed for longer than their initial two year contract. I spent the first couple of months here very sad that we weren't there. I missed our friends, walking up the hill to La Carulla, the birds that began calling at four in the morning, the product ladies at La14 dressed like Energizer batteries and Italian chefs; I missed our nanny, Patricia, and our school secretary, Marlene; I missed and missed and missed.

All of that missing makes it difficult to warm up to a new place. Last night I got off the phone with Nira and cried. "I think we made a mistake," I said to Justin, "a third year would have been so good for us." I don't know what would have happened with that third year. I really don't. We would have been broke. I might have improved my Spanish. We would have taken a few more trips around Colombia, perhaps made it to Cartegena or back to Tyrona on the coast. I would have gone trail running at least a few times, with Justin biking along. Claire might have latched on to a few Spanish words. Perhaps I would have done the Medellin half marathon again.

Who

can

say?

Justin assured me, "We made an okay decision." Okay!? Okay!? "A good decision," he said, mustering conviction.

Here's what I think: I think I'm afraid to like Kuwait. It's a dump. At least where we are, it is. Sand and trash. There isn't anything shiney and new or glamorous about Kuwait except for its malls. So if I say I like this place, what does that say about me?

Last week, Justin, Claire and I were out for a walk down to the littered beach, along the shore, and back. Near our apartment building, two other teachers on their way home pulled up beside us and stopped. "If you have a camera, I'll take your picture," Monica said. Before us was a line of palms, the setting sun. And all I'd been noticing until then was the trash underfoot. Perhaps I need to look up more.

And perhaps I need to give myself over to living here in Kuwait. Knowing that leaving after two years is emotionally and logistically difficult, we're staying for three or four, maybe five. There are people here that stay for six or seven years. One woman I know says that she and her husband are "lifers." I don't think we are lifers here in Kuwait, but I do think that I need to be done feeling sad about leaving Colombia and I need to let myself like living here in Kuwait.

story corps

2010-01-14T13:21:00.002+03:00

One of my latest finds is Story Corps. I won't say too much about them except to encourage you to visit their website. I think the work that they are doing is historically important but also immediately important as people are talking with one another.

seven about sarah

2010-01-09T16:41:00.003+03:00

Jessica posted this: listing seven things about yourself. And then she tagged her readers. I think I've made it through a total of two email forwards asking really telling questions about yourself (gift bag or gift wrap? dinner in or dinner out?) but this should be fun. I'll go for the little known seven things about Sarah.*

1. I wish I were one of those people who simply doesn't like chocolate. "Oh, I don't like chocolate much," someone will say to me, passing on the offered slice of cake, and I'll think yeah right. But there really are people who don't like chocolate much and as baffling as that is to me - a woman with chocolate kicks satisfied by homemade pudding or (this is the latest) Cadbury Shots or Chocettes - I sometimes wish I were one of them. Only sometimes. Because wouldn't it be nice to not be gripped by the absolute necessity of a bar of dark chocolate
right
this
minute!
2. I am starting to really hate eating meat. For a short time in college I was vegetarian. Well, lacto-ovo, meaning I ate dairy products and eggs. I don't think I adhered to vegetarianism on my occasional weekend visits home. When I started dating Justin and joining his family for dinners they served beef or chicken or pork all the time and I ate along. But lately, ick. Not sure what to do with this aversion and I know Justin (already used to most of our meals being meatless) would have a hard time accepting not even chicken. Dairy and eggs would have to stay though.
3. I still fantasize about becoming something well beyond reach: an Olympic athlete, a CIA spy, a fighter pilot (I don't want to fight, I just want to go really really fast), someone with amazing hair. I have always daydreamed and usually daydreamed big, elaborate plots I'd add onto each time I got lost in that land. I remember being about nine or ten and desperately wishing I had curly hair; I had this whole daydream about waking up and looking in the mirror and there it was! A head of curly hair, like kids in commercials. When it just didn't happen, I began my off and on relationship with bad perms.
4. I am very content. Most of the time.
5. When I glance in the mirror and see a glimpse of my Mom in my expression, or when I hear myself say something she might (calling Claire, "Sweet girl"), I am pleased.
6. I have grown up so much in the last two or three years and wish that I could pass this new wisdom on to my nineteen year old self. Since I cannot, I try to hear what my forty year old self is telling me now. I think my forty year old self is better yet and I'm looking forward to meeting her one day.
7. I am addicted to news podcasts on iTunes. I download a slew of 60 Minutes, BBC documentaries, Frontline, NPR's Fresh Air, To the Best of Our Knowledge, On Point, and Wait, Wait; I also listen to The Moth podcasts and This American Life. I listen while I run on the treadmill in the mornings. I also have this thing about finding long podcasts and fitting my listening selections so that I don't have half a program left at the end of my run. So I usually have to choose a forty or fifty minute show and pair that with a twenty minute documentary. Some mornings, a new podcast is the only reason I decide to run.

*Or so I think little known. You may very well know most of this already.

India: an elephant & a poser

2010-01-07T18:31:00.004+03:00

Justin kept saying that when he went to India, he was going to ride an elephant. Ride an elephant, ride an elephant like a refrain. When I suggested we could also wait on an elephant ride until Thailand (if we get there), he said, "No." So it was a mini-mission to find an elephant to ride in India. We found this elephant in Jaipur, near the Amber Fort. We rode, and lo, it was wonderful.

My brother also sent this shot along as a compliment to my current profile picture. You know, I felt ridiculous taking my own picture (though not so much as to not!) but seeing a picture of me taking my picture: it's a new ridiculousness.

India: a few more

2010-01-06T06:38:00.010+03:00

This man is making samosas.

Joie, my sister-in-law and the one who coordinated train tickets and hotels and remembered to bring along a guidebook so we knew what we were looking at.

Will and I shared a coconut milk.

Will and Annie both enjoyed Claire's stroller. Annie was funny about "baby Claire," her younger cousin by a year. She wanted baby Claire to sit on her lap and she wanted to help push baby Claire in her stroller - and she's saying all of this in her own baby voice. Sweet.

India: the taj mahal

2010-01-05T07:03:00.015+03:00

Here we are at the Taj Mahal. We woke up early to stand in line and pay 750 rupees (about twenty dollars) to see this tribute to a woman who died in childbirth. I think that great monuments like this hold different meaning for different people; the Taj might be a symbol of love, or a spiritual place, or simply an architectural wonder. I didn't know what to expect but was amazed by the intricacy of the inlaid stonework and carving.

India: getting from here to there

2010-01-05T06:05:00.009+03:00

We walked on the mountain, through the bazaar, dodging puddles and mud, avoiding cows parked between motorbikes in the cities, alongside traffic that seems to move faster and more chaotically than it really does. But we also took these to get around:
Taxis. There were fleets of white 1950s cars with racks on top to shuttle people from the train station in Dehradun. This rather cranky man took us up the mountain when we first arrived.

In Dehli, we hopped in rickshaws to navigate the city. A rickshaw ride is like all of your nerves firing at once and you have to look everywhere right now because you might miss something. The split second you see something - two kids whispering to each other on the back of a bicycle rickshaw, the flash of color of a woman's sari, an old man with no legs - you are past, blinking.

We all fit in a big rickshaw, with Joie and her sister Eleanor sitting in back. Last year I read a book about an MIT graduate who decided to live on as little modern technology as possible; when he and his wife settled back in the land of electricity, he bought a bicycle rickshaw to carry people around his new town. Since I don't bike, I volunteer my husband to do that.

This is our bus driver on our trip from Agra to a fort about an hour and a half away. Check out the wires. He knew how to wrench the shift too.

I rather enjoyed the train rides. We had two bench seats facing each other, two upper bunks and two more bunks that we could make if we needed. We had enough room - especially if one or two of us were on a top bunk with a sleeping kid - but our "enough room" was a call to any cramped passenger to sit with us. For an hour or so of one ride, a boy joined us and just stared at Will, Annie, and Claire, making little noises and faces to amuse them. Nate found out the boy had a ticket and told him to return to his seat; he told the same to another woman who was parked on our bench. A couple, likely riding on only one ticket, squashed together in a seat at the end of our bench, eating a meal and saying nothing.

Trains offer different classes of passenger travel. The class we were in was upper, but a couple removed from first. We were "non AC" which meant that we felt whatever the weather was outside; during this cool season, we just bundled up in hats and blankets during early morning and evening, but I don't think it'd be much fun to ride "non AC" in the heat of summer. Our class also allowed men, women and children to walk the aisles loudly selling food and drink, toys, shawls and socks. Above, Nate shares a samosa he bought with Will.

India: the buzz

2010-01-02T13:25:00.009+03:00

They call the bazaar the buzz. It's a thirty minute walk down the mountain and into Mussoorie, beginning where the shops begin. The stores are small and tightly packed with a variety of goods, usually displaying a few outside of the store itself. Shopping requires a bit of hunting: while one store might sell utensils and cooking pots, the next store might have bigger pots or a better price. Storekeepers are happy to show you all that they offer, if you have the desire (or time) to sit and listen.

Bartering is very much a part of shopping here but there are rules. Start low, perhaps at half the asking price. Say you are buying a shawl and you see one you like. Look at a variety of shawls, careful to not let on that you really like that deep purple wool wrap. Then justify your price: there are loose threads, this color is a little faded, the stitching is uneven. You go back and forth until "Last price." Shrug, walk away. Say, "It is too much." They'll call you back. "When they start to wrap your purchase," Joie explained, "you can be sure they'll sell it for your price."

The first time I really bartered was in Delhi with an old woman selling dusty old tapestries. A blue design caught my eye. I got hot and sweaty trying to convert rupees to dollars to dinars to decide whether or not I really wanted to pay that much for a dusty old tapestry. A woman overheard the asking price and unleashed a stream of Hindi reprimanding the old woman for trying to rob me. Finally, my brother rescued me and pulled me away. He and Joie gave me a few tips and I returned, shaking my head, asking to see more, shrugging, adding another (slightly less dusty and old) tapestry to the deal, and paying a price that was still probably a little too high. But then again, the old woman followed me down the sidewalk, saying, "You are happy, you are happy" and I looked at her two rotting teeth and thought So what if I could whittle this down another two hundred rupees? and bought the two pieces.

This is a man at a shop selling Kashmir tapestries, plates, bowls and boxes. Beautiful work.

After walking around the buzz for a couple of hours, we stopped for lunch at a place that offers a better variety of cuisine. As in, Nate and Joie can order a pizza there when they are tired of curry. Claire was tired from the walk (well, the ride on Papa's back) and as parents, we're still amused by our sleeping baby.

One of Will and Annie's favorite things to eat: mo mos. Mo mos and samosas reminded me a bit of the different types of empanadas you can find in South America. Claire woke up in time to enjoy a couple of mo mos too.

Such a good big cousin!

Always so much to see! Speaking of India, and not just the buzz, Nate told me that after three and a half years of living there, he still sees new things.

India: our stay at redwood cottage

2010-01-02T12:13:00.010+03:00

We arrived in India on the seventeenth and took a train north on the eighteenth. We spent a week at Redwood Cottage, Nate and Joie's home in India. The restful days were wonderful and I enjoyed seeing my brother as a husband and pappa, and I was glad to get to know Joie better. The cousins were fun to watch: at first, circling around each other and then growing comfortable enough to play together (though Claire is a little young yet to always appreciate all the games Annie had in mind). Below are a few (out of order) pictures from that week.

Christmas day. We walked up the mountain to a potluck dinner with other Woodstock teachers. Claire enjoyed all of our outdoor time, chilly or not.

Walking with Papa.

The cousins! Last time we saw Will and Annie, they were two-and-a-half and just seven or eight months old. I really appreciated the chance to see who they are now; near the end of our visit, I began thinking about who they might be in ten or twenty years and what stories we might tell from this visit in India.

Nate and Joie have talked about India being a difficult place to live and I saw that in much of the daily work. Here I am making Russian teacakes (or pecan sandies or snowball cookies or Mexican wedding cakes), stirring the dough by hand. When I burned out my first mixer in Kuwait, I froze: how would I bake anything!? I thought about that silliness while making Christmas cookies with Joie. I spent the week being very impressed by all that Joie must do to bring food to the table since there is nothing simple or easy about preparing meals from scratch with food you carry on your back from the bazaar.

Joanna sent Joie little tart tins and a recipe for my Great-Grandma's sandbackels. We had no idea just how many cookies a single batch would make. Joie soon realized that I should receive my own Christmas present from Jo and Ron early: another set of tins. We baked and baked...and baked. They were delicious. All four hundred and seventy-two (ha ha).

My brother cooks! I didn't know this. He began cooking during a semester in England where he and a friend learned how to make sesame chicken and stew. For us, he made an amazing orange chicken with sauce, served over rice.

Joie is a very musical person, playing guitar and piano and singing. I think Claire enjoyed that very much.

safe & sound

2010-01-01T19:53:00.003+03:00

We arrived home from India on a cloud of dust from Delhi and our own travel stink. The last leg of the journey is always the longest. All I thought about the entire taxi ride home from the airport was shower and Q-tip.

Ah, sooo nice.

Enjoyed a nap, went grocery shopping, and am looking forward to a long-ish run tomorrow.

Wishing you each a happy New Year.

P.S. India pictures and posts to follow next few days. An amazing couple of weeks. Very grateful that I had the chance to visit my brother and his family while they are living there.

short run

2009-12-24T09:00:00.003+03:00

This morning my sister-in-law Joie and I went for a short run in the Himalayas. She's thinking about training for a summer race and has a most beautiful place to run.

Soon we return to Delhi and then it's on to Agra and Jaipur. Our time on the mountain is coming to a close.

Merry Christmas!