They came in threes

Three things happened today that make me wonder if Jonaca is right, and we should all be drinking bottled water so that we don't turn into planet Earth at the end of Stephen King's short story, "The End of the Whole Mess:"

1. I recycled some noticings from brilliant writer/chef/human JB, and spent far too much time watching Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes. She told me not to look them directly in the eyes, and I think J's right, as I just could not. get. enough. June Carter and Johnny Cash were resurrected in a hippie cult, and they were just singing their unshowered guts out. 

2. LM convinced me to sign up for the Happy 40th Birthday Hello Kitty run. For the t-shirt. And for the hope that we could subversively draw mouths on all the silenced kitty-people. I don't do races anymore unless they send me somewhere unusual and if I don't have to stand in a race pack line. You have not seen frustration until you've seen a Singapore Race Pack Line. And this Hello Kitty (oh my gosh--another cult!) race fits neither criteria. Ack. She better pick up my pack, as it's obvious Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes were clouding my thinking when I said yes.

3. Gus came home speaking of "Baby Big Boy" who dominates the coveted playground ball at recess and is neither boy nor baby. He is older than Gus yet an infant. Baby Big Boy has a mean face and a baby face. And he says, "thank you" when you return the ball to him---but it's in a kind baby voice. Yet he's big. As it's the ONLY shred of information he's provided about his pre-K career, I hung on every word. I know as much as you do, and yes, I will be lurking behind the playground at 9:45 tomorrow to find myself some Baby Big Boy.

Tomorrow I return to work where I'll get a daily dose of IQ. And to be on the safe side, I'll not be looking Baby Big Boy, Hello Kitty, or those Edward Sharpe people directly in the eyes. 

It's Just Great

Returning season is happening better than we expected. Last year I walked straight off the plane and to the ER, and then we had two months of Gus tearfully asking why he didn't live with Grandma and two months of me (tearfully) asking when was I ever going to get to draw, and six months of P not being able to lift his arms, and yet all the while he was having to smile at all of us and mutter, "this too shall pass" about 47 kajillion times while he walked down the street to find sanity at a friend's house where hopefully someone else would open the beer because his arms hurt too badly to do it.

This year, there is less muttering and way fewer tears and someone might even be healed enough for tennis. Hallelujah. We came back to two new jobs for me (and one of them is at home at this desk with lots of colored pencils and books on fonts and freshly typed pages of manuscripts. Wheeeee!) and to this:

We're not convinced he's not incontinent or partially blind or prone to spaniel rage, but in the words of the slow-drawling boiled peanut hawker that MS and I encountered in the Florida Keys thirteen years ago, "I luv 'em. Oh man, with a cold beer, I jus' luv 'em."

I'm not the only one. Gus dresses him as the Boy Wonder, carries him around awkwardly by his esophagus, and is greeted every day off the school bus by some serious tail wagging and irrational joy. There were no sad transition mornings weeping for the farm or rough evenings watching Gus pack a suitcase for a one way trip out of This House That is Not Washington. No, there was a new buddy to pat. And that is just great.

And for those of you that know anything about anything with this family, you'll know that the ultimate test of a dog's mettle is this:

I know. I can't believe it either.

There's so much we can't believe right now. LM returned to Singapore after we left for Europe and she left for North Africa, and now we're both back and in the same condo and meeting to run the same roads as we did years and years ago before a Gus and two continents (not incontinence) and collective home purchases and everyone's boys suddenly getting cheek bones and jawlines. It's just great.

Another friend marvel is that our best Prague neighbors have moved here too, and BB and I wander Chinatown and eat dumplings and talk about writing and books and art and design in the same meandering ways we discussed the same topics on snowy Stromovka mornings, pushing baby Gus in a stroller with croissants and Linzer cookies.

It's just great.

The amazing part is that it really feels like the greatness hasn't fully come, as we haven't had the time we want with our old friends, and I'm still juggling my days off to plan lessons, and we're all feeling our way through new classes and schedules and routines. But the months ahead hold infinite possibility, and Singapore has not always been a harbinger of hope for us. So, we're going to not worry that the dog is ruining the carpets we hand carried from Nepal or that he may have swallowed a Lego or that I'm writing about a dog's bladder when I should be posting art I've crafted. Instead, P gets to practice his ukulele and use his own arms to open doors, while Gus and I dress the dog, and we all sit in the glow of community and healing and potential and far less husband-worrying weeping. I'm going to celebrate the returning season, take a deep breath, and remind myself (often very loudly so that P doesn't start talking to himself or drinking his beer elsewhere) that everything right now feels Just Great.

 

The Goodbye Season

It's that time of year. We say goodbye. We get excited for hellos. We count down days until we're leaving and ignore days until we return. OG's countdown is on two hands. How will we sleep?

This year, I am blessed to say goodbye to someone pretty darn special:

I'm only leaving him for two floors up and a few hallways down, but when you plan daily, teach together often, and pop in and out of each others' classrooms forty times a day, it's a loss. 16 years ago, I was blessed to team with an amazing woman. She raised llamas. She danced at the salmon festival. She taught me about Terry Tempest Williams and Mary Karr and not being so scared all the time. I loved that lady and our accordian wall we'd push to the side so we could face all fifty of those rowdies at once. Since then, I've grieved losing that relationship. And this miraculous year, I had it again. Thanks, Bri.

Brian taught me to let kids see my love of words in all its embarrassing glory. Every birthday, we give each student a poem and read it aloud with gusto. It's not his birthday, but I'm going to read him some William Stafford:

I've never been comfortable with ceremony or spotlight. I don't like to talk about myself. But, I'm learning--slowly--that there's a place for ritual, for honor, and for public moments to celebrate a season. 

And of course, since I can't take anything too seriously without getting red-faced, I'll probably have to come home and make a list of what we'll do ten days from now when we sit on the hill, in Washington State, looking at Mount Cashmere: Legos. Slow Coffee. Legos. Fat Tires. Legos. Hike. Repeat.

Two hands!

Magic Babushka: She's back!

In places I used to live, May was the month where we all started wearing our summer clothes too early. Glaring white legs held firm in shorts and outdoor seating was used even when teeth were chattering. I waited for those lilacs and goldenrods to show themselves, so I could abandon leggings and freeze my way to June.

Not in Singapore. Singapore May is a cooker. It's a cruel month after three uncomfortable ones that's leading right into an even hotter June. It's the end of school, the end of any hope of a bearable cool-ish morning, and the end of deodorant by 9:00am. There are a lot of reasons to be fragile in Singapore Mays: Grade reports need written, dear friends are moving, families are worried about transcripts, students are tired, teachers are tired, people are bracing for six weeks of visiting families they rarely see (and by people---all you dear readers---I don't mean us. We're EMbracing!), and well...everyone is really really hot. Things can get kind of passive aggressive or just outright aggressive at work. I can always rely on one or two truly bonkers days and out-of-character outbursts. I pass out a lot of chocolate macaroons to my co-workers. It's May and it's getting weird.

Last week, I made a slide in my daily slide shows that had a lot of sad pugs on it. It seemed like a good weapon at the time for battling student angst, the heat, and my encroaching feeling of May doom:

The results of my pug warfare have yet to be seen (secretly hoping for a pug in a school uniform to show up in my classroom as the Best Teacher Gift Ever).

This week I tried something new and probably equally unhelpful. Long ago, as a comfort to my strange self, I started doodling Magic Babushka. She's so wise. May needs lots and lots of Magic Babushkas. For a date with two dear friends tomorrow, I have two tucked in my purse with back-up signs for them to hold, proclaiming very encouraging phrases:

I'm learning about Adobe Illustrator as I go, and mostly I'm learning that I don't know much. She started black and white:

And then I played:

If you're thinking that having two of these in my purse is proof of the May Bonkers, then I might concur. However, with any luck, they will laugh...and we will be seated somewhere under the air conditioning.

Roy

Today we had a little bit of amazing.

I called Roy, a friend's delivery guy, to see if he could move some furniture for me. I had two cabinets to pick up at condos of people that were leaving Singapore. Roy seemed a bit confused. He wanted to know how I got his number and was a bit challenging to communicate with. Whatever. Accents on the phone are tough. The only thing that left me wondering was when I asked how much he charged and he said, "I've never done this job. You pay me what you want."

Roy showed up at the first condo all right; they called to confirm.

Roy showed up at the second condo, but my friend texted to say he seemed a bit flustered.

Roy showed up at our house.

His name is Myo Min Kyaw and he just got that phone number a few days ago. He's a foreign worker from Burma who got a random call in the middle of the day on the jobsite from a crazy expat woman calling him Roy and telling him she needed him to pick up furniture for her. He borrowed a lorry, drove all over town for probably the first time, and with a big grin delivered my items. 

The good news is that he seemed happy for the work and understanding of my embarrassment. He even took away our rusted out BBQ to sell for parts. "Roy" was honestly one of the nicest strangers I've ever met. We handed him a Coke, promised him we'd pass on his number, and shook our heads. 

Living the good

When you're not in a space of creating art, you take that season to savor good works of others. I'm learning from her daily practice.

You also take time to be with good people. It doesn't always go so well. Recently I read a book on some exercises to boost dear Gus's development. One of them had him lay in the middle of blanket. Then, I grabbed the four corners to make a bundle of Gus that I was supposed to swing around--stimulating his senses and turning him into an athletic genius. He shrieked like he was on fire and yelled, "I'm not a dumpling, I'm a boy!" For the rest of the evening, and well, at least once a day since, he's asked, "Remember the time you thought I was a dumpling mom? And you didn't know I was a boy?" Sigh.

You also might escape to good places. We're inadvertent jet-setters at this house. Chennai two weeks ago. Bali last weekend for me. And this weekend smart P is keynoting a conference in Hanoi. It sounds glamorous in print, but it's the same as driving four hours anywhere in the US and probably the same price as the cost of the gas. 

You eat good food.We have a new rule: You may not have any food or drink if you're consuming it on the run. If there isn't time to sit and to savor and hold a conversation with your loved ones, then you can just have water. We've been ten minutes later to work sitting with our coffees and a sleepy Gus, but I think we might be more sane.

You make good lists. And the top of the list has art projects. They will come. For now, we read, we talk, we listen. We try not to make Gus shriek. We enjoy what our Southeast Asia life has to offer. 

(I did a good job savoring this breakfast.)

 

 

 

We are back

It has been awhile, but I am back. We've been walking our way through the new year in hopeful steps. This is a season of mantras for us: reminders to be kind, to not take ourselves so seriously, to keep company with the wise, to avoid hot dogs (that Gus sure does like nitrites), and to spend time together doing what we love. I've been feeding my soul with Anne LaMott's newest, with good friends, and with a return to long trail runs. 

And while Chennai doesn't seem to be the best place for the latter, it was perhaps the most spectacular choice possible for everything else. There wasn't a hot dog in sight, and there was soul-feeding by the bucketload. It was a first solo getaway from Singapore for P and me, and it was beyond all expectations.

I like to think that as I get older, I get more tolerant all around. We all have quirks. We all have stories that have shaped us in strange ways. We are all--hopefully--doing the best we can with what we have. That tolerance is tempered with caution, and as my heart and time belongs to P and Gus, I'm grateful for the miracle of friendships where being me seems easy and not embarrassing even despite spans of time and miles. K and G are those rare gifts. And how can we not love people who have THIS waiting for us?

It's been many years since I could just sit and stare out of a tuk tuk at color and people and take time to wonder and not answer the four-millionth "why?" question from a curious G. I love that G. But I also love to stare.

We ate. We watched. We tried not to worry that we were causing a lot of inconvenience asking for kurtas to be unfolded and bedspreads to be opened and block prints to be unwrapped. I came home with treasures.

Time away and time with people that are doing great things in the world gave me hopeful thoughts. And some big ideas burbled. There's good paper in India. There's inspiration. There are places like this one taking on important projects and making stunning things:

It was also hopeful to learn that our adventure selves still exist. There's this reoccurring event that happens in my Southeast Asian travels. I call it the "awkward room." It's happened in Kathmandu and Chiang Mai. In Ubud and Sapa. At some point a stranger--usually a transport driver--leads us up a stairway or through an alley to some chairs and some more strangers. Often there is tea. A couple of times there's been unfortunate homemade whiskey. We have absolutely no idea why we are there. We sit and stare. I smile awkwardly. Someone summons someone else in to show us something. Art. A happy baby. Something carved out of wood. This time it was a French woman, who claimed to be a doctor despite looking 14 (I kept thinking of Dr. Piglet and Dr. Winston from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "Please, we are doctors..."). The youngest-doctor-in-the-world was disheleved, holding a mewing newborn kitten, and talking about tuberculosis. For a long time. She was talking hard and holding that creepy cat. We'd been through the awkward room drill, so we nodded it out, waited for a pause, and excused ourselves. And while usually I like to avoid those moments, this one was really affirming. We were back! We were traveling! Once again we were somewhere and we had absolutely no idea what was going on! Yay!

Back in the oasis of their home, K and G talked printing presses, writing, ashrams, children's books to promote literacy, yoga, third-culture-kids, and more. We caught up on their children, our G, and what is good and hard. We ate paneers and drank homemade gingerale, and watched everyone from women in regal saris to dog-walkers with finicky pugs stroll the Bay of Bengal. 

And, we may have sat in a nice hotel and savored brunch. That's okay too, right?

I've lists of ideas, plans to outline for next year, and possibly a trip to Pondicherry to work out. My heart is full, my Gus was blase about our return (sad and affirming all at once), and it is a hopeful new month in the year of the horse. According to my Chinese calendar predictions, it's the year we dragons should be focusing on writing and paper products (no joke!). Amen!

 

 

Outward thinking

Today we think about positive things that are always true:

Generosity is happening all around us.

Dear friends who have given us more than we can ever return served us a decadent dinner on these placemats in June. I ogled them. And last week, my own set arrived in the mail.

I love Indian block prints with my whole whole heart!

Then I came home to a pile of hand-me-down clothes from the neighbors upstairs. And dear P took dear Gus to the pool this afternoon so I could draw and write and listen to podcasts. And in return, I'm channeling all that love into this card for a generous writer who mentored me this summer. Thank you JL for being so wise and so patient with someone so silly.

People will surprise you. Look for it:

This last week I spent three days on a remote island of Indonesia with 110 fourteen-year-olds on a field trip. Some especially quirky kiddos were amongst us. And as always, the group of people on the planet that gets the worst reputation (those selfish adolescent brats!) were the ones that humbled me the most and restored my faith in the goodness of humans and reminded me to always always always be kinder than you need to be. That said, I slept 13 hours last night to recover.

I have had some stupid weeks being tired and being stretched too thin and being frustrated in the right-now. They are self-inflicted woes, and they are really rather funny and embarrassing when you think on my laments, "Oh, if only I only worked part time but could still afford to keep the nanny...."  The common thread in all self-inflicted woe is looking inward. It's no good, people! Look away!

And so, this week I am trying to look outside of my inner-ridiculousness to a week where I notice what is good and joy-filled and worth emulating. Although, I do worry this will impact my sense of humor since the day I cried because the island had run out of quinoa and consequently panicked that staying here was ruining our health was super duper funny in retrospect. Perhaps another truth we'll live out is, "You can be ridiculous as long as you make fun of it later and don't ever do it again."

It's a long-winded road from guilt-ville

I repost this blog entry with a disclaimer and a wise quote reminded to me by wise JB:

Sometimes I tell the same joke three times in one day to my three classes. When I'm feeling sociological, I like to deliver it identically. I stand in the same spot in the room, and I carefully re-enact it to examine reactions. It is never the same. There's one class that thinks I am hi-larious. Doesn't matter what I say. I'm funny-fun-lady. There's another that either doesn't get the joke or doesn't even realize I'm in the room or has caught on that my jokes are really lame. The third class is hit and miss, and it's a real victory when they chuckle.

My blog posts have a worse ratio. What I think is a real side-splitter more often than not causes others alarm. I think a good rule of thumb is that if something makes you want to reassure me, then I probably meant it to be funny. My sense of humor, as most of my students and one tough-sell of a Gus will agree, is off.

"Everything that happens to you, belongs to you." Anne LaMott. Here is what is happening--and yes, really, I think it is funny:

The past two Augusts, I've convinced myself that only bad mothers go to work. I think about all the scenarios Gus encounters all day that I could help him process, and I tell myself he is turning into a horrible man as a result of my neglect. I start reading Cup of Jo and think wicked thoughts. I perseverate on the value of autumn and tractors and I make myself depressed, slightly insane, and agitated. Gus senses this. He has a weird mother. She smiles too big when he comes in her classroom after school. She hugs him too tight. She asks him, "Was anyone mean today?" and gets too close to his face. She takes the Fisher Price people and role plays potential character building scenarios. "See this farmer, Gus? This farmer is that big kid next door that doesn't pick up his toys from the yard and borrows our playdough but never invites us over to play..."  or  "Noah and his wife here are the bus driver and the bus monitor. When Mrs Noah says buckle your seat belt..." This makes Gus angry. ANGRY. He tells me his feelings. He has a lot of feelings. He draws on things that are not paper. He is as much fun to be around as I am. And of course, I interpret this as the result of me being a working mother, and the cycle beats itself into a wild froth.

I told this all to my running partner, and she just laughed. At first I was mildly offended, but it's possible that's the best reaction any of us could hope for.

I like to look at my Goodreads account in August to take a barometer reading. Parenting Without Fear. They Called Themselves the KKK. Third-Culture Children of Educators. Love and Logic: The Toddler Years. Honestly. That list needs a glass of wine and a don't-take-yourself-so-seriously pill.

Years and years ago my sister said something that she didn't realize would become a refrain in my head for beating me back into sanity. I was having hysterics over something ridiculous and would not calm down. I was crying that something was all my fault: I ruined Christmas, or there was no world peace, or everyone ate too much at Thanksgiving dinner and had stomachaches. She looked at me, with the sensibility and the frankness of an older sister and said, "I've never met anyone so insecure with such an enormous sense of self-importance."

You betcha. She's sitting right here. She's a bad mother with the capability to influence the planet into darkness and ruin. Guilty.

Tonight, I attended Gus's first-ever Back to School Night. Given my book reading and my train to guilt-land, I was in rare form. Both Gus and I had gotten antibiotics that day. I stayed home from work to take him to the doctor. I may have bought some expensive guilt Legos post-doctor-visit that I'm hoping no one in the house mentions. At the start, it seemed like the evening might be normal: It was a lovely group of people who seem to really love their jobs and my child. Gus drew a self portrait that was magnificent:

(He's probably inspired by his super artistic dad who just made something really fab)

But then it happened. The parents were asked to leave behind a self-portrait of themselves drawn in their non-dominant hand. Now, I need to mention that something had already agitated my weak and grace-less mind. I chose a very specific seat, and a group of fairly non-threatening people sat around me. Peace prevailed. Then, out of nowhere, BO lady sat down. I am so glad BO lady made it to her kid's Back to School Night and didn't worry about washing prior, but it really set me off. As a result, my safety net of strangers moved. Couples would walk to my row to sit down and the wives would get a whiff of BO lady and mouth to their husbands, "not here." But there I sat. Alone. Rows empty around me except for BO lady. It got my crazy motor running.

So, the parents are all supposed to be self-portraiting in their weaker hand. I look around and see that virtually every other parent is not following the rules. They are just drawing! They are making happy faces that do not look shaky and awkward! People---drop the crayons! Regrettably, instead of turning on my social filter I loudly proclaimed, "Looks like everyone is choosing not to use their non-dominant hand." No one likes the smarmy lady. No one likes the weirdo that comments on rules. No one likes the self-righteous woman wearing deodorant. I have no idea why I spoke but speak I did and their looks replied more than my ridiculous words. And so I left. I turned, I left, I got in the car and texted Patrick that I'd let the family down. (inflated-sense-of-self-importance-Becky ALMOST texted the teacher to apologize for ruining the evening)

So there I was, a grace-less lady who smelled just fine but was riddled with guilt and social angst and a sinus infection. It was August in full depressive force. And as always, a little magic happened just when I was thinking it was time to make that appointment with HR to break my contract. I walked into a little boy's room who was almost asleep. He rolled over, he didn't tell me he hated me, and he said, "I just need to hear a song about a star, mom." So I sang to his request, and held him tight and prayed over all three feet five inches of him and hoped that he would have character that definitely transcends mine. I thanked God that for now, his self image is pretty darn good (those lashes in the drawing are spot on). He is happy. He is okay. He is not saying rude things in front of other adults like his mother. He is playing every day and learning every day and amazing me every day. He is all right. You could feel the all-rightness in the room even with his emphasymic-seal cough. I left that cozy boy of goodness, took a deep breath, and realized I am just three days until September.

It is going to be okay. And like my running partner wisely modeled----we are all just going to laugh. Especially at ourselves.

It is THAT time

It is that time. That time that is back-to-school and shifting from introvert brain to fake-extrovert brain (I try not to tell people what to do, but read Quiet. You'll understand the human race so much better.). It is the time when Gus's naughties go on over-drive because the adults in his life are busy and distracted. It is the time when everyone gets colds. It is the time when I say things I shouldn't. It is that time.

It is time to make soup!

And soup I made. I resurrected my Czech self and sliced cabbage and garlic and infused that pot with all the immunity boosting goodness of which I know. Celery root was replaced by enoki muchrooms, and I cut and chopped my way back to sanity:

These continue to be tiny times. Tiny times where in the words of Linda Sue Park via Betsy Hall we eke out nine tentative lines a day on our half-baked novel, we breathe deeply, we aim for kindness (because George Saunders changed our lives with this commencement address), and we make soup.

Last post I promised art. And here's what I came up with:

What's awful and hilarious about this stack of almost-in-the-card-business goodness is that there's a misprint on the back of every darn card. If I could learn to speak Mandarin, I might be able to swing this card gig in Singapore. But honestly, I'm not sure that's where my heart is. If what I do every day is what matters, then it's nine lines, scribbles for friends, and lots of chasing sweaty Gus.

It's THAT time.

 

Birthday and bon voyage

In 48 hours, we will be on a plane and grandma-bound. The following five weeks will be hikes and mud pies and raspberries and good microbrews. There will be lots of hugs and slow mornings. I'm excited, and I'm probably tuning out until late July. 

We'll kick off the summer with a birthday shout-out to dear JC. May all her birthday year dreams come true. And may our upcoming flight be toddler-drama-free. Yahoo!

The home stretch

It's the time of year when people start counting days. Thirty-two teaching days. Fifty-one Singapore days. Two public holidays. My Gus is counting fingers to ensure that he's ready when that fourth birthday rolls around. (352 days)

As the end of year approaches and the tidying up begins, our school is taking pictures of teachers for READ posters. My former poster was immortalized by clever L, who toted me on holiday (I wish I could have seen customs' faces when opening her suitcase), to evening bookclubs, and all the way to Starbucks for a post-run latte:

Flat Becky had herself a time. While those Flat Becky pics rank pretty high in the super-nice-things-friends-have-done-for-me files, I detested that poster of me looking wistful and all Manifest Destiny about poetry. This year, I held up a beloved coloring book and got to design my own background. I altered a former doodle from Gus's first birthday:

My sister was kind enough to point out that the title says "Read", and I'm a literature teacher holding a wordless coloring book. 

Ha ha ha.

Never you mind. That happy Coloring Book Becky is gleefully counting down days until she and Flat Becky converge in Ithaca for two nights with their L: 66. We've many missed lattes and long run-talks to make up for.

And at the same time, I'm dreading the June day until I have to say "see you later" to true rocks in my Singapore life---dear G and K. I scribble at night things that make me think on them, and they are piecing together into a wee goodbye gift:

Thankfully, they remain on the same continent and reliant on Nespresso pods. I have volunteered to be their mule, and there will be rendezvous.

I can't wait to get it on the calendar!

Why we continue the conversation

I get giddy when design, digital connections, science, and art intersect. Add NPR to that mix, and I'm a sloppy fool. So, when Radiolab ran a story that led to this blog post that led to this art, I had to share it with all my students and all my teaching buddies and annoy over 70 people.

But the connections are REAL and the world is SMALL and art and writing matters. I want those folks to see that. Case in point: The husband and I spent our two years in Prague packing this book around to pubs and also reading the author's occasional writings on blogs and in the English language newspapers. On Goodreads.com recently, P posted a review. And last week the author wrote to P, thanked him for the review, and sent an advance copy of his next book for P to look over. Wowsers!

Lastly, to keep the conversations going and link lives, a gaggle of colleagues and I are ending our year with an eight week sketchbook swap. So proud of these brave sketchers.

Tiny times

After re-submitting (emphasis on the RE) Aetna reimbursements took three hours of my life, I did two little things that were a lot more satisfying:

1. I read this book. It's Anne LaMott meets Anthony Bourdain (pre-fatherhood) meets Mary Karr's Lit. I can't decide if I'd recommend it or not, but it did make me want to visit St. George's Anglican church. I'm binging on memoir, starting this at the same time as this (the latter is about their friendship and has inspired me to write about my own Sherie V. Her sordid past doesn't include AA, but it does include a bad relationship with Pepsi and many a sketchy afternoon talking officers out of speeding tickets).

2. I scanned this doodle:

Tiny times around here.

Customized Birthday Love

The oxygen is working! I'm a-doodling!

There are many good birthdays this week: Sweet M from Praha, BC's grand 5-0, talented JB of Bergamot Orange, and spunky LD (who we will sorely miss next year).

I want to color this card up differently for all of those fab folks and send it with a personalized name in the blank in the middle.

I'm thinking on custom cards this week. If I were to post my nine-doored cards on Etsy and tailor the images and writing inside to the purchaser, would anyone scoop 'em up? And would it be worth my time? We wonder.

 

When in Rome...one delivers zucchini bread

There's this burn barrel about eight feet from my patio where all of my neighbors burn their Joss paper money from time to time. Oranges and incense crowd around it. It's really interesting and beautiful, and I really don't mind it except when they set that thing alight while my son is busily chalking it up six inches from the roaring flames. Okay, I mind it a lot, as it also leaves a layer of ash on my furniture and stinks up my yard and makes relaxing outside with your wine-filled-with-floaters a little challenging. But, When In Rome. Which is why I should not grouse that I've been the recipient of three condo complaints in three days. One was just from a screaming auntie telling Gus to quit having fun at 1:00 in the afternoon. He was standing in the grass. The other was a nervous security guard having to quiet down my patio for the second time. He backed off when he saw it was just four adults chatting normally at a normal evening hour. But today we got the big, "Three strikes and yer out" lecture when Oscar's chalk art was finally formally reprimanded. We've been told to spread the word, folks. Chalk art---verboten!

So little Banksy and I are having to take our work to shadier places. And honestly, on an island where you can't chew gum, I can actually wrap my brain around the horror of our actions a little bit. A little bit. 

As someone who has spent a lot of her life worrying about how much time she takes in the ATM, or thinking that the car that's honking is absolutely honking at her because she is doing something tragically inconvenient, or going out of her way to never ever cut in line or be late for a meeting or not be fully prepared for any number of documents you might have to present at passport control, I am struggling a wee bit to discern if I've morphed into the ugly American. We do collect a lot of snails. There is a patch of grass that may not grow back due to some digging. Sometimes, sometimes we turn up a song called "Alabama Chicken" very loudly and sing the chorus with gusto. 

All of this coincides with a hilarious English-as-another-language moment with my students. I have these "choices" cards where I read some inane statement and the kids have to make a quick decision. It's supposed to be based on brain research and warm us up for some serious thinkin'. "Would you rather eat a raw egg or a slice of raw bacon?" kind of things. "Would you rather give up your birthday forever or give up your siblings?" They love it. The last one was, "Would you rather be chased by a charging bull or a roaring lion?" And one sweet student, wonderful dear student, got this disgusted look on his face and said, "That's ridiculous. Why would anyone be chased by either of those things?" I tried to cajole him into guessing. I mean, come on, I know it isn't going to happen but neither is the loss of your birthday (unless you chalk art on the mean streets of this condo!). He stared at me, brow furrowed, and finally said, "A roaring lime?" He thought I'd asked if he'd rather be chased by a bowl or a lime. Yes. Yes, that IS a stupid question.

I've been trying to think of how to pose my neighborly dilemma in the "choices" jar later this week. "Would you rather be neighbors with the family that waves and smiles and doesn't make a peep from 9:00pm until 7:00am but that sometimes draws repetitive patterns of squid and octopus on the walking paths and may have been responsible for the snails that crawled in your kitchen window because we lined them up under there when you had them all open and they move far faster than one might expect--OR--would you rather not?

Hm. I guess that is a stupid question too. When in Rome. When in Rome one bakes something really good as an apology. Gus and I have some serious baking to do!

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We also have some baking to do for an upcoming birthday bash. Gus is six weeks from age three, and so I've reserved the poolside for cupcake eating and unorganized preschool mayhem. We ignored his birthday for two years, and he's catching on. Goodie bags, here we come!

PS. Today's video: Killer Snails.

Recycled topic: Living well 101

It's been almost three years of almost:

Almost back in shape.

Almost drawing again.

Almost Skyping all those people I've told I'll Skype.

Almost enjoying long hours building block towers that get knocked down over and over and over and over.

Almost writing.

Almost parenting.

Almost making it home for Christmas without the flu.

Almost maintaining friendships.

Almost sleeping through the night.

Almost hanging all the pictures in the eight months "new" apartment.

Almost figuring it out.

Almost buying a house.

Almost handling that last interaction with grace (before it went tragically south).

Almost learning Czech.

Almost making it through the whole year within my sick day allotment.

Almost attending the 47 dinners I've canceled.

Almost grading all those papers on time.

Almost using "swag" correctly in front of my seventh graders

Almost giving up coffee.

Almost tackling that skin rash.

Almost answering the phone.

Almost finding a new topic for the blog other than the cyclical, "How do I enjoy this cup of life that is handed to me?" one.

As I've alluded to 40 billion times, as someone that read wayyyyy too much Emerson in college, I know that I should take heart in the process of transcending my yucky self, but being on the verge is really unsatistfactory. I'm a lady hankering for a victory. An apex. Two and a half weeks post-sinus-surgery, I have a big ol' infection in my face. I'm thanking God it's not MRSA, but I'm also cartoon kicking the dirt and saying, "shucks!" If you knew how meticulous I have been with self-care, you would think my usual cavelier-about-doctors'-advice-self was taken over in the zombie apocalypse. I have been careful. 

And so I'm mildly defeated over dumb reasons.

I canceled another dinner date.

I came home from the doctor and was a poopy mom and didn't really enjoy setting up the lego train or (worst game of all) pretending there was a bee trying to get us so we hide under a blanket and scream (repeatedly). 

But, I did do something I haven't done in months. Maybe years. I handwrote a letter. I got out paper, and I scribbled a long note to a dear friend and in the slowness of those looping words, I reminded myself about (warning: repetitive blog topic alert!) seasons. We don't get to pick how long some seasons are, but we can wear them well and with kindness to self and others. We can quit fighting them and live them. We can shut up. This season is one of loose ends and loss of muscle tone and holding tight to what is near. Writing it out to her relaxed me enough to think past simply grinning and bearing it (at least for the afternoon), and I was able to react to my day with true delight. Gus was wild, and so he and I sang ourselves through a little Sesame Street therapy after dinner, which I did thoroughly enjoy. Prior to his shower I got out the "washable ink" (a manufacturer's joke) stamp pad, and we made marvelous fingerprint caterpillars and a few deranged handprint turkeys. And as we lay in bed thanking God for his snail collection, his friends, his dad who is admirably building houses in Cambodia with 14-year-olds, and anything covered in chocolate, I was understanding of our now. I wouldn't have chosen all of it. Almost-living isn't best for my personality. I'm disappointed I didn't get to have Nepalese food with a gaggle of interesting people tonight. But I am thankful--very thankful--I got to watch my interesting son shovel in quinoa and tell me the differences between male and female mosquitos.

Madeleine L'Engle wrote often of the necessity for "being time." The time where we walk alone, where we sit alone, where we write for ourselves, where we let our brains relax a bit so we can tackle the routines before us without animosity. I am so ridonkulously stupid that I forget it. And I waddle through days in my Almost-fog and forget to live. And to be fair, how is one supposed to feel excited about that dreadful bee game when a truly disgusting situation is going on in her newly remodeled nose? Being time PLUS giving ourselves a big fat break seems a fair balance for sanity and the ability to recognize the good in life.

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I took some being time last week while I mended to celebrate a birthday of a new friend. She doesn't resent my 5:00am texts canceling our jogs, understands why I didn't show up to the dance party, and she also eats frosting-laden cupcakes, so I like her very much:

I also bought these confectionery shaped erasers. They've totally amped up tea parties around here:

PS. It's question list time in my class! Man, is THIS a season that's easy for me to savor. My list wonders what adenoids do, what YOLO means (yes, I finally looked it up), the reasoning behind the mango shortage during Chinese New Year, why they all laugh at me when I say "swag", whether or not I can eat my lucky Mandarin oranges, how they pick a new Pope, what the US's involvement in WWI was, tenable methods for deterring a large asteroid from striking the Earth, what was the Marconi scandal, and does Chapstick really create a dependence on lip balm. Good times.

 

Story telling

I've been thinking a lot about story lately. Dear friends were discussing a family phrase for recentering worrying in their house, "Is that the truth, or is that a story you're telling yourself?" It's a good barometer reading for self-imposed-suffering.

Since Deborah Wiles worked with my students (see yesterday's post), I've been thinking on how story tells the truth, even when what you're writing is fiction. It's helping me frame some of my own stories and giving me license to write. It's also providing a more compassionate lens.

(thank you for DW)

When P and I were recovering after the tsunami, we had our stories taken from us by two different people. One journalist published an email we didn't want seen and another author lifted quotes by P and used them in painful, derogatory ways in widely-read angry diatribes. Those violations made me quit talking and question my own reliability and experience. This week, an 8th grade student was doing a research project on the tsunami of 2004 in order to write a short story for her language arts class. She found one of those "shocking but true" books that tells tales of brushes with death. And of all the stories, in that book was the tale of the family that P helped rescue eight years ago. But, P wasn't in the tale. They shared an entirely different story with an entirely different hero. At first I was enraged. For the third time we were absent from our own life-changing experience. But then I thought about what Debbie Wiles taught us, and I stepped back. That story was what that family experienced. They were panicked--like us. They were in survival mode--like us. What they wrote is what they felt, hoped for, and lived through---even if it didn't really happen. Who am I to say I'm the reliable eye-witness? I spent enough years teaching social studies to know that no account is to be trusted when we examine history. Include me in it. I'm sad we're not in the story in the book, but it's only for petty reasons. Mostly, I'm happy that family had a shared narrative that leaves them stronger and that gives their children scaffolding for making sense of something very hard and scary. I'm grateful for story, and it's not mine to judge if it's fiction or not. 

That's all sort of heavy and weary-making, so I'll think about this: Today, while I continued to recover in bed, Gus brought me a coconut he picked up on his walk home from school. Things like that make me really dig Singapore. We shook it together, heard the milk slosh around and made plans to smash it open when his dad gets home. In Gus's story, he knows that you can't stand under trees laden with coconuts or one could fall. He also knows that there are different kinds, and we usually only drink from the green ones the street vendors hack into with machetes and poke with bendy straws. He knows every snail in his yard by family order ("that's the littlest brother and the almost biggest sister"), and he also remembers not to touch milipedes or yellow fuzzy caterpillars. The sting is outrageous. Yesterday, a green snake (mildly venemous) climbed the trees in our yard and got into a second story apartment. Gus knows that snakes are dangerous and that we run and get help when we see one. The condo "uncle" who caught it, also told Gus tales of a python he caught on the eighth story last year. Gus is learning his natural world even in a city of five million people, and he is creating memories that I had. Mine featured large mouth bass, ducks, and sunfish. I picked lilacs and goldenrod and not tropical fruit. The parrots in the trees we see here would have only existed at the zoo. When we moved overseas, I worried that we'd lose our footing with nature. Thankfully--hallelujah-- nothing has been lost: the storyline is the same, the elements have just altered. That gives me great joy.

So does smashing coconuts. 

Virtual Holiday Letter

We didn't write our annual Christmas letter this year. Our card (this photo--spoiler alert) just lists our blogs, as we're not very coherant (this post will attest to that in every regard) right now. Thoughts are scattered. What's interesting to us is universally mundane. We chuckled a little bit about what we'd even say: "Um, we are humbled at every turn?" "We moved, foolishly thinking it would be easy and are still trying to catch our breaths?" "We gained ten pounds?" "We spend our free time re-catching Gus's surprisingly speedy snail collection?" 

The skinny is that things are good. Just plain good. And there's a lot of learning--tiny learnings--but good learnings, nonetheless. They may say it all (though not as cleverly as P's holiday letters):

• Gus snacks regularly on Char Siew Pau, rice noodles, mango lassis, and dried seaweed. He avoids vegetables of any cuisine, french fries, chicken nuggets, or potato chips.


• Two years in Prague were long enough to make some life-long, much-missed friends and permanent cultural connections. It's been a happy return to our former lives here, but we're sorely missing our recent lives there.


• We can survive a snake in the house. Barely.


• Gus is allergic to all brands and all forms of sunscreen (Thanks to reoccurring rashes, he now has a phobia to boot).


• An extra million people in a country the size of Whatcom County is noticeable.


• Bike paths DO exist and are getting better every day (good job, Singapore!).


• Gus digs the water. He swims. He dives. He repeats.


• If you want to sleep well at night, don't think about how much the cheese you just bought would cost in another country.


• One doesn't seem to get as many spontaneous airline upgrades with a toddler in tow.


• Carve your Halloween pumpkins on the 31st to ensure that they survive the humid evening.


• If you want your son to be outgoing and friendly, you cannot be the wallflower at every party (sighhhhh).


• The wild pig population appears to have doubled on the island. Beware on dark morning runs and rides.


• For now, trips to the beach rather than adventurous backpacking expeditions are refreshingly all right.


• Good libraries do a lot for this family's happiness factor. We heart you, SAS libraries.


• Driving on the left side of the road just comes right back to you. And after a few months of practicing, reciprocated patience, and several close calls, we CAN reverse the car into parking spots with ease.


• The world is small and grand folks abound on all continents.

Some of those grand folks on an adventure race in Krabi, Thailand. And one of the many reasons I was humbled this year (hoooooo boy...not quite up to pace with the old running crew)

A happy puddle-jumper.

My two best friends mid-MOvember. See P's FB page for a too-cute-for-my-blog shaving video. 

Our legacy of tragically awkward couple shots continues. We just don't have "act casual" in us. Soon after, the photograper gave up.

MERRY CHRISTMAS and happy, happy holidays. Wishing you and yours a wonderful new year with good people, good learnings, and good times. Please buy a big ol' block of cheddar cheese for us and savor that it's not a billion dollars. May joy abound.

Singapore Season

'Tis the season.

P is back from a week in Boston (he says we'll live there someday) with treats:

Grand treats.

When he is away, I don't sleep great, so I sometimes have midnight drawing bursts. And in the words of Gus, the Christmas cards are "Over!" A sneak peeK:

I attended a few holiday parties. Thankfully, I have good friends willing to be my dates at all of 'em. It looks like I'm particularly merry, but the truth is, I'm just relieved to not have to walk in that restaurant alone.

It's so good to have P back. The stockings are hung, the tree is trimmed, Gus requests the same Christmas book every night, and it's the second Saturday of Advent.

These pre-Christmas weekends are sacred. We slow down. We light our Advent candles. We take walks. It's a sweaty holiday season on the equator this year, but it almost makes it more special to have to fight against the external forces that try and tell you it's not Christmas. It is Christmas, indeed. And I'm so happy to have both boys home for our celebrating--even if we're hunting lizards rather than throwing snowballs.