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.

 

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.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

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. 

Breathing soon

We've been having a quiet time that has felt very noisy.

P and I, ever list makers, have been feeling overwhelmed with lack of lists and Groundhog Day-ish surviving. Even after long post-holiday peptalks where we informed ourselves we were not too tired to be creative, we are still working our way through evenings of season two of NCIS when we could be scribbling. And darn that Downton Abbey. It's simply no good. 

We're doing things. We work. We send a lot of house-buying emails. We have mandatory daily walks. We play with that wild Gus, and we changed four light bulbs on Tuesday. I had the rich pleasure of co-teaching (That's a lie. She did it all.) for three days in my classroom with Deborah Wiles, who reminded my students that they are not invisible voices and that our stories matter. I cried happy tears every day she was there. I've rushed through fleeting art moments. For his 37th birthday, P got a card I was too lazy to scan with a Carole King quote that did not look quite as sappy when I drew it in blue ink: "Funny how I feel, more myself with you, than anyone else that I ever knew..." He also got a from-scratch red velvet cake that stretched for five whole days.

I even sketched a collection of logo ideas (View this photo) for a friend that is doing admirable jewelry work. What's your vote?

And yesterday, I got my sinuses surgerized. My face feels like I should have ducked a little lower during that last shot, but I'm told my life will change. The new B will get so much oxygen to her brain that she'll only need four hours of sleep and will finally produce that novel. Or at least she'll make a list or two. On that list will be, "embarrassing hospital stories." They will include the doctor in Prague that ate his lunch in front of me while I sat pantless polietly listening to his diagnosis on a very cold chair. They will also include Wednesday's nurse, a lovely woman who apparently is from a far more conservative culture than mine, who had never heard of a tampon and caused me to have to explain what it was in front of six patients and several shy hospital staff. 

I will also have a list entitled, "community building 2013." We've had the rare rare rare Singapore opportunities lately to make people meals (gasp), walk their dog (wow), and send get well cards. In our insulated society of (for whom we are much grateful) domestic employees, you rarely get to open someone's refrigerator and get yourself a glass of water. To get to deliver the soup to the table is the community we crave, and I'm so happy the C family let us in this week. (I'm also embarrassed that it's all it takes). That same week, we found ourselves at 8:30pm getting in trouble from the condo security because an impromptu happy hour led to a dozen children drawing with chalk on the sidewalk (against the condo rules!) and playing fabulous rowdy games in the yard too loudly. It was such a welcome scolding to have enough kiddos around us that we could make a wild ruckus on a weekend night not from the adults on the patio but from the sweaty toddlers to teens in the yard. My biggest prayers when we moved here were that Gus would be loved by others and that there would be dirt in which to dig. He is hugged, and he is filthy. Praise God. To all my Singapore friends, you can look in my laundry basket anytime. Please, let's see one another's mess.

And man, once that oxygen starts flowing, who knows what creative genius will strike. Look out kids, chalk masterpieces are ahead!

Behaving and transcending

Oy. The guilt.

There was a recent no food/cold medicine/glass (okay, maybe two) of wine incident. We knew we shouldn't go to the party, as we were really sick. But we have these issues with morality and it seemed better to take the Sudafed and go to the wine tasting than to cancel on the nice people hosting it. We did not pick the best option and yes, I have fielded phone calls from folks laden with embarrassing recollections.

I learned, on the same day, at the doctor's office for said sickness, that I am infecting my family. He told me that I am a carrier of deep infection and that every time my husband and son get sick, it is all my fault. Actually, he said it twice, much more slowly the second time, to let the burden of this sink in. 

I believe that guilt is not from God. But I also believe in behaving. I don't know much about parenting, but from what I can tell from those around me, what I DO has a lot more power than what I SAY. This boy needs to see his mama loving unabashedly and seeking understanding. I had a dream today that I was in Nepal with super-smart Betsy and Rebecca (who I'm trying to woo into blogging with me). We were told we could not buy a rug we wanted unless we found a "transcendent guest house" (this was said to us by Sam Elliot in a Bhutanese goh...have I mentioned I'm on a lot of cold medicine?). We kept looking in guest houses and asking, "is this one transcendent?" Perhaps that will be my new message to myself as I make choices. Is what I'm doing trasnscendent? Rebecca often asks me to ask myself, "How is this helping right now?" It's a good barometer reading. When that second glass was poured, I might should've asked myself, "Now, just how is this helping? And specifically, how is it helping little Gus?" 

November is the month of gratitude. But for me, it may be the month of gratefully behaving. Starting tomorrow, I will floss twice daily, not eat so many salty pretzels, and be thankful for the folks that keep me on the straight and narrow. When Gus tells me that someone is a grouch (as he is prone to report--and with accuracy), I will not concur, I will instead ask questions that lead us to understand why someone might be grouchy. I will help us both transcend.

And I will stay home when medicated.

For your own transcendence, you might want to peek at this (how does a person pick which book is more amazing?). You could also read this, which is one of the sweetest little young adult novels I've read in a long, long time. Lastly, you could enjoy this:

Here's what matters about these leggy ladies. One of those girls finished a 50km running race lately. Two of them did a 60km adventure race a couple weeks ago in wicked-fast time. All of them are stellar and competitve athletes with enviable ab muscles. I don't know what they were thinking when they asked me to join their team, knowing I'm one kid and three years of training behind everyone. I couldn't do it. I was slow. I walked when I should have ran. I was winded and wincing and yet they committed themselves to doing every step of the race by my side. Even when one of the organizers swore at us and said, "Well, you're not dead--bleeping--last, but you're pretty-bleeping-close to it" as we came through a check point VERY late in the day, they kept laughing, holding my hand, and cheering me on. I asked one of the girls at the end, while gasping for breath, "Was it hard for you?" she looked up, pursed her lips and said, "Umm...I mean I kinda feel like I had a workout..." What she meant was, "Um, that was a fun little stroll through the woods with my grandma..."

I'm not even thinking about feeling guilty for their love (well...). Part of transcendence is accepting help. And being grateful. THANKS, ladies.

 

 

We Learn

We occasionally learn things around here.

We learn that carved pumpkins in the tropics have a shelf life of about 48 hours. Sorry, Gus!

We learn that sometimes you have to regress to go forward. And since we are in bleak creative times these days, we thought back to when time was endless and the juices were flowing. So, we decorated our study as if we were still in college:

We learn that the toddler will live, despite taking the cap off the Dimetapp Allergy medicine and helping himself to a swig.

We learn that after a six month hiatus, EVERY family member will heartily eat lentils again. And when all the other parents tell you to quit worrying and things change, they are RIGHT.

We learn that we are a family that needs naps and quiet and downtime. And that's probably why we haven't invited you over.

We learn that community takes many forms. It's a group of women waiting for Slow You on an adventure race they could have easily won. It's a neighbor letting you help with the weekend chauffeuring. It's nice friends of your husband talking books with you while you shape playdoh for a loud two-year-old at the kitchen table.

In this November month of thankfulness, we are grateful for our little learnings.

 

Today kicks off a month of clean livin'

P and I are list makers: Books we want to read, trails to hike, future travels, future lists, before-we-dies, things to organize, things to throw away, things to teach Gus to ensure he is a genius. We like our lists. We also like challenges: Feats of strength. Feats of patience. Raising a toddler.

The Lenten season is upon us, and a few podcasts, blogs, and TedTalks have brought inspiration. Because we're not up to THAT big of a challenge, we're taking Lent in 30, and we're attempting what we're calling, "30 days of clean livin'". We made lists of the things we want to avoid and the things we want to add and the things we want to alter to be the best us-s we can be. Our plans aren't identical, but in general you'll find us flossing and yoga-ing and gargling salt water and keeping gratitude journals and taking our vitamins. There's no Facebook and no gossip and no refined sugars and no meat. It's not all austerity. There are allotted units of caffiene and alcohol. There is cheese. There are things to look forward to like family Sundays and mandatory naps. But there's absolutely no peeking at PopSugar, no matter how much you want to see what someone wore to the Oscars.

I share our folly not to boast but because we're weak, weak people. We're not sure we'll do it if we don't tell. And to keep us as honest as possible, we've traded lists and risked some cash. If I break a rule, P gets all my March fun-money (and if you know how strictly we budget these days, you'll know that these are some special pennies). I just know he's going to spend it on INXS CDs or some sort of WWF t-shirt, and that will slay me. I cannot cave!

And when the days are up and success is achieved, our reward is enlightenment. Ha! Whatever. Our reward is probably a pork knuckle at the local pub. But at least we'll be able to reflect on what we missed and what we didn't. And analyze energy levels and moods and have a baseline for moving forward. Being somewhat "older" parents of a crazy toddler has made us think a bit (desperately) on health and energy and keeping up with a tiny. So, here's hoping this helps.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As a final meaty meal, we savored something glorious. Chef Ruth, who also once lived in Singapore, voluntarily came over and cooked us (shlepped a rice cooker, chickens, and more across town...that Ruth is amazing)--cooked us in our very own kitchen--a Hainanese Chicken Rice lunch (who does that?). It was gorgeous. The chili sauce was her own and garlic and ginger were used in abundance. To top it off, there was rojak with homemade yu tiao. Every bite of every thing was beautiful and fragrant and demanded seconds. She used the chicken rice recipe in the link, and it was spot on. Thank you, Ruth.

Hallelujahing and Hiding

It's all hallelujahs and hiding spinach around here. Almost 11 months ago, I found myself unable to get out of bed or pick up my baby or hold a cup of coffee. A pesky joint disease altered life for this family. Altered it a lot. It hit when I was finally gaining a little confidence after a bucketload of bewildering newness: We'd kept the baby alive for nearly a year and survived our first months on a new continent. I was back clocking happy kilometers on long runs, and our first winter in seven years--a long and gray one--was starting to lift. It was a cruel time to find myself abruptly bed-ridden, and I let that disease knock the hope right out of me.

But I've got good peeps and Grace and This Too Shall Pass. And it did. It's not the same body; there are joints that will never quit growling, but I can move. Hallelujah, I can move! Today marked a milestone of moving---18 glorious kilometers through Praha with a dear friend. It was hard, but it was beautiful, and I never ever ever thought it possible. I am one grateful girl.

Tomorrow will be Advil and ice and spinach muffins. That's right. I'll take this poor transition from what really is an awfully Big Deal to explain that I obsess over iron intake, and so we've been eating Rebar's Broccoli Soup (take the time to make a pesto to swirl in, toss in some steamed florets and you will never ever ever make any other creamed brocolli soup--or possibly any other soup at all. You'll find the bare bones of it here.), which should really be called spinach soup, and finding other creative uses for the green stuff.

The boys have no idea there is wilted spinach in these delish carrot muffins. 

And tomorrow's fruit smoothies.

Bad photography aside, you have no idea how happy this all makes me. 

A door opened this week

Gus and I have been walking Stromovka as often as we can. The ice is creeping across the lake and the ducks are huddling in the corners; frosty mornings are now the norm. We have to savor these mornings of silvered trees because they will soon end. Winter will of course linger until May, but after that it could be quite a stretch of hot, welcome years.

Yesterday, P and I accepted jobs back in Singapore. I haven't found my footing yet as to how to explain this to people. There is no short answer. We like it here. We could love it here. I'd return to Prague. There's of course the hassle of snowsuits and cold hands and lost mittens and gray days. But that's not reason to go. And that's what I try to explain to people---there's not reason to leave except that Singapore offers us something that not many other places can in the toddler years of our lives. It offers us festivals and colors and diversity. It offers us monkeys and jungle walks and 365 days a year where we can go outside (granted, often in suffocating heat). It offers us Cambodia and service and travel to places to see things that Gus isn't old enough yet to complain about. I think I better take advantage of the fact that he's too young to gripe about the tuk-tuks and the holidays to places where all we do is wander and not a tv screen is to be found. And then there are the professional gains. And the hope of medical gains. BUT. There is the loss of Prague, and that is a large loss. We chose Europe not as parents and moved here as new ones. We had no idea how parenting would impact where we wanted to work and live (I know. I know. We're the dumbest people on the planet. Believe me. I KNOW.) When Gus is old enough to let me finish my coffee in a cafe or bike beside me on a river path, I'd really like to return. He and I will rip up the trails and sample every offering in the pastry shops. I can't wait.

In the meantime, we'll savor Stromovka and snowfalls and holiday markets and hot candied almonds. We'll get cocoa at every farmer's market and laugh our way through layering up to head outside. 

------------------------

This month's sketchbook entry had to be hurried-up since G and I are off to visit the beloved grandparents soon and won't be at the drawing table. The theme of this book was "colors" and I was given black. I sketched up some nocturnal animals hidden behind inked doors. Doors seemed appropriate in this season of Advent. Man, I really love things with doors.

Happy to have been and happy to be back

We are back from lands of chocolate, cheese, hiking trails, and really great people. A weeklong road trip to Munich and Zurich proved to be exactly what this family needed to gain a little clarity and lose a little Euro (Take note travellers, it's not just Switzerland that requires a toll sticker. The Austrian fine is hefty!).

(fondue--followed by chocolate--with the lovely Rops)

Gus was a champ, sleeping like he'd never slept before and recovering from bronchitis in unfamiliar places. He mooed at Swiss cows and marveled at German forests. Our hosts were all amazing and our weight gains evident. What a great trip.

And now we're back and sorting out some big decisions with lighter hearts and darker German beers. Life is good in Prague. Fall has settled in with freezing temperatures, and homemade soup was on last night's menu. This is a season to savor.

I got a little gutsy and posted some designs to sell, but it's mostly to avoid over or under printing. I'm still not comfortable with seeing doodles in print, but maybe this will all work out. We'll see. In the meantime, I've got a sketchbook project this week and three amazing birthdays to celebrate (Steelie Dan, Bekah, and Annika--Woop woop!). With only six weeks left in the CZ before Oscar and I take full advantage of all the love Grandma and Grampa have to offer, we're living it up!

 

Blue skies smiling at me

I am getting over myself! As humbly happens, I recently went on a tirade about folks taking themseles too seriously. And then, heh heh heh, the same week I got all serious. Amy Carmichael wrote that we need to keep our spiritual "atmosphere" clear. If we allow even a "fugitive wisp of a cloud float across our sky"--that is, a wish for things to be different--then we create an overcast spirit.

Don't I know it.

I re-entered Praha with more than my fair shares of wishes. There were colds all around and a bee sting of gigantic (you've never seen cankles like this one) proportions. There have been cold rainy days and outings in August in-gasp-sweaters. Wily Gus has been frustrated with his boring old parents and longing along with us for his out-of-this-world grandparents in very loud and parenting-skill-testing ways. We're on doctor's visit number three. Already. This house has rattled and shook with wishes, and I've felt the result of that stinking thinking in an overcast heart.

But, no more gosh darn it! How can one hope for otherness when one has so much goodness? I take note:

1. A kinder-than-he-needs-to-be Tony M gave me a completely random and treasured gift of DELECTABLE Delirium Tremens. I can count the bottles of the golden Belgian awesomeness I've been privvy to enjoy in my life on one hand. At 8.5% that's probably enough for a lifetime. Get thee to a specialty bottle shop and buy your own pink elephant.

2. The farmers' market is back in action. There has been blue cheese walnut sauce on fresh tagliatelle pasta and berry filled dumplings and organic carrot carrot cake and farm fresh egg and veggie quiche on our table.

3. We've brunched and happy houred and biked and brewery toured and walked and dined and breakfasted and Skyped and coffeed and teaed and desserted and jogged and baby grouped with good folks. Today's gathering honored a special guest who leaves our Old MacDonald refrains for the big kids at skola. Gus will miss his musical pal Dee-Dee.

Worried about the toothpaste decorating the cake? (famers' market carrots carrot cake!)

4. I've returned to the drawing table with commission pieces and celebration doodles.

 
5. There are library books newly checked-out, hand-me-down dresses acquired, new babies born, road trips planned, awfully nice neighbors relied upon (perhaps no longer with prepositions hanging out there like that), and Desigual sales attended.

Blue skies!

 

 

 

Today's List

I ate nearly an entire head of cauliflower. (Thanks a lot for the recipe, Kaye Syrah. I'll let you know what happens to a girl who eats this much cauli in one sitting.) 

I played at the park with three very lovely women and their energetic children.

I hugged a new neighbor and waved at a friendly landlord.

I CALLED my son to lunch because he was playing BY HIMSELF.

I texted the US for free. 

I read an article on healthy eating that has me all fired up about low fat products.

I spent less than a buck on two gorgeous bunches of fresh basil and made it into almond pesto.

I doodled a gaudy little thank you card that does not come anywhere close to thanking the people that need to be thanked.

And I woke up before Gus did.

Praha is looking up.