How does she do it?

I recently read a great article by Phyllis Richman called Answering Harvard’s question about my personal life, 52 years later.  In the article Richman writes a response to a letter she received 52 years ago regarding her application to graduate school at Harvard.  The letter came from then Assistant Professor William A. Doebele, Jr. and in it he asked her how she would combine caring for her husband and family with pursuing her graduate studies.  Naturally, Richman was offended by this question and in her response she said so many things that hit the nail on the head; I felt like I was reading my own story.  Despite the question she went on to create a successful career as a writer while carrying out her “responsibilities” to her family.  However, even though this guy had no business asking her “that” question it’s actually a good question because I ask myself the same question every day. 

I ask myself how I’m going to balance family and career; and some sort of intellectual interest beyond the Mickey Mouse Club House.  Sometimes just getting from sunup to sundown with my sanity still somewhat intact is a major miracle.  So while grading papers and writing and diapering and cleaning boogie noses I ask myself a million times, “How am I gonna do this?”  I work, I take care of children all day and sometimes kiss my husband at night and I usually manage to get it all done.  And it is really freaking hard.  My husband gets to go to work every day and he doesn’t have a toddler screaming at him or a baby tugging at his ankle while he’s trying to meet a deadline.  So, “How are you going to balance a career and family?” is a really good question because I’m still answering that one myself. 

When women were pushing for the Equal Rights Ammendment (ERA) I’m not so sure that question was answered.  My mother told me growing up that I could have it all; in fact she encouraged me to “have it all”.  I went to college, I became learned, I got a husband, and I had children.  I’m doing it all, but why is it so freaking hard?  I admire women that are able to dedicate themselves to only their children or only their career because it’s difficult to choose between one or the other. 

I’m so inspired by Phyllis Richman because she carved out a career while raising a family; and a quite successful one at that.  And that fellow from Harvard had no right to ask her how she would pull it all off.  How a woman will do it all is a personal question.  Yes, we should be able to have a career, personal interests, marriage and family but that is up to us.  How, we will do it is another question that I don’t think any woman can answer until maybe the question becomes past tense; how did she do it? 

Here is the link to the article by Phyllis Richman:  

http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/answering-harvards-question-about-my-personal-life-52-years-later/2013/06/06/89c97e2e-c259-11e2-914f-a7aba60512a7_story.html

Once upon a time there were a pair of boobs...not sexy ones but lactating ones.

I think a lot about breastfeeding these days since I spend about 50% of my day nursing my 12 month old son.  The kid is addicted to breast milk and resembles a little fire breathing dragon if he does not receive it on demand.  It’s really a miracle that he and I made it this long breastfeeding.  My older daughter and I did not fare nearly as well. 

I didn’t know when I first became a mom that breastfeeding would be so much work.  I thought my baby would just slip out of the birth canal and she would magically drink milk flowing from my breasts.  I thought I would use that breast pump thingy and it would fill up with milk.  This turned out to be the farthest from the truth for me.

Imagine my surprise when a couple of days after my first baby was born my nipples were cracked and bleeding.  My daughter wasn’t latching properly and when she did she’d only stay on a few minutes.  She had to stay in the hospital a couple of weeks after her birth due to a minor infection and my husband had to leave the country on business the day after she was born.  So imagine the stress for a new mom trying to do what she’s been told is best for her baby and it’s not going as planned.  On top of all of this the lactation consultant (or lactation Nazi as I like to call her) was breathing down my neck every five minutes telling me to, “Try this, try that.  Maybe the football hold, maybe upside down.” 

I wanted to quit so many times.  My boobs hurt; my kid was screaming her head off even after attempting to nurse her for an hour.  And I did quit when she turned three months old.  I just couldn’t do it anymore; physically, emotionally or mentally.  When I pumped I produced enough milk to feed a grasshopper and my daughter just really liked her bottle and I had to return to work; so everyone was happier this way. 

My experience with my son has been a completely different one however.  I went into my pregnancy and his birth with zero expectations.  I decided to give breastfeeding a try but not stress about it if it didn’t work.  When the nurse handed him to me after I woke up from my C-section he went straight for the breast and it was like he knew exactly what to do.  Despite my success the same lactation Nazi was all over my case about how to breastfeed my kid.  I decided this time that I was this kid’s mother and I would do what felt best and most natural.  So when the nurses kept pushing me to pump every two hours and I started bleeding into the collection bottles I said this crap is for the birds.  I’m not pumping.  I’m not sitting here listening to that waaaaaa noise all day.  I’m going to keep trying to nurse this kid and see what happens.  I’m going to do it my way.  And what do you know, he started gaining weight.  12 months later he is a happy healthy kid.  He’s never even really been sick.  And we are still nursing.  I figured out that I just don’t pump well.  Just because I pump very little doesn’t mean the baby only getting a small amount of milk.  There were several times along the way that I wanted to quit because it hurt too badly, or it was inconvenient to be his pacifier, etc. but we are still nursing.  It’s been a great experience and I highly recommend it if you can hang in there because it is just lovely to sit down and snuggle up with your kiddo while he eats.  If you can’t though don’t beat yourself up.  In the middle ages they had wet nurses and nowadays we have formula.  

 Nursing is different for every mom and every child is different too.  I have two children that have been polar opposites in the realm of breastfeeding.  Sometimes you just need to give the kid a bottle.  Sometimes they nurse like ducks to water.  Just do your best and see what happens, because you can never go wrong doing your best. 

*I have zero, and I mean zero medical expertise so always consult your pediatrician when it comes to feeding your child.  

The three phases of childhood illness (I have zero medical expertise just mompertise).

My little girl is sick today.  It’s been coming on for a few days so the worst part is over.  When she is getting sick she exhibits what we call at our house “pterodactyl like activity”.  Much of her communication during this incubation period sounds like this:  “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek” which is what I imagine a pterodactyl sounds like.  She expresses the onset of her discomfort like one of those prehistoric creatures and takes it out on the person closest to her which is usually me.  She screams (like a pterodactyl), she hits (mostly her little brother), and doesn’t sleep well which means she usually ends up in our bed curled up on top of my feet like a little puppy.  The puppy thing sounds sweet but trust me it’s not; puppy gets angry if you try to move her to increase your own comfort.   

After the initial “pterodactyl phase” begins the icky fluids phase, better known as the “exorcist phase” which consists of snot, vomit, snot and more vomit.  Have I grossed you out yet?  Last night she barfed all over the couch which wasn’t so bad because we have a leather couch which I bought specifically because of our gross (oops I meant messy) kids.  When mystery fluids or God forbid vomit land on it you can just wipe them right off.  However, one thing I didn’t bargain on was the cracks between the cushions.  When she barfed last night she somehow managed to puke directly into the crack between two cushions.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to get puke out of the crack between couch cushions?  That was fun, and I swear it still smells. 

Today is phase three, my favorite phase of illness.  Today is the sit on the couch and watch cartoons all day because she feels too yucky to move phase.   I secretly relish this phase because she doesn’t destroy anything on this day, doesn’t talk back, doesn’t pick on her brother; the evil button is turned off and she just lies around and wants to cuddle with mama.  I love this part even if she does wipe her snot all over me while we snuggle.  She becomes my baby girl again that just wants her mama and not my constantly challenging toddler.  

Why I don’t co-sleep.

There are the co-sleeping parents and the non-co-sleepers; and then there is everyone else in between.  I think I grudgingly fall into the abyss of in between co-sleeping.  Most nights I end up “co-sleeping” against my will.  My daughter sneaks into my bedroom in the middle of the night and wriggles in between my husband and I.  When we wake up in the morning she is there.  There is also the case of my son who sometimes wakes in the night because he is teething and will not go back to sleep unless he can snuggle up on my chest.  I know there are many parents who are extremely happy co-sleeping with their little ones, but I am not one of them.  I want my bed all to myself at night, my husband is lucky he even gets a spot next to me.  I want to snuggle up under the blankets in a ball and I don’t want to be disturbed until morning.  This is a pipe dream when you are a parent though because your kids are always waking you up in the middle of the night for something or they make a little noise that sets off your mama alarm. 

I love my kids with all of my heart, they are everything to me, and I love to snuggle with them.  However, I hate sleeping with them.  When they invade my bed I always end up with a foot kicking me in the face all night or my daughter trying to recreate her exit from the womb by sleeping between my legs.  My son is almost 1 and still has a head that is bigger than his body so I always get head butted all night by him.  I love it when I wake up in the morning with a fat lip unsure of where I got it.  Oh and the best is when you wake up with wet blankets because your kid peed on you in the middle of the night.

Knowing all of this I still allow them into my bed or sometimes I’m just too tired to kick them out.  I know that one day I will have my bed back, free from sneaky little invaders.  Everyone in my house will sleep in their own bed peacefully including me.  I tell myself this every night.  For now I deal with the wet sheets, busted lips and dirty feet in my face because I love these little toots and ok I’ll admit it sometimes I do sleep a little bit better knowing that my kids are safe right beside me but that usually all ends when I open my eyes in the morning and a two year old is screaming, “WAKE UP!” in my face.  Sleep will never be the same again; I must accept this and move on.  

It's not my problem.

It’s not my problem. 

It seems like lately everywhere I go I keep hearing people say, “That’s not my problem.”  Or they just don’t say anything at all when a problem presents itself and avoid helping by omission.  This especially seems true the more children I have.  I don’t remember people being particularly unhelpful when I was childless or even when I had just one child.  However, now that I have two children I feel like the world just might be ignoring me when I am struggling to get out of a taxi with a baby in my arms, a two year old dashing out into the street, and a bulging diaper bag. 

This unhelpfulness was especially pronounced on a recent trip to Europe.  Now, I know many people would say I am an idiot for trying to take two tiny children to Europe; I’ll give them that.  Despite my lack of forethought and my stupidity I have to ask, how can you stand by and watch a woman dragging her toddler through the Paris airport (while trying to carry a baby, carryon bag, oh and don’t forget the toddler’s princess backpack that she insisted on bringing) and do nothing?  Or mockingly smile at said mother?  I asked several people for help in this airport and people would very curtly say, “No.”  There was no elaboration; no “I’m sorry.”  They just said no or said nothing at all. 

On the same trip I also met a man who flat out told us, “This is not my job to help you.” (Insert French accent)  He told my family and I this when we arrived at our hotel at midnight with two children and our monstrosity of a double stroller and the elevator was broken.  He was the night clerk and to his credit did offer to help us carry it up the stairs but made it very clear that this was neither his job nor his problem.  He also said he had three children from three different mamas and worked 7 days a week so I do understand the man has a lot on his plate. 

France is not the only place where people are unhelpful.  People are equally unhelpful in the United States as well.  I’m not sure that this is a matter of geography so much as a lack of manners and caring.  Some people are very helpful.  The French redeemed themselves in many ways on this trip.  Just the other day while getting into a taxi in Bogota with my toddler in my arms my ankle rolled and I fell flat on my face in the middle of the street.  Three men saw me and rushed to my side.  They picked up my bag and helped me get up and into the cab, and they didn’t steal anything (this is always a plus in a big city).  So there are helpful people everywhere, and there are assholes everywhere too. 

I think a person’s degree of helpfulness just depends on which season of life they are passing through.  When I was a young person I probably wasn’t as helpful to others because I didn’t require as much help myself; I thought everyone could do things as easily as I could.  Now that I am a mother with two children who try my patience by the minute, I need more help so I think that I am probably a more helpful person to others these days. 

If you are one of the two people who might read this (because who wants to read an article about being helpful) I beg of you, I implore you, when you see a mother who is in over her head and has multiple children and baggage (literal and figurative) hanging from her body and looks like she might just chuck it all and head for the Bahamas please ask what you can do to help.  Even if she declines your help she will appreciate the thought and the fact that the world is not ignoring her.  

Celebrating Mom

Celebrating Mom

When I think of celebrating an important person in my life my thoughts immediately go to my mom.  She died a few years ago, I was 30 years old.  You would think at 30 years of age I would be okay to go off into the world knowing that my mom was not close by but I wasn’t.  I still wanted my mom just as much as I had wanted her when I was a child.  For all of her faults and everything we went through together she was still the best mom anyone could ask for. 

When I was a kid, all of the other moms on my block paled in comparison to my mom and I think they knew it.  My mom always had a smile on her face, she never spoke ill of anyone, and she was extremely helpful to anyone in need or not.  I had her high on a pedestal and for good reason.  She was the beacon of patience and compassion, something I am often not with my own children.  She did things just to create special memories for me.  She made sure that I had interesting learning experiences as part of everyday life.  She fueled my curiosity. 

One day after cutting a cantaloupe, I asked my mom if we could grow one in our flower bed.  Without hesitation she said yes and we went outside to plant the seeds.  I checked that flowerbed every day for a month and saw no results.  I was so disappointed that my melon was not growing.  I think my four year old little heart was breaking every day that I saw no progress.  I abandoned the project, but one day about a week later I looked out the window and noticed that there was a great big cantaloupe in our flower bed.  I jumped down from the window and ran through the house looking for my mom to tell her.  “Mom, it grew!” I screamed.  When I found her she had a big grin on her face.  She was so genuinely happy that I was happy.  It took me about 20 years to figure out that the cantaloupe had not grown at all but my mother had gone down to Kroger’s  and purchased it, brought it home and placed it in our flower bed.  When I had that moment where I realized what mom had done I was happier than the day I thought it had grown from nature.  I guess I was so happy because I knew that only someone who truly loved me could do something so special.  I will forever cherish that store bought cantaloupe perfectly placed in our flower bed in my mind and in my heart. 

Everyone deserves to have someone like this in their life; someone that is always on their side and truly believes that they are the very best.  My mom was my biggest fan and I can still feel her encouraging me from heaven.  I hope I can be half the mom that she was and that my children and I create sweet memories like this one.  

6 ways to avoid annoying your professor and pass just about any course.

6 ways to avoid annoying your professor and pass just about any course. 

As a high school teacher of 8 years and an adjunct professor for 3 years I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that the way you treat your professor does affect your grade.  There is no real way to prove this but in my own personal experience and the experiences of many colleagues I have learned that the way students treat their professors indirectly affects how they are graded.  I’ve gained a lot of experience working with students who just don’t get it that there are simple things that anyone can do to pass a class number one being don’t annoy your professor because all of the annoying things that students do sit somewhere in a professor’s subconscious forever.  For those of you that need a boost in your grade here are some helpful and simple tips.    

1.       Don’t tell the professor what is wrong with them personally, their teaching or their course.  Some students do this when they are disgruntled but many students do this innocently without even realizing that they are being disrespectful which is even more annoying.  Students don’t realize that there is a difference between feedback and whining.  Don’t tell your professor that their course really has too much work for three hours of credit.  Don’t tell your professor that they really didn’t explain that concept correctly.  Don’t tell them that the way that they speak or their accent is just too heavy.  When it comes to this area it’s probably best to just not say anything at all.  Save your comments for those end of semester course evaluations that your professor will read AFTER grades are done. 

2.       Do all of the work!  I have been repeating this over and over until I’m blue in the face for years now.  How can you expect to pass a class if you don’t do the work?  How do you expect to improve on the subject if you don’t practice it?  Better yet, do it on time.  Even better, if the class is not your best subject turn your assignments in early.  I’m personally in a much better mood at the beginning of grading a bunch of assignments and much easier on students rather than at the end of reading 100 essays.  There is nothing more annoying than a student who is failing your class (and hasn’t done all of the work) asking you what they can do to improve their grade.  Is there extra credit?  They always ask this.  I always reply, “Well for starters why don’t you complete all of the assignments?” 

3.       Don’t knit pick about one little question on a test.  Sometimes you’ve gotta just let things go.  There is always at least one student every semester that questions every single assignment, test, quiz, etc.  They will argue the wording on questions; sometimes they hinge their argument on a single word.  I’ve even had students say that there is trickery involved in the way that the test questions are written.  I’ve got news for you, not really.  I don’t go to that much trouble to trick my students; some are so easily tricked without any effort on my part.    

4.       Don’t try to bully anyone into getting a good grade.  I once had a student that emailed me, called me, emailed my boss, called my boss so many times that I think it was a contributing factor to raising his grade to what he wanted it to be.  This hasn’t happened much in my career but it left a sour taste in my mouth and has affected every student that has come after him.  Sometimes you need to take a B- like a man and shut up about it. 

5.       Communicate well and often.  Be nice.  Be friendly with your professor.  Show an interest in what they are teaching.  Keep your professor informed of what is going on with your progress in the class, especially if it is not going well for you.  Don’t wait until the night before grades are due to ask, “Is there extra credit?”  You want to keep a constant flow of communication going; a friendly one.  When communicating don’t use cryptic Twitter like language, no hashtags please.  Use professional language:  “Hello” “Thank you for your time.”  Say nice things to your professor like, “I like your class.”  “I’m learning so much.”  Don’t suck up but say just enough to let them know that you don’t think this class is a complete drag.  Remember the subject they are teaching you is probably one they have dedicated their life to. 

6.       Do your best and your best will get better.  I always tell my students this and I firmly believe it.  As cranky as I can be at times, especially at the end of a long semester; if I see a student doing their best I will cut them some slack.  If you truly do your best at all times (and this is really hard to do) you will improve no matter what.  Your best may not be very good at the moment and your improvements may be slow going but you will get better at the task at hand.  This will go a long way in your education and in life. 

Students, please remember these tips next time you walk into a classroom.  Remember that education is a great privilege that many in this world are not allowed.  You will learn so much more if you don’t spend all of your time pestering and spend more time listening.  

European Vacation...with two small children.

My family and I just returned from spending two weeks in Europe.  With two small children it was definitely an adventure and not for the faint of heart but we had a good time despite all of the hiccups.  Our trip spanned three countries:  Switzerland, Italy and France. 

When we arrived in Geneva, Switzerland and discovered that the airline had lost our double stroller we got a loaner umbrella stroller from the lost baggage department and moved on to our hotel in Bern; the capital of Switzerland.  The first day in Bern the kids and I headed out to find some breakfast and we found a quaint little bakery just off the tram line.  I was so excited to try the baked goodies and the minute we walked in my two year old daughter barfed all over the floor.  So we cleaned it up and promptly turned around and walked out and returned back to hotel where we went into hibernation mode until my little one was feeling better.  By that evening she was running around the hotel room destroying things so I knew she was feeling much better.  We met up with my husband for dinner at an Italian restaurant.  The restaurant was run by immigrants from all over Europe:  Croatia, Portugal, Italy, etc.  My daughter fell in love with an Italian speaking Croatian woman who spoiled her and caressed her little head and told her “mangia, mangia”.  We had to get a waiter from Portugal to translate the menu to his best Spanish because since everything was in German that was the closest we would get to understanding what we were about to eat. 

That night after the kids went to bed I went downstairs to use the internet and around midnight a disheveled Frenchman walked in dragging our gigantic double stroller behind him.  He said, “How many kids do you have? Two? Three? Four?”  

The next day was our last day in Bern so the kids and I went out exploring.  We first went to a toy fair that was going on outside of our hotel.  It consisted of mostly arts and crafts and handmade toys.  My spoiled American children were not impressed.  They kept looking at me like, “Where are the plastic toys?  This is lame mom.”  So moved on and explored the city of Bern which is beautiful.  It is worth visiting just to see the architecture alone.  We walked all over the city just enjoying the view. 

Overall, Switzerland is beautiful and perfectly clean everywhere you go (also perfectly expensive) and the people nothing short of delightful.  Almost everyone we encountered there spoke excellent English; the exception being the Italian restaurant of course.  Our next stop was Rome. 

Rome was an experience very different from Switzerland and France.  It was crowded, hectic, and busy.  It felt like I was at home in Bogota.  The people are hiliarious.  They really do use their whole body to talk, that’s not a Hollywood cliché.  The Italian culture also seems to be a fairly duplicitous one; they lie little about everything at least to the tourists anyway.  Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed my time there.  The food was amazing, it was much cheaper, the people were very nice and helpful, and there was so much history around every corner.  The city is beautiful and the culture of the Romans is quite kooky which made it all the more enjoyable.  Our hotel was not in Rome.  It was in a suburb called Ostia.  The description when I booked the hotel said it was 15 minutes from the city center which was a big fat lie unless maybe you have a helicopter.  It was a good 45 minutes to an hour to arrive in Rome.  However, the hotel faced the ocean and the room was much more spacious and luxurious than your typical budget European hotel.  The staff were helpful and so sweet with our children.  Our first night in Ostia we went to a seaside pizzeria near our hotel where we ate delicious pizza and pasta carbonara.  The waiter was adorable and a lifelong Ostian.  His family was eating at the table next to us and we met mom, dad, and sister.  We took a city tour and saw all of the major landmarks.  We paid for a tour guide in the coliseum whose English was terrible and had so many people on the tour it was impossible to hear her or understand her.  We also paid for a tour guide at the Vatican who arrived 30 minutes late causing us to have to skip out on the end of the tour to catch our next flight to Paris.  The Vatican tour was worth it though just to skip the mile long line outside and see the Sisteen Chapel.  This was an amazing sight to see.  While waiting for our tour guide to show up we ate at café across the street from the Vatican which we were warned against.  I don’t know how you can screw up lasagna in Italy but this place managed to do it and the bill was outrageous. 

Next we moved on to Paris.  I booked the cheapest flight I could find from Rome to Paris and guess why it was so cheap, the airport we flew into was 2 hours from Paris!  You can imagine our surprise when we arrived and I asked how much a taxi to our hotel would be.  The woman smugly answered, “About 200 Euro.”  I know taxis in Europe are expensive but I knew they weren’t that expensive.  She then proceeded to tell me that we were in a completely different region of France about two hours from Paris.  She this happens all the time.  Americans get off the plane and ask where the metro is and she says,”Oh about two hours from here.”  So we took a bus to Paris which wasn’t all that bad.  It was only about 15 Euros and it was clean and comfortable.  We arrived at a desolate bus station in Paris around midnight with our two small children and all of our luggage.  We were lucky to find a taxi right away which took us to our hotel.  We were happy to find that the hotel was actually inside of the city limits this time and did not take long to get to.  We actually rented a hotel/apartment room and when we arrived no one was there to check us in.  We were hungry, tired and cranky.  We called the hotline number posted in the lobby to try and get our keys out of the lockbox and no one answered.  We called over and over to no avail.  A kind man working in a bar next door passed by and began trying to call for us.  Someone finally answered and apparently they were no help.  The man only spoke French so all I could decipher was that the guy on the other end of the phone was an asshole.  The bartender left and we sat in lobby trying to figure out what to do.  We called another hotel where they told us that every hotel room in Paris was booked unless we wanted to pay 1000 Euros a night.  Finally a middle aged Frenchman staying in the hotel came through the door and began trying to help us.  He had the code to lockbox and got our keys out!  We were so relieved but there was no room number on the keys so we didn’t know which room was ours!  He called over and over as well.  Once again all I could decipher was that the guy on the other end of the phone was an asshole and didn’t want to help anyone at 1am.  My husband finally started trying the key in every door until he found one that opened.  We entered the dingy room that was about 30 square meters, basically a closet.  But it had a beautiful view and we were optimistic. 

We slept in until noon the next day, we were so exhausted.  We purchased a metro card and headed for the Eiffel Tower.  We had the most delicious hot chocolate at a beautiful little café facing the Eiffel Tower.  My daughter rode the carrousels next to the Eiffel Tower to her little hearts content.  We bought an Eiffel Tower from a guy from the Ivory Coast.  He ran off to get change and told me to man his station.  I sold 5 mini Eiffel Towers.  We went to the top of the Eiffel Tower.  It was amazing.  We spent one day at Disneyland Paris, yes we went all the way to Paris and ended up at Disneyland.  It was fun but not quite as magical as the American version.  The last day in Paris we walked the Champs Elysees.  I loved it.  It was beautiful and of course I really enjoyed the shopping.  I bought a purse from a guy on the street and 5 minutes later the cops had him pinned up against a wall.  My thinking is I got a really great purse for 30 Euros and that’s why the hassle with the police? 

We arrived back at our crappy hotel/apartment to find that the elevator was broken.  The night watchman (apparently he wasn’t working the night we arrived) helped us carry our enormous stroller up the stairs.  He said it wasn’t really his job but he would be helpful.  He also told us he had another job during the week and works every day because he has three children from three different mamas which makes things very complicated and him very broke, his words not mine. 

We took a high speed train back to Geneva to catch our flight back to Bogota via Paris, don’t even ask.  It was fun to ride the train.  However, people kept telling our daughter to be quiet like we were in church or something.  She’s not even quiet when we go to church.  We arrived in Geneva exhausted and went to get some lunch and then crashed in our hotel until the next morning of our flight.  

Away we go.

I knew it would be difficult traveling to Europe alone with two children so I prepared myself mentally for about a month leading up to the trip.  On Tuesday evening my two small children (ages 2 and 10 months) and I headed for the airport to journey to Bern, Switzerland via Paris and Geneva.  For the first time in my life I packed very light for the trip; we only brought one suitcase, a backpack, and a stroller.  Check in went smoother than ever and we made to our gate without any shenanigans from my toddler.  Everything was going great until we were about to board the plane and the gate agent told me that I would be picking my stroller up in Geneva, not during the connection in Paris!  If you are a mom you will understand the fear that struck me at that moment.  I said, “How do you expect me to drag two small children through the Paris airport to make our connection to Geneva?  Can someone from the airline help me?  Can you please just bring up my stroller in Paris?  It’s right down there! Please? Pretty please?”  The French flight attendant I was addressing stood stern faced and simply said, “No.” (insert snooty French accent here).  She said no to all of my pleas, nothing moved her.  I asked other flight attendants and they all simply said, “No.”.  I began to think that maybe French people don’t have children.  Maybe they just incubate their young until adulthood and don’t have to deal with screaming, squirming toddlers and babies.  Worst of all they kept speaking to me in French, and I kept reminding them that I do not speak French.  I mean who do they think they are?  Do they really expect me to speak French on an Air France flight to Paris?  Can’t they tell that I am not refined enough to be speaker of French?  And most Americans speak French so badly anyway, why would they want to listen to a terrible American accent?  I say this all in gest, well about 50% in gest. 

I took my seat and figured I would have 11 hours to figure out the stroller issue and how I would get my little stinkers through the airport without the stroller.  11 hours later we arrived in Paris and I still did not have a solution.  A flight attendant told me that the airport would have loaner strollers just past the gate, lies all lies!  When we landed the Paris police were waiting at the gate looking for someone on our flight so it took forever to get off of the plane.  We had to wait in a long line while they checked every single passport, all while holding my 20lb 10 month old and trying to get my two year to stay in line and not have a major meltdown.  We had only an hour between flights so I knew we would have to book it if we were going to make the flight to Geneva.  Very funny, right?  Moving quickly is not possible with two small children.  Of course my two year old moved at a snails pace and at one point just sat down in the middle of the airport and started crying, refusing to move any further.  We still had to go through security and passport control.  When we got to passport control my two year old was just absolutely done.  She started crying and throwing her body on the floor.  I tried to put my infant in one of those luggage carts because I was willing to do anything at this point.  An airport security guard saw me and came over and told me I could not do this and she also asked why my daughter was crying.  She kept asking her, “Why you are crying?  Stop crying.  Can you stop crying?”  Proof again that the French obviously don’t have children.  My daughter screamed so much that she finally let us cut to the front of the line just to get us out of there.  My daughter sat down again after we passed immigration and I finally had to grab her by the arm and drag her to our gate.  We just barely made it to our gate and I asked the agent, “Can someone please help us down the ramp?  My daughter won’t walk and I can’t carry them both.”  She simply said, “No.”  I almost started to cry right there and I heard an American accent say, “Ma’am I can help you.  What do you need?”  An American woman, another mom, took my baby and carried him to the plane while I carried my daughter.  My daughter cried until she passed out on the plane to Geneva.  We got off the plane and went to the luggage carousel to wait for our suitcase and stroller and we waited, and waited, and we waited.  The stroller, which they emphatically told me would come out on the carousel in Geneva, did not come out.  They lost it!  Maybe the French don’t have strollers either?  Maybe they think I’m just a big weenie for needing a stroller to survive with two small children.  The lost baggage office told me they would deliver it to my hotel that night because they would surely find it.  So we went to the train station in Geneva and caught a train to our final destination, Bern. 

We’ve been here for two days and still no stroller.  I think I may have pissed off one of the French flight attendants on the flight and they are holding my stroller hostage in Paris.  The moral of this story is, when travelling with children to France only one child because they are apparently offended by the size of our gigantic double strollers.   

Packing

As I approach the departure date of our grand tour of Europe I have begun to contemplate the packing that I will do for this trip.  I say contemplate because despite all of my good intentions I never get my packing done until about three hours before the flight.  Packing is overwhelming.  It has so many emotions that accompany it; so many decisions to make.  You can pack too much, too little, forget things, and bring things you won’t need.  Should you bring the travel size toiletries or put your regular sized liquids into smaller containers?  Like I said, packing involves a lot of decision making and there is no turning back once you leave for that trip.  Half the time I just end up throwing whatever will fit into my suitcase and then sitting on top of it while I try to zip it shut. 

I really do want to travel light, but I always end up with way too much stuff.  I was looking at the Rick Steves travel site today and his main suggestion was to pack light and bring very basic items.  He suggests bringing a few pairs of pants, a few shirts, two pairs of shoes and he wants us to pack it all into a carry on.  While I have a deep appreciation of the work of Rick Steeves, I think he just doesn’t understand my situation.  My packing list includes a few more necessities such as makeup, hair dryer, flat iron, hair products, perfume, shoes (casual, sporty, heels, sandals, flip flops), clothes (for every possible occasion) all packed into a large bulky suitcase that will most definitely be checked at exactly the maximum allowed weight of 50 pounds.  I don’t want to be the girl with a million suitcases, and carry-ons, and “personal items” in the airport but many of these are necessities that a girl just can’t leave behind. 

I do always think about what real necessities are and what luxuries are when I pack and somehow luxury items become necessities and I end up cursing myself the entire duration of the trip as I lug all of my junk around hotels and airports. 

My goal for this upcoming trip is to travel easy and relaxed.  I don’t want to end up with a hernia because my suitcase was so heavy.  I am going to try my best to travel with only the necessities and remember that I am going to be in the presence of some of the most important historical sites in the world.  I will be organized but not go overboard with that either which is a whole other issue.  All of the gadgets on the market today that are designed to make traveling easier really seem to complicate the process even more. 

I’m going to find a happy medium between that of Mr. Steeves and my own philosophies about packing in order to worry less about what’s in my suitcase and more about all of the great experiences that I’m going to have in Europe with my family.   

Saying goodbye.

Saying goodbye. 

I spent my whole life living in Texas until my 33^rd year.  I had traveled around the world a bit but Texas had always been home.  I always knew I would leave one day I just didn't know when or where I would go.  It was a bitterly cold day in February when I left everything in Texas to move to another country. 

After being laid off in 2011 my husband went back to school to get his MBA.  Upon graduating from the program he was offered the opportunity of a lifetime in his native country of Colombia.  I don’t think we ever thought that we would actually live in Colombia, nor did we think that such an opportunity would present itself there.  However, the opportunity was just too good to pass up for my husband’s career and for our family. 

Once a formal offer was made and things were set in motion the whole process was quite surreal.  I had so many questions, many of which I had to just guess the answers to because I had zero experience with relocating to a foreign country.  What would we do with our house?  All of our stuff?  How would we move our things from the U.S. to Colombia?  What would we do with our dogs?  I began packing up our home box by box.  My husband went to Colombia ahead of us to get started on his new job so I was home packing with a two year old and a newborn baby in tow.  I had so many emotions.  I was so excited, and nervous and terrified all at the same time.  I remember that I kept thinking, “Are we really leaving?  Is this really happening?” 

Moving day grew closer and closer and then it finally came.  The day before we were to take a flight with our two children and two dogs to Colombia our friends from church came to help us move just about everything we owned into a storage unit.  It is outrageously expensive to ship your things overseas so we determined that we could take 4 suitcases and two large boxes with us to Colombia.  That’s it; our whole lives were in those suitcases.  We took only the necessities which consisted of clothes, a few household items and toys for the kids. 

That night after we had moved everything out of our house we had only a mattress left in the house to sleep on that night.  The house was so empty.  We had only lived in the house for four years but it already had so many memories in it.  We brought both of our children home from the hospital as newborns to that house.  There was so much laughter echoing from the now empty walls of that house. 

The weather was terrible the next day; I thought they might cancel our flight.  There were a series of mix-ups and delays at the airport but after several hours we finally boarded our flight for Bogota, Colombia.  I didn't know when I would see Texas again.  I felt like I was leaving a piece of myself there.  We were moving on to bigger things and new adventures but Texas would always be my real home no matter where I roamed.  I don’t know if I will ever live there again, but a big piece of my heart will always remain there.  

Downtime, that's a funny one!

When I was young and single I could take a break anytime I wanted.  I had all the downtime I wanted, needed, deserved.  After a long day of working or studying I could come home, kick off my shoes and nap to my heart’s desire.  I love to nap; it’s one of my favorite activities.  When I was sick, I could just be sick.  I could lay around in my jammies and watch TV until I was fully recovered.  Those were the glory days.  These days when I’m sick or just tired none of these luxuries are allowed.  Naps no longer exist in my world and being sick is just not an option because I have two small children that just don’t understand when mommy is sick.  No one ever told me that this would be my new reality before these little munchkins came along.  I thought having children was all kisses and ice cream. 

I’ve been sick with a cold for a couple of days and caring for my two children combined with not being allowed to lie on my deathbed and wallow in my sickly misery has not been the highlight of my week.  Last night the kids and I were waiting for my husband to get home from work so he could take over the kid responsibilities the scene was a stressful one.  I was lying on the couch begging the kids to just leave me alone, my two year old was sitting on top of me smashing my boob and my 10 month old was hanging from my arm dangling from the couch.  We all jumped up and mauled him when he walked in the door; we always do this.  The poor guy can barely get one foot in the door before we all prance on him.  I went to bed early and as usual my two year old daughter ended up in bed with us.  She kept me up most of the night with her feet kicking me in the face and her wining every 30 minutes. 

I still didn’t feel so hot today but my husband and I still went on our regular Wednesday night movie date.  The only way to relax when I’m sick is to get out of the house because the kids just won’t let me.  So we saw a movie, we laughed, we relaxed without any small people sitting on top of us. 

If anyone had told me a few years ago that having children would mean never having a free moment to myself, sleepless nights and no real downtime it might have been a deal breaker for me.  I probably would have gone on to enjoy my selfish life and never would have looked back.  Tonight when I got home from the movies my daughter was still awake and for some reason I let her stay up a little later than usual.  We watched TV and snuggled and talked on the couch.  She’s only two but we had the best conversation.  I was having so much fun I didn’t want to put her to bed.  When I finally did tuck her into bed (She wanted to sleep in my bed so I folded and let her.) she said hers prayers in the sweetest little voice that made my heart melt.  I’m really glad no one told me that having kids would turn my world upside down because little moments like the time spent with my daughter tonight are enough to fill my heart up forever.  

Mind your manners, please.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about manners, specifically how people don’t mind their manners.  Now I’m not the type of person that would usually harp on this but it’s been getting to me lately, especially when people talk politics on social media.  I usually don’t engage in political debates via social media, I usually just keep scrolling because I just don’t want to get into it with someone who is never going to agree with me.  In my twenties I would argued until I was blue in the face but in my thirties I’ve found that I just don’t have the time or energy to waste on such debacles.  It’s bothered me lately though that people are just downright rude when it comes to politics.  Instead of disagreeing respectfully they say atrocious things and partake in spreading outright lies across the internet.  Many people take anything written on the internet to be the gospel and don’t do their due diligence to at least find out if what is being said is true and they simply react to the latest rumors. 

Case in point:  I was recently perusing Facebook when I saw an awful picture of several men holding a badly burned body.  It was posted by a friend of mine who I love dearly but know that we will never agree on politics.  The caption under the picture said something to the effect of, “Chris Stevens was raped, electrocuted and burned.  Hillary you suck.”  The photo alone was quite disturbing but the caption forced me to stop and say, “Wait a minute, did this actually happen?” 

A little background if you are not familiar with who Chris Stevens was.  Chris Stevens was the U.S. Ambassador to Libya from 2011 to 2012; just after Gaddafi was ousted from his 42 year presidency.  On September 11, 2012 American compounds in Benghazi, Libya were attacked by militants and when it was all over Ambassador Stevens was found dead.  This was a tragedy of the highest degree, it saddens me just thinking about it.  Stevens died of smoke inhalation while trapped in a safe room.  The attacking militants used diesel gasoline to set the compound on fire and Stevens was trapped in the safe room unable to escape for air. 

The death of Ambassador Stevens was immediately used as political fodder to criticize the Obama administration.  Political commentator Sean Hannity said that Stevens was raped and his body dragged through the streets.  This was untrue and extremely hurtful to Stevens’ family and friends. 

This brings me back to the initial Facebook post.  After doing some research I found that it was simply not true.  As I said before, Ambassador Stevens died of smoke inhalation.  I found that one person, Sean Hannity, started the rumor that the life of Ambassador Stevens ended in a manner contrary to the truth.  This rumor has spread like wildfire across the internet, because let’s face it, it’s more tragic and that’s what we like.  For some reason human beings like the saddest, most gruesome stories rather than the plain old boring truth (which by the way is just as tragic).  I did my due diligence and found the truth; other people may not take the time to do this.  When discussing anything on the internet I beg of you to please remember what your mama taught you and mind your manners.  The Facebook post about Ambassador Stevens is disgusting and I’m sure his family has been exposed to it at some time which forces them to relive their tragedy all over again based on something that is not even true. 

So I say disagree, criticize, argue all day long if you like!  That is the American way, but mind your manners when doing so.  

Garcia Euro Vacation

We are going to Europe next week!  My family and I will be visiting Switzerland, Italy, France and Spain.  This is exciting and terrifying at the same time.  My husband will be leaving a few days ahead of us and I will be flying with two small children by myself from Bogota, Colombia to Geneva, Switzerland.  Yes, you heard that right.  I’ll be on a transatlantic flight for approximately 11 hours with a 2 ½ year old and a 10 month old.  I see lots of Benadryl in these kids’ future if you catch my drift.  This will definitely be a most interesting trip to Europe being that it is with two small children.  I’m sure our itinerary will be a bit different as we will be looking for things for the kids to enjoy.   I’m thinking the Louvre is not at the top of my toddler’s list.  Nonetheless it will be an experience that the whole family will never forget. 

In preparing for this trip I’m reminded of the first time I went to Europe way back in 2002.  I was in college and the Russian professor on campus was offering a trip to Eastern Europe and it was cheaper than any of the other study abroad options so I went.  The plan was to go to Hungary, Russia and Estonia.  I knew very little about this region of the world but I was ready and willing to travel anywhere. 

So off I went on a plane to Budapest.  On the plane ride there the flight attendant offered me a cognac which I happily obliged.  In college anytime someone offered you free booze you never turned it down.  It came in a charming little cup, almost the size of those shot glasses you get in Cancun on spring break; so I downed it all at once.  This was a big mistake.  I spent the rest of the flight in the bathroom puking my guts out.  Apparently cognac is to be sipped not chugged. 

In my cognac induced stupor I finally made it to Budapest where I spent two glorious weeks with the kooky Hungarians.  When our time was up in Hungary we boarded a train bound for Moscow.  When the train pulled into the station I was taken aback.  It had to be at least 60 years old.  In its Soviet heyday it might have been the crown jewel of trains but it looked and sounded like it was on its last leg.  The trip in these lovely accommodations would last about two days.  Everyone in the group was dreading the trip, but we got lucky after about 16 hours on the train. 

When we crossed the Ukrainian border the train was stopped by their equivalent of the border patrol.  The agents boarded the train and started asking for passports.  When they got to our room I gave them my passport, they took a look and slammed the door.  I tried to open the door but discovered it was locked from the outside.  I started freaking out a little bit.  About 20 minutes later they came back and motioned for us to get our things and come with them.  I was terrified of what would happen next since I didn’t speak Ukrainian and had no idea what was going on.  The female agent had purple hair though so I knew they weren’t going to kill me.  Anybody that has purple hair surely wouldn’t do anything too terrible.  They took us into the train depot and had us wait for what seemed like an eternity.  They told us that we would not be able to continue on through Ukraine to Russia because we did not have transit visas, we would have to wait for the next train back to Hungary.  We waited all day and all night.  Finally, around 5am a train rolled in bound for Hungary.  We didn’t have reservations so would have to grab any available seats as quickly as possible, first come first serve.  Apparently we weren’t the only ones without reservations though because when we went to the doors there was a group of about 100 people waiting and the doors were chained.  As soon as the train arrived the doors were unlocked and this group of Ukrainians and Americans was unleashed.   It was like a scene out of Doctor Zhivago.  Little old ladies with scarf covered heads and baskets ran like hell for the train pushing and kicking anyone in their way.  Luckily these stout old ladies didn’t knock me out and I got a seat on the train. 

We ended up flying to Russia and having many more kooky adventures.  Based on my last European experience I’m wondering how this next one will go.  I have a feeling it will be a bit like the Griswald European Vacation, nothing run of the mill for me and my family!  

Taking a break.

I’ve been writing 500 words a day now for 10 days straight and it feels good, really good to have written so much new material.  Today I started feeling like I was running out of things to write about though. Now I know that after only 10 days of writing, after not writing this much in years, it is impossible to have run out of things to say.  Nonetheless, I decided that I would take a break from writing today, but then I decided to write about taking a break from writing.  So I guess that’s progress, the fact that I still want to write even though I just don’t feel like it. 

I am an all or nothing kind of gal, that’s just the way I’m wired.  It’s always been 100% carpe diem or absolutely sloth level nothingness for me.  I am a woman of extremes.  I’ve never been big on taking breaks because I know this about myself.  I know that if I slow down I will lose momentum and it will be like moving the earth to get myself fired up again.  Break taking is good though, it gives one time to reflect about what’s next, execution of goals, etc.  However, I know that I work best under pressure, in the heat of the moment.  I constantly have this voice in my head screaming, “Breaks are for sissies!”  So I keep pushing, keep running, and keep writing. 

One of the problems with this non break taking attitude is that one can often get burnt out and come to a slow, grinding halt never to be heard from again.  Who takes breaks anyway?  Presidents don’t take breaks, they have countries to run.  Criminals don’t take breaks, they have things to steal. 

Procrastination is another thing though, procrastination I can do.  Procrastination may fool you into thinking that you are taking a break but what you are really doing is wasting a whole lot of energy not being productive, thus not taking a break.  I’m a great procrastinator, and when I procrastinate I do everything but work towards my objectives and spend a lot of time thinking about what I’m not doing.  I hate procrastination; it builds up a sort anxiety inside of me until I almost cannot breathe.  I do it all the time and I do it so well but it is not my favorite activity. 

By writing this little essay I feel like I’m rising above my sloth level and at the same time not procrastinating, and not overdoing things either.  This is a happy medium for me however backwards it may be.  Hopefully tomorrow I will wake up with tons of brilliant ideas for writing projects.  Perhaps I will do something spectacular tomorrow, because today I was just mediocre.  Who knows what the world has in store for me tomorrow?  Maybe I will begin my Pulitzer Prize winning novel or maybe I will write an amazing grocery shopping list, who knows?  We shall see.  

My heart might explode.

Do you ever have those moments where you feel like your heart is going to explode and you might begin to cry like a blubbering idiot at any moment?  I have had a lot of those moments lately and I’m not exactly sure why.  It’s like a feeling of gratitude, and hope, and despair, and happiness and anguish all at once.  It makes me feel like I have an atomic bomb of emotions sitting inside my chest that might go off at any minute. 

I had one of those atomic bomb moments tonight.  I attended a church event tonight where a soldier from the Colombian army gave a short speech.  As he spoke, I felt all of these emotions building inside of me and I started to cry.  The soldier speaking had both arms amputated at the elbows and a glass eye.  He said that he was so grateful that God gave him a second chance at life, and that he was so happy to live in a safe Colombia.  The young man also said he was grateful not to have to invest in wristwatches anymore and that he loved hearing our applause because he cannot hear his own.  This guy didn’t choose this life (military service is compulsory in Colombia) but he is going forward with it full speed ahead. 

Unfortunately you see men like this all over Colombia.  You would be hard pressed to go even one day without seeing a soldier missing a limb.  It is shocking at first, the number of young amputees that you see in Colombia.  They are everywhere and the reason is the high number of landmines in Colombia.  Members of the Colombian army are often maimed as a result of the landmines planted by the FARC, ELN and various paramilitary groups.  The ongoing conflict between these groups and the Colombian government has led to 65% of the country being affected by landmines and nearly 10,000 Colombians have been victims since 1990.  The situation in the country has drastically improved over the last several years but decades of war have left the country full of landmines that now need to be demined. 

I was so touched by the soldier that spoke and he made me feel grateful; grateful for his service to his country and for the service of all military personnel around the world.  Evil people are everywhere; the FARC in Colombia, ISIS in Syria, etc. and these people are literally giving life and limb to thwart them so that we can enjoy our lives and all of the beauty that a free life has to offer.  There was something so beautiful about his gratitude in spite of the disability that he has been left with. 

I think the reason that my heart almost exploded was because the gratitude and happiness of the soldier was contagious; it spilled over into my heart.  I hope that someday my outlook on life can be that influential on others but right now I will just settle for being happy.  

A funny thing happened on the way to the gym.

A funny thing happened on the way to the gym, that’s how I’ll start my story.  When we first moved to Bogota my husband and I joined a gym.  It seemed like an excellent idea at the time; $20 per month, lots of amenities and walking distance from our apartment.  This was finally going to be the year that I got myself to the gym every day.  The gym was even named Hardbody which had to mean something, right? 

Early into my tenure at the Hardbody, I woke up one morning ready to propel myself to the optimum fitness level that the name of this gym entailed.  I decided to go for a 3 mile run before going to the gym to get warmed up.  Now once upon a time I was an avid runner but after having two children and all of the mounting responsibilities that come with these little cherubs I just don’t get out running that often, let alone running at 8,000 feet above sea level.  So a 3 mile run in and of itself was ambitious to say the least.  I set out on my hard body quest at a brisk pace taking in the view of the mountains and the smog from city buses.  I love smog by the way; it makes me feel like I’m right in the middle of the action.  One thing I have to mention before I go any further with my story is that Bogota’s sidewalks and streets are not exactly runner friendly.  There are lots of potholes and the sidewalks are made out of giant bricks, all of which are loose and easily tripped on.  So about a mile into this run one of those bricks became my nemesis and knocked me flat on my face.  I was running and I saw it right in front of me, the brick sticking up out of the ground, but there was nothing I could do to stop myself.  I hit the brick with full force and there I went rolling down the sidewalk.  I mean I actually rolled down the sidewalk.  After the rolling was done, I sat on the sidewalk stunned, bruised and scuffed up.  An old man came over to help me up.  When he offered me his hand he said, “That is very dangerous, you shouldn't be doing that.”  I’m not sure if he was referring to the running or the rolling. 

I was beaten up by that sidewalk and I contemplated not continuing on to the gym for the rest of my workout but I said to myself, “No, I must continue on, no excuses.”  I forgot to mention earlier that I really enjoy torturing myself.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m tough or just stubborn but it is often the bane of my existence.  So on I went to the gym determined to continue my workout.   Once at the gym I grabbed one of those big exercise balls.  I usually use it to lean up against the wall while I do squats.  In this gym, space is at a premium so there were not a lot of spots to do this.  I opted for the glass wall that divided the group exercise room and the weight room.  I started squatting and jamming out to belligerent rap music on my iPod.  I stopped to take a break and noticed that the glass was cracked.  Yikes!  I didn't know what to do.  Before I knew it a trainer was in my face telling me, “You broke the glass, you broke the glass!”  I said, “I’m not sure if I broke it, I didn't hear anything break.  Maybe it was like that?”  Then two more trainers came to tell me the same thing and I was ordered to the manager’s office.  I felt so embarrassed.  As humiliating life moments go this one was probably in the top ten.  I felt like the big blonde gringa elephant breaking stuff everywhere I turned and to top it off I was being called to the principal’s office.  I called my husband hysterical and told him what had happened.  He told me to be a big girl and just go talk to the manager.  Once in the manager’s office she told me that they had me on video breaking the glass with the giant exercise ball, which they had watched over and over just to be sure.  She told me I would have to pay for the glass.  I slinked home in horror with a scraped up knee and a very bruised ego. 

My husband went the next day and watched the video with the manager to be sure that what they were saying was true.  It was indeed me who broke the glass partition.  My husband thought it was quite amusing, hilarious even. 

This was a day that started out so promising with hopes of having a “hard body” which ended in yet another day with a soft body.  Sometimes the universe is telling you to just take your soft butt home.  

Extraordinary moments.

Remarkable things happen each and every day all over the world.  We hear about them on the news, see them in our social media feeds and sometimes they even happen to us personally.  Sometimes, we can go days even months without anything significant happening in our own lives and sometimes extraordinary things happen more than once in a single day.  What defines a remarkable or extraordinary moment?  And how is it that we can go for long periods of time without anything of note happening in our lives?  Have you ever met a person who seems to have great things happening all the time?  Are they lying or is it their outlook on life that yields great personal events?  Today, I would wager that it is our outlook that yields happiness, greatness, and extraordinariness; whatever you might want to call it.   

I often get caught up in my daily routine of working, paying the bills and taking care of the kids and think nothing important is happening to me.  I get sucked into a humdrum way of life and forget that there is a whole wide world happening right outside my door.  My typical day consists of being woken from slumber by a screaming child, or maybe even two children screaming in unison.  I change diapers, I dress them, I feed them.  Then we play.  Then I change diapers, I feed them, I play with them.   You get the idea.  You can see how this might get monotonous and one might start to think that life is a little uneventful but every once in a while I’m able to see that there are so many great moments in between the feeding, and diapering, and playing that make life remarkable.  One might even have enough clarity during the feeding, diapering, playing to see that these moments are great too. 

I also occasionally have interesting, out of the ordinary things happen to me or in my presence that I am able to witness.  Today on the street while walking with my husband to a movie, I saw a toddler walking around with no pants on.  This is not a normal occurrence in Colombia despite what you might think.  He was part of a group of indigenous people.  I was not able to determine if they were homeless or just extremely poor but they were needy to say the least.  There are about 4 million internally displaced persons in Colombia due to the long-running internal conflict between rebel groups and the government.  The situation in the country has improved drastically over the last several years but a definite problem still exists.  The group of people that I saw today was most likely internally displaced because they were pushed off of their land by a rebel group, which lead them to the city to try and find a place to call home again.  As a mother I was so touched by this bare bottomed little boy.  I teared up right there on the street.  For me this was an extraordinary moment.  It was extraordinary because despite their circumstances these people continue on with the day to day of life.  The child was carefree, living in the moment. 

So you see, sometimes the universe gives us moments to think about and decide if they are significant.  That simple moment of seeing a little child running around on a street corner made an impact on me that will affect my day tomorrow and the interactions that I have with my own children.  I hope that I can live in the moment and not worry so much about what comes next.  We all want answers about tomorrow and we miss the answers that are right in front of us. 

Information on internally displaced persons in Colombia: 

http://www.unhcr.org/pages/49e492ad6.html

http://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2013/aug/12/colombia-internally-displaced-people-instability

Choices

As I sat watching my daughter and son play this morning I started wondering what their future would be like.  Will they have opportunities to thrive and expand their minds?  Will they be challenged by life or will it be easy?  Will they have to make difficult choices?  Will they have choices at all?  The answer to this is probably yes, all of the above.  My children like myself were fortunate to have been born in the United States of America where we have many choices be they trivial or of great importance; we control a large part of our own destiny in the United States. 

I think about choice a lot because I am living outside of the United States in Bogota, Colombia where I see the world from a different perspective.  Not just choices in Colombia but around the world.  For example, I was born in the United States to a middle class, white family.  I had many opportunities; public school, ballet class, plenty of food to eat, etc.  When I became a young adult I was able to make the choice to go to university, to study liberal arts, and to live in a tiny yet cozy apartment.  After college I chose to marry a man that I was very much in love with.  I chose to continue my studies, be a teacher and later on start a family.  I chose all of this.  My family didn’t have a lot but I was able to make some good decisions that resulted in a nice life for myself.  I had the freedom to make these choices which allowed for this life.  Many individuals around the world simply don’t have this. 

In comparison, I’ve learned a lot about the lack of choices that some people have by speaking to a woman I’ll call Sara.  She was born very poor.  Her father was a violent alcoholic who beat her mother.  The family was constantly moving and she was always changing schools.  At 13 years of age she became a maid, and has been ever since.  Today she is still extremely poor and her life is full of challenges that many Americans frankly could never survive.    She really had no choice in her destiny and there was no one telling her that there might be alternatives to her dismal life. 

You are probably wondering what my point is with all of this.  The point is that we all have choices which vary in degree depending on our geography and family background.  I have the freedom to do pretty much anything I want, and I’m grateful for this.  Others are not so lucky.  I always tell my students that everyone is doing the best that they possibly can.  Someone else’s best may not be as good as your best, but they are doing the best that they know how with the choices that they been given in life.  Give people the benefit of the doubt and remember everyone is doing the best they can.  A maid is not a maid because she is lazy or ignorant; a maid is a maid because she did the best she could with the hand she was dealt in life.  I’m not a teacher and writer because I’m particularly smart or witty, I’m a teacher and writer because I did the best I could with the choices I had.  So next time you are annoyed with the guy at the drive through or you see beggars on the street when you visit a third world country give them a break and remember their choices were probably a lot different than yours.  

The future of the written word.

The future of the written word.   

I love to write.  I write because it makes me a happier person, it makes me more thoughtful, more spiritual and it improves every other area of my life.  I have always loved writing.  I can remember my very first personal narrative in first grade.  It was about my impending tonsillectomy and the fear I felt about it, complete with hand drawn pictures. 

As a student I was always more than happy to write essays, short stories and research papers.  As a public schoolteacher for eight years I always had my students writing.  I taught Spanish so many of my students looked at me like I was a crazy person when I asked them to write an essay before they had a full command of the language, but they managed to get at least something written out with my constant pestering helping them along.  Lately I find myself wondering though, is the written word as we know it disappearing?  With all of the technological advances and reality tv shows, will our younger generations really want to sit down and read a book, let alone write something? 

I don’t think that the written word is in danger of extinction but I do think that it’s just not all that popular.  Adults and children alike just don’t read that much anymore for pleasure and their writing consists of short texts and tweets.  Many of my high school students hated writing and hated reading even more.  Most of them couldn’t even figure out how to begin writing an essay or short story because the world as a whole just isn’t as literate as it was a generation ago.  The results of a poll published in January of this year showed that 23% of Americans did not crack open even one book in 2013.  The same poll showed that in 1978, 42% of Americans read 11 or more books in a single year.  Many might blame this decline on technology but I see it in a different way, I think reading is even easier and more accessible today than it was in 1978.  We have tablets, eBooks, smartphones, etc.  Today you can read virtually anywhere at any time, but many of us simply choose not to.  We also choose not to write more than a few words a day.  We choose not to write much in an era where we can become instantly published authors through the power of the internet. 

It is hard to pinpoint the reason for the decline in interest for reading but scholars have seen a strong correlation between children’s literacy and their overall interest in reading linked to them being read to at home.  Many parents simply don’t read to their children and don’t read anything themselves.  I’m not the perfect parent; I sometimes go days without reading to my children.  We get caught up in the daily grind and it’s often hard to get my toddler to sit still and listen to a book but I need to at least set an example so that she will see that reading is something that people do.  Instead of waiting for her to go to bed so I can curl up with a good novel I need to read in front of her.  Our kids want to be just like us so we must model the behavior that we want for them.  So tonight, I’m going to sit down with my little ones and read a story and hopefully they will enjoy it and receive all of the pleasure and satisfaction that I have from the written word so that they can one day make great cultural contributions to civilization and not just be a bunch idiots sitting on the couch watching some hillbilly reality show. 

Links to articles mentioned: 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/05/12/reading-report-_n_5307509.html

http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/01/the-decline-of-the-american-book-lover/283222/

http://www.nea.org/grants/facts-about-childrens-literacy.html

How to make enchiladas in Bogota.

How to make enchiladas in Bogota. 

Let me first start by saying that it seems that every country has some sort of national cuisine except for The United States.  We are such a melting pot that we have a little bit of everything  but if I were to classify the cuisine of Texas where I hail from I would call it anything fried (even vegetables), TexMex, casserole, gravy soaked.  We are very eclectic with our food in the United States which makes it very hard for this gringa to cook anything in Bogota.

 Traditional Colombian food is very simple and reminds me a bit of typical southern food.  Contrary to what some Americans might believe it is not spicy at all.  There are no chiles or peppers.  The food mostly consists of large red beans, white rice, meat, white potatoes.  There are many variations of this and I don’t pretend that this is all that the locals eat here (there many types of soups, fish, etc. as well) but those are the basics of the Colombian meal as I have come to know it. 

I am not a great cook but I do love food and I love to eat.  I spend a large part of my day thinking about what I’m going to eat next.  Most of the dishes that I know how to make come off of the back of a Campbell’s soup can.  I never really learned how to cook until I got married and let’s face it my mom was about the same caliber of chef that I am so there was no family cooking tradition to really pass on.  So it should be no surprise that when I arrived in Bogota I promptly found an empleada (maid) to cook for myself and my family.  She is an amazing cook and makes everything from scratch.  My daughter who survived on macaroni and cheese in Texas loves her soups and arroz con pollo (chicken and rice).   The ingredients are all very natural, not a lot of processed food here.  Of course globalization is helping the American ways to creep into the Colombian diet but that is a whole other issue. 

I was very content eating the local fare but last week I was feeling homesick and wanted some comfort food (i.e. processed food).  I decided I wanted to make an enchilada casserole, simple right?  Wrong.  The typical ingredients for enchiladas a la gringa typically include corn tortillas, canned enchilada sauce, chicken, and shredded “Mexican” cheese; see I told you I can’t cook.  You cannot walk into just any supermarket in Colombia and find these ingredients.  I took a trip to one of the stores that carry this sort of processed, canned, goodness to acquire my ingredients.  First of all, anything in a can or box is imported in this country making it outrageously expensive because Colombians don’t typically eat food out of cans as do our refined American relatives.  Second, they don’t always have exactly what a gringa needs to make said processed food, hence the whole reason for this little story; they didn’t have what I needed so I had to improvise.  I found the tortillas, chicken, and sauce that I needed but could not for the life of me find shredded “Mexican” or even cheddar cheese so I proceeded to go to three different stores looking for cheese.  Some people I asked knew what it was but said yeah, we are all out of that.  I ended up finding an imported jar of “queso”.  If you are from Texas you know what that is, a jar of gooey processed cheese for dipping tortilla chips.  I poured it all over the top of my enchilada concoction instead of the shredded cheese and stuck it in the oven after I looked up the Fahrenheit to Celsius conversion online because I have already learned that just turning your oven up to oh say 400 or so is not a good idea. 

The dish came out looking a bit more like yellow colored lasagna but my husband declared that it was great and named it Texican Lasagna but I would call it something more like White Trash Lasagna.  Whatever you want to call it, it was good and satisfied my craving for something cheesy and processed.  It cost me about $20 to make due to import prices but I think it was worth it because there are no leftovers in the fridge, we ate it all.  

These are a few of my favorite things….about Bogota.

My family and I picked up and left everything we knew and loved in Texas about 6 months ago to move to Bogota, Colombia.  My husband had a job opportunity here that we just couldn’t pass up.  While I am a Texan through and through I have grown to love my newly adopted city of Bogota.  These are a few of my favorite things about Bogota that will be hard to leave if we ever go back to the United States. 

1.       The weather-The weather is amazing here!  There are no seasons so the temperature stays about the same year round.  The high is around 70 degrees Fahrenheit and the temp gets down to about 45 at night.  It rains a lot so if you are not into that this is not the place for you, but the weather is always pleasant.  No brutal summers or winters to deal with, it’s like the first days of spring every day.

2.       Walkable-The pleasant climate in Bogota is one of the things that make the city very walkable.    You will find pedestrians everywhere in this crowded bustling city of almost 10 million inhabitants.  Every neighborhood is a microcosm of the larger city so you can walk to most anything that you need.  If you are feeling lazy though you can always jump into one of the thousands of yellow taxis. 

3.       Mountains-Everywhere you go in the city you will have spectacular views of the lush, green mountains; they are inescapable.  Situated at the top of the Andes Mountain Range, the mountains of Colombia are by far some of the most beautiful in the world.  The city of Bogota sits at about 8,000 feet above sea level. 

4.       Crispeta-This may seem random but in my opinion totally worth mentioning.  Crispeta dulce is a gift from the gods.  At most movie theaters here you can get crispeta salada (salted popcorn) or crispeta dulce (sort of like caramel kettle corn) for about $2US.  Let me say that the crispeta dulce is to die for.  I go to the movies about once a week largely for the crispeta dulce. 

5.       Panaderias-Just about every neighborhood has a panaderia where they bake fresh bread and sweets every day.  Pan de bono, almojabana, pan yucca, pan integral, croissants are all freshly baked every morning.  I myself prefer the chocolate croissants from my local panaderia. 

6.       Empleadas-There are literally thousands of women in this city who work as empleadas or maids ready to clean your house from top to bottom, cook lunch from scratch and care for your children at extremely reasonable rates.  An American could get really spoiled here. 

7.       Cultural-Bogota is a large bustling metropolis with many international visitors but it has not forgotten its heritage.  There are great museums like Museo del Oro, theater productions and the national library houses the largest collection in Latin America. 

8.       Kid friendly-The city has lots to do for kids.  One of our favorite places is Parque Museo del Chico.  This is sort of like a mini Central Park.  It has an old colonial style wall enclosing it so your kids cannot escape!  In a large city where space is at premium parks like this one are great because they offer grass for your kids to run and play on.  There is even an old London style double decker bus with a little café inside of it. 

9.       Day/weekend trips-If you get tired of all that Bogota and its mild climate have to offer you can always take quick trip down the mountain to places like Melgar where the weather is warm and you can relax and swim at one of its many resorts or “fincas”. 

10.   People are really polite, like in Texas-Last but certainly not least people are really, really polite here.  This is something you don’t often find outside of the southern United States and this Texan appreciates that.  Everyone says thank you and please, yes sir, no ma’am.  It is a chivalrous, respectful culture and I love that because it makes me feel like this city is my home at least for the foreseeable future. 

Day 3: A letter to my younger self, that I hope one day my daughter will read.

A letter to my younger self, that I hope one day my daughter will read. 

This morning as I wiped chocolate snot off of my daughter’s mouth (she was eating Oreos, don’t judge, yes I do let her eat Oreos for breakfast, she sneezed hence the chocolate snot) I started thinking about my journey to becoming a mother.  Everything leading up to this chocolaty snot moment made me who I am today as a person and as a mother.  Now that I am a mother I think a lot about the advice and many lectures that my mother gave me as a girl and it kills me to say this but I wish I’d listened to her more.  Yes, that’s right, she was right about a lot of things.  If I could go back in time and speak to my young, bratty, pre-teen self I would tell myself three things: 

1.      Your mother is right about a lot, and no Lindsay you don’t know everything.  So be humble and shut up and listen. 

When I was a little girl and people gave any piece of advice my response was always, “I know that.”  This was especially annoying to my grandmother and now I really do understand that it was so annoying and today I’m sorry for being such a know it all.  It’s painful but true, the older you are the more life experience you have, the more you know.  Being humble enough to listen to your elders is difficult for young people and most adults too for that matter.  But you really can learn a lot by just listening. 

2.      All of the things that you want to do in the name of rebellion, or experimentation or just plain old teenage angst really will hurt you and impact you for the rest of your life. 

That party that you want to go to, or all of that beer that you want to try, and the minimal clothing you are sporting; yeah, all of those are bad for you in one way or another.  Bad things will happen at that party, probably as a result of all of that beer you are going to try and tube top just isn’t classy. 

3.      Enjoy the journey, enjoy every moment of it and don’t be in such a rush to grow up.  You will be a big girl one day and you can sleep as late as you want and eat as much chocolate as your heart desires but these younger years will only happen once and the journey is so beautiful.  Newsflash, the destination is actually pretty boring at times.  The youthful, carefree journey is so much more fun.  Not knowing what is ahead of you is actually the best part of the journey. 

This advice is all very cliché; every young woman has heard it a thousand times from a nagging mother; but its cliché because it’s true.  I’m pretty sure my mother told me all of the aforementioned a million times and I just didn’t get it or didn’t want to get it.  I made a lot of mistakes along the way, but I did learn from them as I’m sure my mother and her mother before her did so I hope that my daughter reads this one day listens to just a little bit of it.  This is just hope though, because if she is as hard headed as me (there is already evidence supporting this) she will not listen to a word of it.