On Being a Stay-at-home Mom'Me' ...

It's not easy to describe the last week --- this much anticipated transition from executive to stay-at-home mom.​

It's not been particularly interesting ... not much craziness going on in our household right now.

Oh, wait.  There was the unexpected memo from school to parents that led to an intense and panicked research project on lice infestation and delousing.​  

It's not been particularly exciting ... though I did 'high-five' myself when I managed to unclog the kitchen sink on my own.  ​Amazing how much one can get accomplished with a bottle of Drain-O and zero beaurocracy.

Light reading ... ​

It has been relaxing ... I read something cover to cover other than the Daily Mail for the first time in a long time (granted, it was more of a beach read than a literary classic, but still ...).  I've even joined a book club; our first meeting's in May.  Which reminds me, I must go buy Life After Life, by Kate Atkinson.​

It's been productive.  IKEA shelves for the laundry room got bought and installed on the very ​same day ... compounds that provide carpenters are a definite reason to consider moving to the ME.  Not a single expletive was uttered during the entire installation process.

It's been different, definitely different.​

For starters, I drop kiddo off at school every morning.  She is at that great age where she is young enough to still want me to walk her to her cubby, but old enough that I really appreciate it.  I love this part of the day.​

Except for last Sunday.​

That was the day I didn't use the crosswalk to get back to my car (parked in the lot across the street).  The cross walk monitor called me out in front of the entire lower elementary.  ALL the first and second graders eyeballed me.​

That sucked.​

Secondly, I come home every morning and do pilates on my living room floor.  

Actually, I come home and watch Karen Karter do pilates on the flat screen; I mostly lie on my yoga mat wondering if it's trick TV.​

Come on.  Surely she jests when she tells me to transition from a lying to a sitting position with ​'abs taught, arms straight out', rolling back down disk by disk, pushing navel to spine?  And breathing all the while.  Yeah, right!  I think there must be an invisible wire tethered to the back of her Lululemon crops.  I reach for another bon bon.

The latest in 'kitty cool'.​

Thirdly, 'helmet head' is my shadow, my new constant companion.  ​Having overcome the initial discomfort and humiliation of her cone, she seems to be embracing her 'Jetsons' style and is back to overturning the potted plants, knocking puzzles to the floor and chasing madly after pencils (???  don't ask - her little pink catnip-scented toy mouse has been virtually relegated to a dark corner ever since she discovered the fun to be had rolling an HB2 Faber Castell around the house).

Through all the excitement, I've tackled spring cleaning with a vengeance; out with the old!  The household purge strategically follows the professional purge.  I am secretly ridding our house of all McDonald's ​Happy Meal toys and Budweiser shorts whilst kiddo and Smilin' Vic are off at school/work.

It feels great, liberating.​

Well, if I'm being completely honest, the cleaning's not going as well as I'd anticipated.  Our maid's annual leave just happened to coincide with my first month off.  

So I've wasted a lot of time this last week scouring the deepest recesses of the laundry room in search of toilet cleaner and reacquainting myself with the mop.  I'm having a hard time with the temperature settings on the washing machine (the Turkish instruction manual doesn't make it any easier).  Smilin Vic's underwear has not been ironed in over a week (I swear, our maid irons EVERYTHING!).  And only today did I learn that plants need watering.  Seriously, moment of silence ... "Sorry about that, little dead plants."

​Last Thursday, people from work threw me a going away party which was really nice.  I got three watches.  Apparently someone thinks I've got time management issues.

Anyone have the time????​

And I got a LOT of flowers.​

These died too ... :-(​

Now that that page is completely turned, I'm trying to refocus, make our home the priority, throw my energy into that.

I'm trying to be more creative.  Unfortunately ​the organic blueberry and tuna wraps with pesto sauce did not go over well in kiddo's lunch.  (Just kidding ... there was no pesto sauce!)

I'm trying out new things, like going to the grocery store in the middle of the day.  It wasn't quite a 'shoppers of Walmart' experience, but I was quite amazed at the number of people from work who seem to enjoy the mid-morning shopping experience as well.  Apparently the weekly HR meeting is now taking place at Carrefour.​

I'm trying to be more frugal.  I'm thinking next week I might try a kitty litter facial.  Don't believe me?  Youtube it.  Folks, believe me, there are people out there with time on their hands and ​some weird initiative.

I'm ​trying to socialize more.  This week alone I've gotten to know Abdul Rahman the compound gardener, Abdulrahman the compound garbage collector, Abduraman the compound carpenter, and Abdalrahman the compound plumber.  (I hope I got that right.)

All in all, it's been a fairly smooth, uneventful transition to stay-at-homedness.  And don't let my glib tone fool you into thinking I'm not appreciating every single moment.  I'm a happy camper right now.  Stress-free and loving it.  ​

I think I'll hold on to that feeling for just a little while longer ...​

Pyramids in the ME ...

I've added a new block at the top right-hand corner of this page.  It is a link to total self-absorption and belly-button gazing...  it will lead you straight to the true, indulgent, peacock Me!  But at the same time, if you're sick of Me in the ME, it might lead you to a few far more entertaining and less self-indulgent bloggers ...

"F" Me in the ME! ...

No need for a disclaimer on this one ... bear with me and you'll decipher it soon enough.

A few weeks ago, Smilin' Vic, Kiddo and I were seated at an upscale restaurant, enjoying a leisurely and rather costly meal.  We had fibbed to get kiddo in ... minimum age is 10.  On our way to the restaurant we grilled her mercilessly:​

Us:  "How old are you?"​

Kiddo:  "Seven."​

Us:  "No, you're not seven.  You are TEN.  Do you understand?  Anyone asks, you are TEN.  Let's try again.  How old are you?"​

Kiddo:  "Seven."​

Us:  "For goodness sakes, you are TEN.  Just for tonight, you are TEN!"​

Kiddo:  "But that would by lying, Maman, and you said I'm never supposed to lie."​

Me:  "I lied." ...

"Just bear with us, ok?  It's a white lie. If we don't lie tonight, we can't get into this place, and that would be horrible.  So 'how OLD ARE YOU'?'"​

Kiddo:  (Crosses her arms against her chest, extreme look of disappointment as she tries her best 'I expected better of you' look on me) "Hmmmmph.  Ten, I am ten years old."​

Us:  "That's good, better, now let's practice a few more times ..."​

Anyhow, we made it in, and no one bothered to ask her age.  Once she got over her initial disillusionment at being born to lying, scheming, conniving parents, she was actually quite stoked at her newfound maturity.  She spent the evening trying to do things that made her more "ten-like", leaning in to me and quietly asking "Is this how a 10-year-old would hold her fork?" and "Since I'm 10, can I go to the bathroom on my own?" and "I don't think 10-year-olds have to eat what their parents tell them to."  ​

But the reality is a 7-year-old can only fake it so much.  So as kiddo was enjoying dessert and Smilin' Vic and I were finishing off the last of the wine, she suddenly gasps and exclaims "That man over there just said the "C" word."

Now just stop for a minute, and picture Smilin' Vic and me simultaneously spitting out our finest red ...​

Smilin' Vic:  "Shhhhhhhh!  Where did you hear that word?"​

Kiddo:  "Well, you say it all the time Papa, but you told me not to say it."​

Now don't get me wrong, Smilin' Vic's repertoire is occasionally peppered with profanity, a throwback to his years in the barracks.  But some words he has forever relegated to the literal battlefield, the "C" word which immediately springs to mind being at the ​top of the list.  So Smilin' Vic is visibly flustered.  "I DO NOT, nor have I EVER, used that term in our house."

Kiddo:  (loudly enough for fellow diners to hear and cast disdainful glances our way)  "But you DO, Papa; you say the "C" word all the time.  You even said it about another driver when we were coming to the restaurant."​

Smilin' Vic:  (well, at this point he's not actually saying anything out loud ... he is silently, mentally going through his entire collection of curse words, spewing them in his head, where only he can hear them and appreciate their true significance ​... he does this regularly ... it is a kind of mantra for him in those moments where he is particularly flustered - but I can almost hear the expletives myself, so loudly is he thinking them).

I have never heard Smilin' Vic use that particular term; I'm thinking we may be on the wrong track and I need to diffuse the situation.  I lean in to kiddo.  "Kiddo, can ​you whisper the "C" word into my ear?  I promise I won't tell anyone."

Kiddo leans in, cups her little hand around my ear and whispers softly:  

"Crazy."  

"That man said "crazy" maman, and he said it two times, and Papa's not telling the truth, because he says it too, he does, I swear."

And this folks, is what you get when you try to do the right thing by teaching your child not to use certain words.  We should have known; this isn't the first time this has happened.​

There was the time kiddo announced to her nursery school teacher that her nanny uses the "F" word all the time.  

While the "F" word can be considered offensive in North America, it is brandished quite liberally, and more often used as a common adjective than a curse.  But here in the ME, it is construed as extremely offensive.

Our poor nanny used to pick up kiddo at daycare every day, and really couldn't understand why everyone was looking at her funny.  

When her teacher brought it up ​casually one morning as I dropped kiddo off, I had to explain that the "F" word in our house is actually:

"Fat."​

Our nanny is Philippina, and like most Asians we've met here, has no compunction whatsoever against using the word; going so far as to gleefully tell me or Smilin' Vic we've gotten very "fat" upon a return from Italy or Switzerland or another of those indulgent countries that serve up the most delicious, unctuous, cheesy, and creamy of dishes.  We've had to explain a few times that while it may be quite normal in this culture to tell someone they're fat, most Westerners tend to find it rather offensive, actually more offensive than the 'other' "F" word.

We also have the "S" word:​

"Stupid."​

The "D" word:​

"Dumb."​

The "H" word:​

"Hate."​

But yesterday, I heard kiddo conspiring with her two friends by the pool.  They asked me to pretend I didn't know them, to pretend they were just teenagers enjoying a day out.  I thought it was the cutest thing ever.  

They lounged in their chairs, taking in rays.  They introduced themselves to me, explaining that they were triplets.  Their mother had a very difficult birth, so they had to take the bus straight from the orphanage to get money and jobs.  One was an artist engineer.  The other was a doctor who cleans beaches.  The last went to beauty salons, but was also an artist.  

Then a little boy walked by with his mom.  I heard kiddo exclaim to her friends: "Hey, I know that guy, he's my friend."  The second girl answered: "Yeah, he's in Grade 1, my mom was his substitute teacher once."  The other girl whispered:  "Your friend's HOT."​

Once I had recovered from falling off my own lounger, I realized that

"HOT"

is now the new "H" word in our house.  ​I watched the three girls (who I did not know) saunter over to the boy and his mom.  They engaged him in a few moments of 7-year-old flirtation as he looked at them eagerly as only an oblivious 6-year-old boy can ... he was obviously thinking that since there were four of them, they might be able to play a game of chicken in the pool.

So I'm reconsidering our strategy.  Kiddo's seven, going on ten.  Perhaps it's time to let her expand her repertoire and welcome her to the real world.  ​We've introduced the white lie, we've taught her that she actually can point as long as she's pointing at something, not at someone.  So maybe the time has come to introduce her to the concept of "term appropriateness based on context".

Or we could ​shelter her for the next twenty years and do our darndest to hold on to the toddler forever.  I like that option, I like it a lot.  

Fortunately, I love kiddo more.  And I want her to lead a productive life in society, be able to mix with the masses without coming across as a complete dork (though in fairness, I've made it this far with a fair amount of naïveté to my credit).  So chances are I'll start letting "stupid" slide into conversations, as long as it's directed at things or situations, not people.

I will say this:  the ME has been a blessing to us and to her as far as allowing her to be a kid.  She is probably enjoying her childhood innocence a lot more here than she could in the West.  Kids here get to remain kids here a lot longer ... remaining blissfully oblivious until now to the "F" word of my forefathers.  

And now you know.  "F" me in the ME is all about weight, folks, not about getting screwed (oops!  is that the new "S" word??????).

​7 going on 10 ... the artist engineer, doctor beach cleaner, beauty salon artist ... and HOT is the new "H" word ...

Ferrar"ME" ...

It was the logical next step in the quest to capture bad guys ... you just know this all started with one female cop putting up her hand and saying "I'm not sure the Lamborghini is for me; I was thinking a different color, something that's been around a little longer, something that says fast with class."  

Click here to link to previous post on the introduction of Lamborghinis to the police fleet ...

And when you live in a part of the world where money is absolutely not an issue, the police captain just naturally replied "Ok, we can work on that.  Let's look at the options here.  How would you feel about a Ferrari?"​

It's impressive to see affirmative action at work in the ME ...​

Only in the Middle East ... where else could you say you've been pulled over by a female police officer in a Ferrari?  Doha Gulf Times, April 26, 2013

Release Me From This Cone of Silence ...

An alternative title to this post could well have been something along the lines of "My Cat and I Lead Oddly Similar Lives".

It all started for her about three days ago. A day like any other here in the desert ...

dusty

sunshiny skies,

furnace-like wind

warm breeze,

horns blaring

birds chirping as we

rushed like lunatics

enjoyed a leisurely morning preparing for another day in Doha.

The only thing that was different for kitty that morning was that after breakfast (ours, not hers - kitty was fasting) she got crated.  She doesn't mind her crate; most nights she sleeps in it, on a pink fluffy comfy pillow.  It is the perfect kitty cat dream machine.  I'm not sure if cats dream, but if they do, this would be the perfect place to do so. 

Then she got loaded into the car along with Kiddo, lunch bag and backpack.  Not kitty's most favorite thing in the world, car rides, but sunlight was filtering in through the holes on the side of her cage, and it was warm, and the car was humming along smoothly, and soon enough she was purring contentedly in the back seat, simply enjoying the ride.

Quite oblivious to the fact that I was about to drop her into the hands of individuals who would leave her dreamless, disconcerted and ill, in that particular order.  And I was doing so willingly (though not happily).  ​

​Many scientists believe that cats do dream, or at the very least relive memories as they sleep.  

She would be given anesthesia that would put her under for a few hours and blissfully erase any memory of the obligatory surgical slicing and tugging she was about to undergo.  (I wonder if it will forever erase any dreams she may have had of kittens bouncing about and scurrying excitedly around her.  Do cats dream? )

She would awaken from that surgery confused and weak.  Unsure of what atrocities she had endured, unsure of why she should be feeling such numbness and all the while feeling such discomfort, feeling so agonizingly wretched.

Then she would come home; be given food to eat and water to drink.  But she wouldn't feel like eating or drinking anything.  She would just want to sleep, to make the numbness/dull ache go away.  And then she would notice the cone that had been tied around her head.  A cone that was restricting her movement, annoying her, driving her mad.  And she would scratch and paw to no avail, and finally open her mouth to  ​

ROAR!

....

Meow!

.... squeak?????

​How the hell did I get myself into this mess?

Yes, at the end of the day, our kitty found herself battered, barren and silenced.  Through no choice of her own ... only because people did what had to be done; cats are subjected to spaying every hour of every day.  The vet said she likely lost her voice simply because she is a little more sensitive than the average kitten.​  

I brought her back in for a check-up today.  The vet said she is doing fine; her sutures have taken, her wound is healing nicely.  But he gave her a course of antibiotics for her throat, just to be on the safe side.​  He said he would remove the cone and the stitches in seven days.

This evening she managed a little ​meow; ever so slight, but we all heard it and cheered her on.  We keep on telling her the cone will come off soon, and she will get her roar back (which is kind of a lie, because her meow has actually never been much more than a squeak, but we're trying to motivate her, build up her self-confidence).  And she's seeming more sprite, not quite bouncing around, but moving a lot quicker than she has the last few days.  And she's cuddlier than ever.  Like we're her safe place.

​And I'm struck by my own dissection of the last two or three years, the one that left me feeling oddly numb/bruised, listless, empty, confused, disoriented, frustrated.  The one that caught me unawares.  The one that silenced me.  And I think about the cone around me that I pawed at constantly, futilely.  The cone that friends and family told me would eventually come off.  The one that did in its own good time.

So I sit here tonight, gainfully unemployed, with my kitty as my muse.  

The cone that started to become undone when I handed in my resignation has finally and completely come off this week.  

With no cone, it's a lot easier to look around and see what's going on around me.  

​At barely 4 lbs, surgery was hard ... but she's tougher than she looks.  You probably can't see the fiercely huge and ferocious fly she took on in this shot.

I feel my voice returning too, just like they promised me it would.  It feels funny though, and I've been saving it this week ... almost like I'm afraid if I actually use it I'll lose it.  

Or maybe it's just because I have all the time in the world.

For now I'll focus on my kitty.  She needs some love.  And some inspiration.  I think I'll go remind her that the cone of silence will come off.  And that she will

ROAR

again!