Book club

Gus and I are taking a stab at literary criticism. We're loving it. I'm on a mock committee for a picture book award, and it's made for lively evenings at home. Each afternoon I lug home a stack of books, read them to Gus (three or four times minimum), and then let him select his favorite. I'm learning that he has soft spots for onomatopoeia, dinosaurs, and ice-cream cones. Authors and illustrators: take note.

My favorites usually incorporate quilts, woodcuts, and clever borders. Mooshka: A Quilt Story a is high on my list of favs (that Julie Paschkis is amazing) followed by Squid and Octopus: Friends for Always. I really love Extra Yarn for the gorgeous and clever illustrations and knitting related storyline, but I honestly was not smart enough for the ending. And Gus and I read it eight times.

These are our evenings: Small, wordy, artsy, and book-fueled. We're not complaining.

Help them, help them, help them

This weekend has been pretty horrible for many of our nearest and dearest. Our Skype line has been ringing, and our phones need charging. Things are rough. From my dear-hearts in Tunis to friends-that-are-family in the states, there are a lot of folks dealing with some of the worst that life has to throw at them. 

And then there's Gus. Gus, the great refiner, has a way of boiling life down to what is truly sacred. He's taken to spontaneous prayer these days, and while I'd like to say he learned it by example, I honestly think the kid just has it in him. He stops throughout the day and says, "I need to pray." The prayer is pretty simple: he's thankful for his friends, his relatives, and his household. They are hollered out in a list of names that end with an emphatic, "Amen!" This weekend, as I did my best to holler up my own lists of friends, it struck me how sincere that dude is. He really does love those folks that give him pause. He's truly thankful. He's in the midst of playing and he thinks on them and unabashedly shouts out his affection. I could learn a little bit from his joyful thanks and his frequent remembering.

So here's a shout out beloved Tunisian friends and dear Birch Bayers. I love you big, I'm thankful for you, I'm pleading for hope and happy answers to fill your days, and I'm offering up a "help them help them help them" in true Anne LaMott style on your behalfs whenever you cross my mind. And you cross my mind an awful lot. 

The spiritual leader not only supports prayer, but he also supports public fountain crashing.

Overdoing it

Sometimes, a lot of times, I overuse words. And I think the overused words of any given season are a sign of my mental state. Right now I have to work hard not to say, "billion", "tragic," and "spectacular". That's because I'm wired way high and everything feels big and out of proportion and BILLIONS of things are happening and some of them are SPECTACULAR and too many are also TRAGIC. But plenty of them are also mundane and dumb and truly no big deal. And maybe that's why it's been weeks since I was able to think about writing, or maybe it's because there's too much to write, or perhaps it's because the times-are-a-changin' and a new blog is brewing or new something is brewing or it's time to break up or whatever. 

So here's a few of the  random billion, spectacular and tragic things I know:

1. David Rakoff died this week. His writing and his voice impacted my life and made me laugh and think and want to grow as a writer. His passing is sad.

2. I've had 47 (billion) hilarious cultural encounters that remind me why I both adore Singapore and audibly groan so often. It's good. And tiring. Today, at 9:13am, I found myself in my bikini at the zoo shouting into my phone because the splash pad was 13 minutes late turning on. "Hello sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but the waterpark sign says it opens at 9:00, but it's not working." "What? You are working?" "No, sir, I'd like the splash pad to be working." "Who is working at the splash pad?" (17 more exchanges until my Singlish kicked in). "On the splash pad, can?" "Oh, sorry, ma'am! We'll send someone right over to on the splash pad."

3. Gus is fine. I go to work, and he's fine. Part of me would like to be a little more important and part of me is really relieved.

4. Our daily routines involve swimming pools, talking to the neighbor's cockatoo, chasing geckos, eating dried mango, and begging for more fried dumplings. Gus is friends with a dog named Cookie, devoted to a kindly uncle who manages the condo security office, smitten with his nanny, and entertained by about two dozen older kids in our condo. Singapore is grand when you are two.

5. I am fighting to keep my design brain churning. It's tough. My IQ has dropped pretty significantly since I last taught language arts, so I'm working right now to just make sure my students don't get any dumber. Once I master that, I'll think about art and writing and where I'm headed. For now, all I've produced is a Babushka fairy to grant me my every wish during this first week with a class full of kiddos:

6. I nearly alienated my family by being completely insane during my first two weeks of work. It was the first time I'd ever had a sniff of mother's guilt and woweeee! Powerful stuff! I drove Gus nuts with my list of (a billion) things to do when I came home every day. In a span of 90 minutes I'd have managed to drive us both to tears with alphabet time, number time, outdoor time, ball time, bike time, singing time, art time, etc. etc. etc. Yesterday I rushed home early to be with him and took note that as soon as he saw me he barricaded himself in his room and shouted through the closed door, "I'd just like a little time with my tractors!" Hm. When the two-year-old is able to articulate that you are smothering him, it's time to take stock. 

So. I'm missing my quiet Prague life and loving the buzz of Singapore. We're settling into our life of contrasts and working towards a balance that is neither spectacular nor tragic but is just right where we're supposed to be. We'll give that time and we'll heed Gus's wisdom to just slow down and relax and retreat to the things we love. 

Savoring 'til Tuesday

You know you're on the Green family ranch when you overhear your husband and his brother dreaming on future property purchases and they contemplate, "But can you legally drive a four-wheeler to mom and dad's house from there?" 

We are four-wheeling folks here. And fresh-picked apricot, cherry, and raspberry folks. Don't even talk to us about dessert. One day I ate Grandma Green's huckleberry cobbler for every meal. We are fruit-rich and savoring four more sleeps and our pick of three friends' swimming pools to beat the nearly 100 degree heat. Life is grand.

I don't think about the Tuesday morning fly-out. I think about Gus's sweet cousins (one just a week new) and the quail babies that have grown up since our arrival. I think about the mama deer at the top of the hill I hike every day, the Tour de France updates Grandpa gives me every morning, and the local Chardonnay in the refrigerator. This is a place where sitting and watching the mountain is mandatory and morning coffee on the deck can stretch into lunchtime (assuming the restless toddlers haven't hijacked the dog and gone lizard hunting by then).

(a typical morning on the job site)

(a farmboy, his dog, and both of their enormous feet)

It's understandable why being in four-wheeling range is so imporant. 

In-Between

Gus and I are celebrating one month in the loveliest of limbos today. We left Praha behind (and apparently this blog) for the mountain views, mud puddles, tractors, sprinklers, sandboxes, lakes, good dogs, small town parades, snakes, fresh picked raspberries, Mexican food, hikes, and overall amazingness of many good Grandmas and Grampas. If you are under the age of three, clothing is optional and you've probably added the phrase M & Ms to your vocabulary as well as an inch and or two to your height. Gus has had his first dental appointment (Success and smiles thanks to the best dentists on the planet), chicken nuggets, fish-catching, bear-sighting, and fire truck ride. Life is good in the Wenatchee Valley.

P arrived a few days ago, and the fun factor has only increased. We are tan and can't find our shoes. There are Northwest microbrews in the fridge and neighbors with warm swimming pools. Our family can't be beat, and baby M is one day away from being overdue. Goodness abounds.

It's not just little M that's on the horizon, it's Singapore too. I usually want time to slow down here at the ranch, but this year I'm torn. We've landed a condo we long coveted and that was long occupied by some of the very best folks we know, so good juju fills those walls and good living awaits. I am anxious to move my boys into it, to show Gus the geckos that will share our home, and to take him to all of our favorite haunts. There is so much for him to eat and see and so few days before I'm no longer a stay-at-home mom. I'm trying to savor here and ready myself for savoring there. It's an odd balance.

But it's been an odd balance from the start--leaving dear friends in Prague and settling in to a few weeks of dear friends and family in the states and moving on to dear friends and colleagues in Singapore. At the playground, moms I meet ask where I live, and the answer is so complicated their eyes just glaze over and they shuffle their kids over to the slide and away from the awkward lady. I can't blame them. 

I always wonder if we're doing the right thing during these times of transition, and this morning, at one of my less-awkward playground gatherings, a friend of P's quizzed us on overseas life. He and his family are teachers and contemplating a similar leap, and as we talked, P and I both got more animated and more excited. On the car ride home we enjoyed the buzz of knowing that whether in Singapore or Washington, we're doing what we love.

There is so much to love:

Lake Wenatchee. Sigh.

My attempt at Czech pickled hermelin.

Lucky, lucky boy.

 

Working through the last of Prague

There is more being doodled:

There are boxes being packed and refrigerators emptied. Dinners are lentil-heavy and lunches feature a lot of almond butter and brown rice cakes in the name of empyting the pantry. But this fiber is good (anyone need dried beans? come on by) because a recent goodbye-pub-crawl featured two kinds of outrageously stinky cheese, fried eggs on deep-fried toast, pickled camembert, steak tartare, and beef tongue. I really hope our cholesterol levels can hold on until our flight. 

I can't believe it!

If you visit me, here is what might happen: You will be jet-lagged and dehydrated. You will just want to rest and email and stare out the window at your new surroundings. But I will trap you in my living room and do a show and tell of all the odds and ends of fabric I've been saving. There will be a mountain at your feet: "This here is a tablecloth with a burn mark in it..." "This smelly thing we got at a market in a village somewhere, and we've never been able to get the stink out..." "This fragment that's disintegrating was a table runner that I really liked..." "You can't wash this due to the indigo, but man I love it..." I will heap piles at your feet. And then I will tell you, "And I'd like you to make me functional, washable, pocketed-skirts out of all of this nonsense. So instead of buying souvenirs, please fill your luggage with my garbage and mail it back to me later as something I can wear to work."

And if you are my kind and forgiving and gracious and wickedly talented sister, you will DO IT. 

She did it! I can't believe she didn't throw the pile back in my face. I can't believe she went to any effort at all. That amazing sister of mine made a wonder out of a piece of batik junk I bargained for in some back alley in Asia. And man, it's awesome.