The Norwegian Experience

Last week the dream of every stay-at-home mother with no childcare and (almost) no real-life support network came true: I got to go on a trip alone.

I went to visit a dear friend who in Norway. Five days, four nights, no kids. No husband. Just me.

This may sound hyperbolic but it was a life-changing experience. An enlightening, life-changing experience.

The first thing I noticed as I went through the airport was that it's really *easy* to travel by yourself. Ridiculously easy. It was actually... fun.

The second thing I noticed was that no one noticed me. Without the stroller, the older kid, the bags and parcels I was just an anonymous woman walking through the airport, not worthy of a first glance, let alone a second one. That was truly disconcerting. I don't think I've ever felt so invisible in my life.

Then came the successive joys of ordering a hot coffee (and not trying to keep it from being dumped in my lap by a cranky kid). Reading the paper. Having uninterrupted thoughts in the middle of the day (the only time I am ever likely not to be interrupted is between 9-11pm, after bedtime and before Maz wakes up for the first of many wake-ups). When I was picked up at the airport by my friend, it was the joy of having a totally guilt-free uninterrupted conversation. (If I'm lucky enough to get an uninterrupted conversation in with someone, there's usually a nagging feeling at the back of my head that I should really be doing something else; helping my husband with the kids, for example). The joy of dining with adults, having adult conversation, only worrying about getting food into myself and not getting up from the table fifty times for water, milk, a clean fork, a new bib, paper towels, different food...

The joy of uninterrupted sleep.

We spent two days at my friend's cabin. A cabin on an island in a lake in the mountains. Did I mention it was my idea of heaven? No running water, no electricity, just silence. The sound of the little waves lapping against the rocks and the occasional sheep bell from the shore. No cars. No TV. No internet. I got to have coffee in bed. I repeat. I got to have coffee in bed.

It was also the experience of seeing how my friend moves through her life and adds joy and beauty to everything she does. She lights candles at every meal, just because. She uses pretty plates and cups, just because. Everything in her apartment has been chosen because she thinks it's beautiful. So many things I've jettisoned from my life because it's been so complicated-- with moves, with money (or lack thereof), with two little kids. Too hard to have a tablecloth between the baby and the cat, who prefers to vomit on cloth than on the floor. My friend's life was like a beacon. It was saying "Remember living like this? You can do it. You might have to make some different choices, but you can do it."

I came back with the certainty that things need to change. Childcare for Mazen. A job for me. Extra income for the family. I want to be a woman who has some self-esteem about who she is as a whole person, not just in her role as a mother to small children. I want to have the energy and the ability to bring beauty back into my daily life.

This trip, coming at the end of a particularly long, hard and stressful summer, has allowed me to see that my life is radically out of balance. I feel like I'm peripheral in my own life. It's time to make some changes, to move forward.

It's time to remember that if I choose to bring beauty into my life it doesn't need to be justified or explained. It's time to remember that I am an adult and I don't need to justify or explain myself to anyone. It's time to discover who I am now, having been living in a parallel world for the last five years.

Scary stuff.

Yes, it's been a long time since I blogged. We were in Lebanon for most of April, which was great, and since we've been back it's been non-stop busy. I'm almost as stressed and tired as I was before we went on vacation. Ok, not really, but it's been busy.

Quick recap of Lebanon: lots of family, friends, food. Chady and I got to go out together without kids. At night. That was AWESOME. Geo wasn't happy about it, though. He would only agree to fall asleep on the couch. He would tell his grandmother that his foot was hurting, but it didn't hurt when he lay on the couch. We all agreed that humoring him was just fine, and that Teta must have a magic couch.

Mazen and Geo really loved playing with all the cousins/aunts/uncles/grandparents. I really think travel is so broadening for children. Both Geo and Mazen changed during the trip and really matured.

So we came back home and Mazen has turned into Super Climbing Monkey Boy. We have to lay our chairs on the floor and tuck them under the table otherwise I'll find him standing in the middle of the table, wreaking havoc. Actually, he wreaks havoc whether he's standing on the table or has his feet firmly planted on the ground. We're in for a rough year with this kid-- his idea of fun is running full-speed down the staircase outside, or flinging himself off the steep hill that the big kids like to play on. Inside the house he's into munching on cat food, throwing things off the balcony and his newest trick is putting things in the garbage. Things like shoes, sippy cups, toys. Geo was a busy baby but nothing like this. I don't know whether to laugh or cry and often end up doing both simultaneously.

So last weekend I hit the annual Bring & Buy of my Anglophone parenting association. It happens twice a year-- people sell baby gear, toys, clothes, books and movies in English, food, all kinds of great stuff. I went with a gigantic bag of books to donate (my book philosophy is to get rid of books to make room for books-- my core collection doesn't change a whole lot-- a book has to be really good to be granted amnesty). My lovely husband, who really, REALLY did not want to go to this event saw the gigantic bag and offered to drive me all the way across the universe (ok, all the way across Ile-de-France). I said "No, thanks. Take the boys to the park instead." He asked how on earth I would make it by myself on the bus, RER B, RER A and metro lugging this huge bag of books. I laughed out loud. He thinks it's hard to carry a big bag of books? Hard is trying to get two kids and a stroller to a destination in Paris. A heavy bag is a goddamn piece of cake in comparison.

So I went, I shopped, and I came home with 1) a bike seat 2) a bed guard rail 3) 8-10 books (ok, more like 12-15 books, I haven't actually counted though) 4) some clothes for Mazen and 5) some books/DVDs for Geo for his birthday. Several people I bumped into asked me how I was getting home. When I told them public transportation their eyes widened. "Really? Wow! That's gonna be fun!" And you know what? It WAS. Sure, I had to juggle two bags, a bike seat and my purse on the metro, two RERs and a bus. But I also got to read uninterrupted. I didn't have to find a potty for anyone, catch flying pacifiers or rummage desperately in my purse for a cookie/cracker/sun hat/ water bottle/ toy. It was great.

And today I got to compare the two trips, as I took both boys to Paris for a checkup (they're both fine, growing perfectly, strong and healthy, thank goodness). It SUCKED. I'm exhausted from lugging the stroller, keeping track of Geo, trying to avoid meltdowns and all this in a hot and very crowded metro/RER/bus combo.

Yeah, no comparison. It's much more fun to lug a bunch of heavy crap around on public transportation than my darling, sweet children.

Fake it 'til you make it

It was a really rough day today. It was preceded by an epically bad night-- between Mazen teething and coming down with a cold, and staying up really late to finish up work (C) and projects (me) the morning was doomed to be hard for the grown-ups. But on top of the sleep deprivation, we were dealing with Geo having pretty much a full-blown panic attack with nausea and chest pain. He did eventually make it out the door and to school and I settled into the morning-- trying (and failing) to get Maz to nap, talking to Geo's pediatrician (might as well have saved my breath, he told me to make an appointment if the anxiety continued) and eventually getting Mazen and myself dressed and out the door. We picked Geo up for lunch, had an uneventful noon and I took him back in time for the afternoon session. I was relieved to get home; Mazen was finally ready for a nap-- and so was I. I had just started to drift off when I realized my cell phone was ringing. I checked and saw it was Geo's school.

When I answered the phone, Geo's teacher explained that there had been a little accident at recess. Geo had fallen on his wrist, which was red and swollen and his forehead, which was scratched. He was in a lot of pain. She thought it would be best if I picked him up. I groggily tried to figure out what to do-- I couldn't leave Mazen, but really didn't want to wake him up. Luckily, my local friend came to the rescue and ran over to sit Mazen. When I picked Geo up, he was crying but trying really hard not to. The school's principal explained that it was the same person who had caused previous issues who had tripped George. She asked me to call back and let her know what the doctor said. She also asked me to ask George what had happened to see if the stories matched up.

I got home, C came home from work and took Geo to the general practitioner next door. In turn, he recommended we go to the hospital for an x-ray. So off went Geo and C.

In the meantime, I was fuming. The same child who tripped Geo today also dislocated his elbow at the school party last year. He is the same child who pushed Geo off a bike rack, causing him to split his lip open (but luckily nothing worse). This same child regularly pushes, hits and kicks my child and many other children at the school. So I have a right to be angry, right?

Well, here's where things get more complicated. I know this child's mother. She's a single mom, busting her butt to raise her two sons. She's working really hard with this kid and is fully aware of what he's up to. She's getting help for him, or trying to. I want to be gracious and kind and recognize that her son isn't a thug. Although it's hard when you're waiting to hear whether your son has a fractured wrist or not.

Soon after I'd heard from C that all was well and it was just a really bad bruise, she called. To apologize. I wanted to rant and scream, but more than that I wanted her to know that it was ok. No real harm was done. I know her son isn't a thug, he's a strong, physical little boy who doesn't think before he acts. He's not malicious. So I faked the forgiving and the understanding and I hope that soon I will truly forgive and understand.

Fake it 'til you make it.

Peter Pan

It's the morning rush. Getting everyone fed and dressed and Geo and C out the door in time for school and work. Geo has been told at school that there is a particular skill he needs to master. It doesn't matter what the skill is, let's just pretend that it's zipping up his coat by himself.

The scolding (if it *was* a scolding; it might just have been an off-hand comment, it's hard to know with him) has left him incredibly anxious. I have told him that we can practice at home and soon he'll be able to do it by himself. He cries. He resists. He doesn't want to practice. I tell him that when he's a big boy, a teenager, he won't want me to zip up his coat. He cries harder. I say, "When you're a grown up, you won't want me to zip up your coat. Wouldn't it be silly if Taita had to come zip Baba's coat every day?" More tears and sobs.

We sit down on the couch and he snuggles on my lap. "I don't want to grow up," he says. "I don't want to get married. Charlotte told me at school that she wants to marry me, but I don't want to."

I reassure him that marrying someone is a choice. No one will ever force him to get married.

"Are you going to die before me, mama?"

Ouch. I guess I should have seen where the "I don't want to grow up and get older" thing was heading.

"Yes, probably, but not for a very, very, very, very long time, inshallah. I'll be an old, old, old woman and you'll be an old man."

Tears roll down his cheeks. He's trying not to sob. "Mama," he squeaks out, "I want to die at the same time you do."

My sweet son. He doesn't know yet that a parent's deepest wish is *not* to outlive her child. He doesn't know that one day he'll feel so differently. About all of it-- from zipping his coat by himself, to getting married or partnered, to dying when mama does.

We talk more. About how he and Mazen will have each other no matter what. About what we think happens after we die. About what heaven will be like. ("I think we'll sing lots of songs, like in church, mama. That's it. Just singing.") I say, "We're so lucky to have each other right now. We're lucky to be part of such a nice family". We talk about how spring is coming, how the Earth is waking up again, how beautiful the forsythia blooming outside our window is.

The moment passes. He practices zipping up his coat. He does fine. We'll be fine.

We made it through both weeks of school break, including a very long six days when C was traveling in India. The kids and I even managed a full day at the science museum, a trip to see Guignol (the traditional French puppet that has been amusing children for two hundred years), a playdate for Geo with a school friend, a trip to the Luxembourg Gardens in the freezing cold AND, this being my life, a trip to the doctor's office.

Not too shabby.

Next week Geo gets tubes in his ears. Maybe he'll be spared some ear infections and we'll be spared more doctor's visits and antibiotics. I'm nervous about it, probably more nervous than he is (and believe me, he is anxious about this upcoming operation). That's the trouble with parenthood. You try to do the best thing for your children, never knowing 100% whether you've made the right choices.

Another week

I hate this time of year. Winter has been dragging on for what seems like months (it started early this year, too). It's gray and rainy and has been for weeks. I vaguely remember what sunshine is like. The children have been sick non-stop since December. The days are still short (although getting longer, thankfully) and it's usually too cold or too wet to play outside.

On top of all that, it's winter break here. So Geo is home from school and ready for some fun. Unfortunately, it's been harder than I thought it would be to find fun activities that are a)indoors, b)easy-ish to get to, c)affordable. Plus many of his friends are out of town. To be frank, last week sucked. I'm hoping this coming week we'll have a higher success rate, but C will be out of town (waaaaaay on the other side of the world, to boot). I think we'll be eating Picard off of paper plates and just simplify as much as possible. I'm praying Mazen doesn't get any sicker than he is now-- a cold I can handle alone, but an ear infection and bronchiolitis would be tough to manage solo.

These are minor issues. But add to the seasonal draggishness I'm feeling right now and I just feel.... overwhelmed. Like everything requires too much effort to bother. (I know! I know! Not good. But I swear, once the sun comes out again, I will be fine.)

So I'll be gritting my teeth and powering through this coming week.

On giving advice people don't want to hear...

I'm on a bit of a posting roll these days. It's good to be back!

So I got contacted through my Anglophone parent's network yesterday by an American woman who is married to a French man. They've been living in France for a couple of years and she has recently finished a high-level degree and is having a hard time finding work. She told me she's depressed; she hates it here and wants to go back to the US. The problem is that before she and her husband were here, they were already in the US, where he spent ten months searching for a job before giving up and finding work in France within two weeks.

She wanted my advice about what to do. She wanted to hear about our experience going back to the US.

It was hard to know what to tell her. I said that when we made the decision to come back to France, after a year in the US, I was sad. But I had also lived in France for eight years and knew what to expect. And that when we came I decided I was sick of waiting for my life to begin; I was going to put down roots, plan for the future and stop the "wait and see" game. I would buy a nice couch. I would plan which schools my kids would go to. And I told her that not only am I now happy, I'm also prepared for the idea that we could pick up and move again in the future.

I don't think it's what she wanted to hear. She wants to go back to where she comes from. She says people don't smile enough in France. Their jokes, when her husband's friends come over for dinner, that they try to make to her in English, aren't the least bit funny (I'm thinking the problem may be the friends, or the language barrier!). She told me there was *one* place in the United States she wanted to live. Man, talk about shooting yourself in the foot. If you are trying to get a bi-cultural family moved to a new spot where both people can find jobs, it helps to be a little flexible on location. I told her that, too.

In the end, I don't think our conversation helped her much. I invited her over for coffee-- maybe feeling less lonely would help her-- but it sounded to me like she was depressed and the only solution she could see was moving. That's a recipe for making a really bad decision. I feel that I pushed us to go to the US because I was in a bad place and it took a toll on both of us.

I guess what I've realized is that happiness is only *partly* about where you are. Sure, there are exceptions to this. Being the only gay person in a small Southern town would suck; being the only minority could make life impossible, but barring those two scenarios, a lot of happiness is choosing to find it, choosing to embrace it.

I hope she and her husband work it out. One question I didn't ask her, but should have, was, what if he still can't find a job? Would she come back to France again? Get divorced? There are huge stresses related to international moves-- financial, personal-- and I think it's important to ask yourself really tough questions. We made it through the experience but it was one of the hardest things we've ever done. We're older, wiser, and ultimately better off for having done it. But I would never do it again.

On safari...

Ok. This is going to be a little bit of a rant. Bear with me. Please keep in mind that 1) I adore my children, 2) I usually manage to keep things in perspective and am extremely good at counting my blessings/looking at the bright side/making lemonade from lemons, etc etc etc. Oh, and big fat number 3: if you do things differently than I do, know that I really do not care how you live your life, I am not sitting in judgment on anyone, I am trying to figure stuff out for myself and my life.

Ahem. Disclaimer over.

Today, as always, I opened my Facebook account to see what was happening in the lives of my friends and family. And one of my friends, a woman who I have had little real contact with in the last, oh, five or six years posted a status update. Some background: she has three young children (all under five, including a young baby) and she has a great job. Anyway. Her status said, "Leaving the kids with hubby and grandparents to go on a ten-day photo safari in Tanzania!!".

And I thought, as I got up from the computer to unload and reload the dishwasher, to fill and empty and refill the washing machine, to start cooking the beans for our burritos and making the tortillas for dinner, all on a gray, dull day in February, as a sick, whiny baby clung to my leg and shrieked each time I moved, I thought: "Tanzania sounds really good right now."

And a blinding realization hit me. I, too, could go to Tanzania. I could! I could quit breastfeeding, find a job, enroll the baby in daycare, have Geo stay before and after school in care and I COULD GO TO TANZANIA. Why should I be chained to the stove, sink, kitchen every bloody day? What's the frigging point? I'm starting to feel like I've been sold a bill of goods. I was told that breastfeeding and cosleeping would mean happy, healthy kids. Kids less likely to get sick (insert hysterical laughter here). What if all this AP parenting is just bullshit? What if it *is* retro, anti-feminist crap to keep us quiet and busy knitting our own underwear while tending our balcony Victory gardens and canning our own food? What if, at age 45, when my kids are teens and hate being around me I'm STILL stuck at home, making healthy meals, doing the goddamn neverending laundry? I so don't want that for myself. I want Tanzania.

So why can't I do it? I look at my littlest son, who is sick, again, for the ten katrillionth time this winter, and my heart hurts. Having a life for myself would mean even when he feels crappy he'd be in daycare. I look at Geo. No calm, fun afternoons playing at the sandbox, he'd be in after-school care. No relaxed Wednesdays, in his pyjamas until noon. There would be few home-cooked meals, weekends would be a whirl of errands that I currently spread out over the week. I'm sure I'd be a more stressed out and therefore less pleasant person for my kids to be around. I think in the long run, my kids would be fine. They would grow up more or less happy and healthy and we'd have a good relationship. And I could go to Tanzania. There are days like today when that doesn't sound so bad to me.

After a five-month hiatus....

I'm back.

It's February. We made it through the first semester of school, through the typical fall stuff (catching every bug that went through Geo's class and which he was kind enough to bring home with him)-- and through some new stuff. I started giving English lessons to kids on Wednesday and to two adults, plus continued editing the magazine and even took on the role of VP Publishing in the Anglophone Parenting association I belong to. I also started blogging for a multicultural parenting website. Oh, and we traveled at Thanksgiving to Germany, which was great.

Then came Christmas with all its craziness (cooking, gifts, cleaning, decorating, etc)-- we had a visitor, my dad, who came for about two weeks. Then P & C came a couple of days after Christmas. Then it was New Year's, then back to school-- then came the Great Sickness. Two weeks of a very sick baby then a very sick big boy. We got past that and it was time to prepare for Mazen's birthday (!!!). My little baby (ok, my not-little-at-all baby) is ONE.

Now it's February. And I'm back. I've missed this blog.