Dubai and Istanbul: Working Mom, Will Travel–Part Five

I turn 42 this week.  I have two kids, ages two and under.  I haven’t ruled out a third child and wonder what the world would feel like with three kids under the age of five. I work in international development and am based in Almaty, Kazakhstan, although, the job is regional and has me traveling to capitals in every direction.  In the next month, I will travel to Astana, Tashkent, Dushanbe, Ashgabat, and Bangkok.  Having put my foot down, I will send surrogates to Bishkek and Shymkent–declaring that enough is enough. Who can find those cities on a map without asking the precocious fourth-grader in the house who is currently studying geography to find them?

Five months into this assignment, we have come to realize that Central Asia feels like the last stop on planet earth.  We often ask ourselves if there is a less known, less visited, less on-the-way-part of the world, where would it be.  Many friends and colleagues have traveled to all corners of Africa, China, New Zealand, the tip of Chile, the innards of Afghanistan, and even out to the tail of Alaska and yet never considered a visit to the heart of Turkmenistan. The contender is likely Antarctica.

This post is part five of what I have learned from traveling so much as a working mother, with an unconventional home set-up.  That is code for I don’t have a stay-at-home partner who joyfully manages all childcare and doctor’s visits while putting her career on hold for five to seven years while the children grow their way into day-long kindergarden.  I have a supportive partner, a day time nanny, a night time nanny, a housekeeper, and daycare which I juggle while each week in a new location and often with an on-location, sight-unseen, nanny who works out of the hotel. We have all become expert travelers with four separate frequent flyer numbers on Air Astana–the remarkable local airline.

Recently, we traveled to Dubai and Istanbul for work.  We bombed one trip and aced the next.  Sadly, it was impossible to hire childcare in Dubai–literally impossible.  I canvassed my 900+ Facebook friends for leads.  Although many friends had lived there or had friends still stationed there, no one knew of an available baby sitter.  Next, I tried the U.S. Embassy Community Liaison Office, which everywhere else I have traveled has been my one-stop-shop for finding childcare vetted and recommended by other American families.  I got a grim email from them stating, “We offer no assistance in finding childcare.” I should have known right then, that I was setting myself up for failure.  This is an outlier and it was the first red flag.

When we arrived in Dubai, we visited all the must see sights: the tallest building in the world, the aquarium, and the beach.  I asked the concierge for childcare, they had none–second red flag.  I was finally given the contact for a local agency that could assist for rates that were quadruple what I have paid anywhere else.  They sent me a scale with different prices for each nationality.  I opted to keep searching.  I went to the salon at the hotel and asked the manicurists who represented Vietnam, Philippines, and India if any of them had a friend, cousin, or sister looking for a two-day job babysitting out of my hotel room.  Not one, had a single friend or relative available to work part-time–third red flag.

I slowly came to understand, that no one comes to Dubai without a job.  Each person working in Dubai came with an agency from their home country with a job and a visa tied to that job.  They all worked six days a week and didn’t know a soul who didn’t.  Finally, feeling sorry for me, the ladies in the salon recommended a woman, who lived in staff housing behind the hotel who could care for Santi and Zadie in her apartment along with their kids, although I might not be able to enter the complex to inspect the premises.  My stomach turned in knots.  I said thank you, but then, no thank you.

Finally, a sweet, compassionate, kid-crazy Vietnamese woman named Queen offered to help us out on her day off and my partner took both kids to the beach on the second day of my conference.  She has a full time job as well, so this wasn’t ideal, in fact, we consider our attempt to wing it in Dubai, as working women who travel, a reminder to never take the band again on a work trip.  But really, who can leave them behind?  Not me, at least not yet.

We did get a bit smarter for our Istanbul work trip.  Thankfully, the U.S. Embassy offered a long list of names, with references to call on.  We found a nanny, whose main family was on vacation for the dates we were in town.  We were able to each work during the day, while the nanny took care of the kiddos in the room.  We had her come early enough so we could each hit the gym, both knowing that self-care is the key to sanity.  We also protected our couple time by building in a day-time date for us to roam the markets without two kids hanging from our back and chest, we each got a new primary color pair of knock-off city walking shoes and a trip to the Hammam.  Sometimes, it all comes together and it clicks.  Childcare is nothing less than everything when both adults work and one job requires constant travel.  I know, I know, wrong job when I have small kids.

On the brighter side, Zadie has visited nine countries in nine months.  Santi loved the Bosphorus tour, and we gobbled up all the Turkish delight, halva, and baklava in sight.

This week, I am turning a page in this book and taking my first trip to Astana on my own.  This will be the first night in my life as a mother that I don’t see one or both of my kids.  I am ready for it and am grateful for what just might be the perfect birthday–a night alone, a full night’s sleep, and a trip to the gym in the morning that doesn’t involve pumping, translating my requests into Russian, and that constant worry that something could be wrong.

Working Mom, Will Travel.

I am a working mom. I have two adorable munchkins–Santiago who recently turned two and Zadie who is now a giggly six-month old. I recently returned to work after taking two years off to start a family. I made both children from an anonymous donor whose sperm I shipped to Colombia via Fed ex. And found my partner while dating internationally pregnant. I do things the unconventional way.

This season is about figuring out how to get this small band of four up and running when Mom is back at work as an international development professional posted to Kazakhstan with regional responsibilities that require 50% travel and a partner with a full time job.

This week the band set up our traveling home in New Delhi where I had a week long professional course with colleagues from Indonesia, Uzbekistan, Vietnam, and Washington.

Here are my first few observations about the transition back to work.

1. Clothing. Transitioning from my two year sabbatical spent between pregnant and post pregnant yoga pants to professionally acceptable attire is a challenge. My body is deflating back to some post pregnancy new me. (I gained 100 pounds between the two births). It seems I have traded one uniform in for another. Black, high waisted, stretchy exercise clothes are out and four pairs of sliding sized Target black pants are in. I am between sizes and shrinking so each pair represents a different me. I bought five work appropriate black shirts that I can still nurse in (zippered back, v neck, loose wide neck), and a black Moby wrap that I can wear every day to the eight hour sessions.

I keep the Moby wrap on whether my daughter is in it or not. It is sort of my new necklace or shawl–an accent piece that makes the outfit.

2. A well packed purse. My purse is in fact the free bag I got from Obama Care with my free pump. In addition to my business cards, mascara, and nice pen it is filled with the necessities: a medella swing pump, milk bags, teething rings, a diaper and change of clothes, breast pads and a changing pad.

3. This is our second week on road. Last week we were in Tajikistan. Here are the tips I can offer to any other mothers who travel for work and want to burn their whole paycheck on living into their extended breastfeeding plans.

–Reserve a suite. The band needs two rooms to spread out in, play in, nap in. Be sure to get a roll away and a crib even though everyone ends up in the king size bed in the night.

–Hire a hotel bound, sight un seen, nanny before you arrive. Have a string of back ups. This person makes or breaks the system.

–Find a laundromat. The kids will get sick, blow out diapers ruin travel outfits and swaddles, and you having one means you can pack light.

–Quickly challenge cultural norms in the hotel lobby and professional meetings around nursing or even tandem nursing in public. You will instantly understand the ecosystem. Five baby crazed moms will come to your side quickly, offer to hold, shake and shush, on demand and vociferously praise the babies presence in the meetings. The others will quietly keep their distance.

–If the hotel manager suggests you nurse in your room, invite him to consider revoking that request in light of the popular movement to stage Nurse-Ins at establishments that try to shame mothers into nursing in out of sight and inconvenient places. (Contact la leche league before landing).

–Finally, when 5 p.m. hits, and the baby-toddler-nanny-partner hot potatoe shuffle ends. Strap the kids on your chest on back, jump in a Took-Took and hit the markets. Never pay the asking price.

Dear Zadie: (Six Months Old, Almaty, Kazakhstan)

Dear Zadie—

Today is your six-month birthday. You have been ready to eat for weeks, grabbing at bowls, gnawing on apples, smacking your lips as you watched us eat. This morning we began your march towards a nutritious solid foot diet with peeled apple slices. Apples are indigenous to Almaty, Kazakhstan—your home on this half birth day. More than anyone, maybe more than even you, Mary has been looking forward to feeding you superfoods. She is making a celebratory dinner of pumpkin, beets, and spinach to get you started on a hearty diet of fruits and vegetables. The rest of us may add a little kashi or buckwheat to the meal to round it out with a local grain.

I am so proud of us for making this goal of six months of exclusive breastfeeding, even if it has been a challenge. First, you had to fight off your brother for time at the trough, learning early on how to push him out of your way when needed. Second, you have had to figure out how to regulate your intake when I went back to work at four months. And finally, third, you learned to take a bottle. We are still working through all of these challenges, having Santi eat less, preserving spaces for you to eat alone, and paying close attention to your weight as you try to eat as much during the day when I am not here as you do when I am here. Currently, we have lost a little ground. In the past two months you have gone from the 60^th weight percentile to the 25^th. Today you weigh 15 pounds. We would like to see that get up to 17 or 18 lbs as soon as possible. And don’t you worry, I have lots of ideas.

Thankfully, I have a job that allows us to spend time together during the day. For instance, last week, while on a regional field trip outside of Dushanbe, Tajikistan, you came with me to a meeting on a topic very close to your heart. We studied and learned about a maternal and child health project in twelve rural districts of southern Tajikistan. We learned that the project is using village health care workers, mothers-in-law, religious leaders, and husbands to encourage their wives to exclusively breast feed until six months, to add complementary food after that date, and to feed this highly nutrious liquid to children in this undernourished area until two years of age. We all felt proud as we ate a lunch inclusive of all the food groups as both you as our six month representative and Santi as our two-year-old demonstrated the teachings they are promulgating in the village. It is meetings like this, as well as the training course I will attend in India next week that allow me to spend more time with you in the day than if I was just working in an office far away from home. I think the key to getting your weight back up in the next six weeks is more time together, as well as keeping a breast milk filled bottle around when I am away for a few hours.

In other news, this move to Kazakhstan seems to have been easiest on you. Santi got Rotavirus and still has culture shock. Mary and I are still trying to stand up a home, learn Russian, and squeeze in a date night while training multiple nannies in multiple countries. None of this seems to faze you. You have rolled over, become an avid grabber, and are now the newest solid food eater in our band. I am so happy to be your mom. So happy to get to wear you to work and sleep with you at night. And so very glad I went to extraordinary measures to bring you into this world.

Here is to the next six months!

Love,

Mama

Kazakhstan: Ashtanga Yoga in Almaty

I walk out of my building in what looks like the dead of night. It is 6:30 a.m., the sun will not rise for two more hours. Yellow streetlights illumine the canal path covered in two inches of fresh snow. I can’t hear my Yak Traks securing each step in the powder. There are no sounds, but my breath. If it were later in the day, I wouldn’t smell borscht boiling in the apartments, nor hear perogie dough being rolled, nor even horse meet sizzle on the grill. The snow matts out all sound and smell. My vision remains intact. My fingers feel the inner lining of my waterproof gloves. I taste my dry mouth and reach for an ever-present bottle of water to satiate my unquenchable Almaty thirst.

By the time I get to Sat-pa-e-va, a main Street, enough cars have driven by that I can walk down their tracks in the dimly the road. I am walking towards the Almaty Ashtanga Yoga Studio. My heart flashes back to my yoga practice in Bogota, the dominant colors in my imagination switch quickly to the plush green from the banana tree leaves and bright blue from skies filled with chirping birds  and wispy clouds a welcome replacement for the Kazakh winter palate of grays, whites, and blacks. My mind remembers how Colombian Valentina and Russian Valentina used to travel an hour in the morning in the dark from from Chia to practice in the Urban Ashram, while I was able to simply roll out of bed, walk down the hall, and unroll my yoga mat in the living room. This morning I am the one who travels, in what seems like night, to the studio in the snow. Getting out of the house this early, with Mary, Zadie, and Santi at home takes resolve, dedication, and love of the practice.

Walking in to the studio is a homecoming. The room is small and adorned with familiar icons. Sergey, the teacher, reminds me of my Colombian teachers: Juliana, Aura, Marcelo, and Carmen. I unpeel my winter layers and relax into the simplicity of an out-of-home yoga studio. It has been over five years since I practiced in a dedicated studio and three years since I practiced without a child inside me or sitting next to the mat. I am ready for this change. This morning, Sergey is guiding a led class. Hearing the Sanskrit terms for the postures and the numbers leaves me feeling hugged, cared for, and in a familiar setting despite the fact that all the words in between these well known terms are in Russian. I finally ask Sergey what vydykhat means. I should have known given its frequency, it means exhale. Moving through my sun salutations I wonder if the women on my right and left will become my friends like Paula and Patricia did. Standing in samstiti, my focus rests on a picture of Patthabhi Jois, the founder of the practice. I remember when I was first learning the practice in Thailand, May 2009, when he passed.  My recently pedicured winter toes, lift and then squeeze the mat as I move into trikonasana. I made a yoga community in Bosnia, Pakistan, and Colombia when I was childless, partnerless, and familyless. I had more energy. I wonder if my role here will be to participate in communities like this one and a similar one at work rather than start my own. My body sings the Alleluia chorus as I stretch my quads and calves, my lungs shout out Slava Boga in Russian as I take deep breaths; my soul knows it is landing, settling, grounding in this new foreign land. Posture by posture I are making a new home here.

Kazakhstan: The Green Bazaar (Day Two)

The melting snowflakes leave Santi’s long eye lashes in clumps, his head is falling backwards as he sleeps on Mary’s chest. We stroll the green bizarre buying fruit and vegetables as snow dumps on our giant puffy coats. Zadie’s face is pressing against my chest as her little body, bundled in her cozy purple snowsuit is zipped inside my Canadian M coat. She too sleeps, blissfully unaware of the cold. We sample chewy dates from Iran, sweet dried apricots, and frigid local red apples, “You can hike the wild apple orchards in the spring,” my colleague from the office says as he negotiates a kilo of dates at a stall in a mixture of Russian and Kazakh. We listen carefully as he masterfully barters the price down for the Iranian dates, the sounds are deep, heavy, harsh. I listen for words I might know from Bosnian. The snow falls hard, gathering around my tennis shoes, and forms and a three-inch cushion that absorbs the smells of the bizarre. I could cross country ski to the office if I had my gear. My colleague peels open a tangerine and passes me a section, the juice is ice cold and stings my teeth.

At the next stall, I take a picture of the robust Central Asian woman selling imported egg plant, her fur hat outlines her face, a down coat wraps her plump body, half her teeth are covered in gold plates. The word for eggplant in Serbo-Croat pops in my head, “patlidzan.” I say it out loud, my colleague hears me and explains that three of the Central Asian languages have Turkik bases, like some words did in Bosnian given the Ottoman influence. “An arc forms from the border of Turkey to the border of China with the languages moving between from a Turkik, to then Slavic, and finally Mongolian base. Kazakhstan’s history and identiy has been shaped by multiple conquests over the past 900 years. The Soviets only account for 70 of those years.” I am surprised to see stall after stall full of kim chi, spicy and sour vegetables, and cold carrot salads to meet the demand of the large Korean population in Almaty. While it is customary to take Kazakh babies out for a daily three hour stroll in winter, no one is wearing their babies at the market. Santi wakes up, squirms at each wet flake and groans as if saying, “I want to go back to tropical Colombia. I am not cut out for this. Take off my mittens right now. I speak Spanish.  I want to play soccer not sled!” Watching him suffer as he falls back to sleep, I realize how soft he is—hardly cut out for a heavy Soviet style winter. He had never played in snow. One after another, four Kazakhs pass Santi and without asking if it is okay, pull his pant leg down to cover the centimeter of his exposed calf. They can’t stand to think he might be cold. The Kazakhs are decked out from head to toe in stylish, warm, winter wear. A stall keeper comes over to me to pull Zadie’s hood out in front of her face so the flakes can’t land on her precious skin. Zadie has a Russian spirit and will fare just fine in her first winter.

We skip the dairy, meat, and cheese aisles and dip into a noodle restaurant run by the Uyghur minority. As Mary and I unpeel our coats and the babies, the owner rushes over, makes an impromptu crib out of thick blankets and four chairs and suggests we put Santi and Zadie down to keep sleeping and then throws more blankets on top of them. When the noodles are served, I thank her through our translator and am on the look out for horse or camel meat.  The multi ethnic nature of Kazakhstan is only one of many surprises I discover on my first day out and about.  Sixty-three percent of the population is ethnic Kazakh, nearly 25% is ethnic Russian, and the remainder is a mix of Ukrainian, Uzbek, German, Chechens, Koreans and Uyghurs.

Like Australia was for the British empire, Kazakhstan was used by the Russian empire to transfer colonists, dissidents and unwanted minorities to labor camps by Stalin for their heritage or beliefs.

The distance from Colombia to Kazakhstan feels as far as the space between Earth and Jupiter. Plush banana trees in rain forests, open air buses full of salsa dancing, skin showing, cheering Latinos, and the familiarity of Spanish is light years away. I can’t count to ten in Russian, I can’t read one letter on the Cyrillic menu, sunny flowering trees have been replaced with bare tree limbs covered with snow. Open toed shoes and bare shoulders covered over with thick furry whole head shielding extra extra large hoods and knee-length, down, black coats. It feels as though someone spun the globe and I landed on the dead opposite side of the planet. I had forgotten how diverse culture can be, how important it is to know a few words of the local language and how steep the learning curve could be after nearly five easy years down south.

Kazakhstan: One Long Day–St. Louis to Frankfurt

St. Louis to D.C.

Wednesday, 11:30 a.m.

Write before I read the other blog posts. This is rule number one. Write when the child in your lap sleeps. This is rule number two. Rule number three is the most important, write everyday, no matter what.

With four-month-old Zadie asleep in my lap on the Boppy, her mouth gently using me as a human pacifier I start one of the two paperback books I brought for our three day journey: “Paula,” by Isabelle Allende. I literally tore, the second book, “The Writing Life,” out of an Annie Dillard reader when packing 1450 pounds of personal belongings in Bogota before we left. I like to travel light and sadly that never seems to work out.  We just checked nine bags and two car seats in St. Louis which we will have to pick up in Frankfurt and put in lockers while we overnight to rest and stroll the Christmas market after the transatlantic flight.

Mary and I pinky swear that next time we travel, everyone gets a backpack, nothing more. With carry-ons and babies dangling from our bodies we have a total of 15 appendages–eight of which weigh 50 lbs.

This move to Kazakhstan has been in the works for a year. This family has been brewing for three years, and for five years I promised myself the sabbatical that comes to an end this Monday.

Blessed with the fertility of a Meyer, my mom has nine grand kids, I was able to get pregnant quickly and string two maternity leaves onto either end of my year off. Two kids nursing under two meant I could donate surplus milk to babies in a Colombian Nicu, and to two daring breast-is-best mothers I found in St. Louis on the Human Milk 4 Human Mothers Facebook page that links donors with donees. I plan to head up the exchange in Kazakhstan.

(Time to feed. More on the next flight).

D.C. to Frankfurt

Wednesday, 18:55 p.m.

The dinner service is over, the lights are out and Zadie is asleep. She is down again, on the ever present Boppy in my lap. Mary is wearing Santi at the back of the plane in the galley–I can hear her shushing him from my seat in row 40.  The trapped air on this mile long 777 has just cooled off after that steamy entrance where everyone was jostling for overhead space. My hands smell like French fries. Looking around I see young children and grandparents alike with headphones on watching everything from Frozen to House of Cards. We have six hours and 34 minutes left to fly, I might as well settle in to my book.

The oddest moments of the D.C. to Frankfurt flight have been when I had to front carry both babies–Santi on my chest and Zadie in my hands as Mary loaded luggage or went to the bathroom. I looked like a woman who desperately needed a hand and someone always stepped in to give it.

Santi turns two on Saturday, the day we land. He has gotten so old so quickly, able to hustle up and down the plane aisles without losing his balance, comprehending Mary’s instructions in English as easily as mine in Spanish, outgrowing his footy pajamas.  He is ready for pre-school, Russian, and a ton of play dates. The boy needs more stimulation than his team of female care providers offers.

Zadie just hit four months. On track, she rolls from front to back, giggles, and wants to be worn facing out. She has patiently waited her turn to be the main gig, sharing center stage with Santi, that will change when he goes to school and we can both focus more on her.

I am in culture shock having said good-bye to our nanny–I am yet to parent without one and am dreading the reduction in free time that comes with this territory.  Another big change is going back to work on Monday, I still can’t imagine: trekking through the snow in zero degree weather with chains on my boots; fully outfitted in my work costume with heels, make up, and jewelry for the office, and becoming a parent who just sees her kids during the bookends of her days and weeks. Mary and Zadie will be tackling the inevitable task of taking a bottle while I pump for my daughter at the office. All of these changes come on Monday. Today is Thursday, we will land in Frankfurt and live 1000 lives before that day comes.

Frankfurt

Thursday, 21:39 p.m.

Thursday disappeared like smoke rising from the Christmas market stalls in downtown Frankfurt. While we met plenty of older women happy to hold a baby, carry a bag, or even throw out a diaper the Scrooges of today’s adventure were the airport and airline employees. Mary walked up to the TSA official in STL when we started the journey with Santi arching back off her chest, a killer heavy backpack with two computers weighing her down, and a biker bag for her purse filled to the brim. She juggled this and that to pull out our four passports and boarding passes. She barely held them in her hand without dropping them when the TSA official, with two free hands, sitting down, with nothing to do, and no none in line behind us looked at her juggling and extra 80 pounds of baby and gear and said, “Can you please place each boarding pass in the corresponding passport.” Mary responded dryly, “Sure, not a problem,” and dumped everything on the ground.

Next, we boarded the flight from St. Louis to D.C. It was the size of a toy plane, I think we actually had to shrink to fit inside of it. There were only three seats across the aisle, two on one side and one on the other. The four of us had two seats for this flight. We jammed our selves into our narrow row, stuffed crayons, baby books, and wipes in the seat back pockets, hung Zadie’s black and white horse for eye stimulation, kicked our oversized carry-ons under the seat and had just exhaled when the flight attendant shimmied down the aisle to tell us we couldn’t sit together, “One of you is going to have to move. If there is an accident these rows only have three oxygen masks.” Mary jokingly responded, “If we crash, I will just get up and move.” He didn’t laugh under his breath we heard him say, “By then it will be too late.” We dug out half of our gear, moved it ten rows up and played baby shuffle the entire flight, knocking into the elbow or knee of every person between 3C and 12 A.

Finally, on the D.C. to Frankfurt flight the whole squad of United flight attendants were foul. Mary was rocking Zadie to sleep with Santi asleep across the two seats next to her when they announced it was time to prepare for landing which includes lifting the tray table and putting your seat back upright. Mary’s seatback was back and a tray table was still croweded with Santi’s water, an extra breakfast meal, and crayons. The flight attendant, without warning, ejected her seat upright throwing Mary’s head into the seat in front of her, she almost dropped Zadie who was now awake. Then the flight attendant glanced at the still full tray table and heaved a disapproving and perfectly audible, “ugghhh,” and promptly dumped everything on the table into the garbage.  When it came time to exit the plane, we were inevitably the dead last, by at least ten minutes.  The whole crew stood watching us pick up every sweater, glove, sock, and water bottle in their tightly buttoned navy blue uniforms and even said out loud, “Hurry up!”  Lady, we couldn’t hurry if we tried.  I should have asked her to change Zadie’s poopy diaper.

Don’t worry, we didn’t let that get us down, we had to keep our spirits animated to wrestle nine 50lb checked bags and two car seats onto the three rolling carts we rented at baggage pick up and wheel them to the baggage check while not bruising the children attached to our torsos. Mary pushed two full carts while I pushed one and we walked by 100s of people who looked, then stared, and didn’t offer to help—until a kind man/thief offered to assist Mary with her second cart. Even though we quickly realized his primary motivation was to get the three Euro from returning the carts, we were both found the humor in the theifs condemnation when he paused, before attempting to rob us, to suggest we put Santi’s winter coat on. Santi looked cold to the half-helpful, half-shady man.

Having dumped our luggage, we got in a cab and were next reprimanded by a German taxi driver for taking Zadie out of her Moby to feed her. He warned in a thick accent, “Traffic is bad, what if I have to stop fast, we only have ten minutes, please keep her strapped to your chest.”

By the third time an anonymous German stopped us on the walking street to pull Santi’s sweatpants over his exposed calves, we began to worry if we should turn the kids into Germany’s Child Protective Services and retire as parents.

We made our way to the Christmas market, treated ourselves to hot wine, let the little munchkins sleep on our chests, and waited to check into our hotel room. Next stop Almaty.

Dear Zadie (12 Weeks and Six Days) Life in Saint Louis

My sweet little girl Zadie,

You are growing too fast. Your second month whisked by and I can hardly remember what happened to it.  We spent most of it in Bogota, we had three delicious visits from Marlie, Julie, and Grandma Karin.  We said good bye to all of our dear Colombian friends, teachers, doctors, and started our life with Mary–or Maria as your brother calls her, in St. Louis.  You took your first international trip to the United States where you visited the White House and roll played with me during case studies at a USAID training course while feeding in the Moby. Most importantly you really turned up the volume on your smile.  You love to stare in our eyes, open your mouth wide, and light up.  This look of yours was our first zinging connection.

I took you for your first naturopathic doctor’s appointment last week in D.C.  Although the scale wasn’t precise, it looks like you are in the 92nd percentile for your weight.  This stands in stark contrast to your brother who is in the seventh percentile and appears to be on a hunger strike–refusing even his beloved macaroni and cheese.  We even took a picture of you both wearing the same newborn outfit that he can still wear.

It appears that the dearth of tummy time in your first twelve weeks isn’t much of a setback given how much we wear you which requires significant neck control.  You seem strong and anxious to walk.  Mary keeps saying you will skip over crawling and walk at nine months like she did.  I remind her that Grandma Karin would frown on this noting, “Crawling is critical to brain development.”

Now that we are settled in the U.S. for six weeks, more specifically, in one home in STL, I hope going to start tracking your key movements. I am in search of the perfect cell phone application to facilitate my ability to note how long you sleep, how much you eat, and most importantly, when you pee and poop.  We switched today to full time cloth diapers (except at night) and to practicing elimination communication at least every time we change you throughout the day.  I also hope we will be able to have you live diaper free in the apartment.  This seems like it will be totally doable for two reasons.  First, and the most important, is something about being here in STL leaves me with extra energy, motivation, and interest.  My life is simpler in here than it was in Bogota and while I still need a few hours a day to get my memoir proofread and edited as well as to organize our next international move, I just know that I have more bandwith, more brain space to take this on.  Nothing makes me happier, after a good night sleep, and a flash of your smile, than to catch your golden liquid in the potty.  As soon as I can I am going to buy three or four more potties which is the key to diaper free living.  And second, while in different developmental zones, it feels like you and your brother are on parallel tracks.  For instance, now that we are a family that takes a traveling potty to the zoo and awaits Santi’s verbal cue “chi chi, chi chi,” before we cheer him on as he struggles to pull his sweat pants down next to the jungle gym it is a simple additional task to use that same potty to let you EC in the children’s zoo next to the mini barns.

I love you little girl and hate the thought of going back to work,

Mama

Guest Post: Grandma Karin’s View From Bogota

Dear Family and Friends,

It is Thursday in Bogota and I have a few minutes to relay my observations on this trip with Amy.   On my second flight down I was able to start reading Amy’s memoir and I couldn’t put it down for about five hours.  I gobbled up her impressions of our time in Wheaton and at her colleges with so many stories about her friends and our family.   Don’t worry about anything she said about you.

Even though we all know how much she likes to write, I was astounded at the amount of thought and analyzing, and memory of detail she put into this.  To me, it was fascinating to read and remember our times as a family.  It made me laugh and squirm and cry in places.  To me there were so many scenes that had to be included in a movie that would be sad, fun, tragic, entertaining, hilarious, and thought provoking for sure.  I could think of so many people that could benefit from reading it like: youth pastors, Moody and Westmont professors, pastors, parents of troubled kids, her school friends, travelers to Islamic countries, and obviously young people with uncomfortable struggles of sexual identity. She tells me it will be a very long time before the book is published and the majority of it will be cut and rewritten.  I’d like to see it printed now, unabridged, in a friends and family version.  There are so many good stories from our intact family years. Believe me, the stories fade as life goes on.  And think back on our ancestors – to even have a paragraph about each of their lives would be so enriching to us now.

Even as I write this short email I dissolve in tears thing about my fears for Amy and her babies going to BFE.  She keeps correcting me and saying that it’s not Egypt mom, its Kazakhstan! Thank God she’s out of Pakistan, which made Bosnia look like an oasis.

Another incident she mentions in the book that makes me cry every time I think of it is when she was at Neebish Island last time and Brent asked what it would it take to get her to leave that God forsaken place and she said not until a close friend was killed or she lost a limb.  Brent said she better watch her back for the guy he sends over there to cut off her pinky.

It’s 5:00 p.m. and the packers are still here and we’re supposed to be somewhere.  I told her before, that when I come, I don’t want to go anywhere, just be here with her and Santi and Zadie, but it never works that way.

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Now that I’m back from the evening at her friend’s parent’s home I must tell you how absolutely lovely and welcoming these people are.  From what Amy has told me about this couple and how supportive they’ve been to her, and the father especially, I could barely meet them and thank them for all they’ve done for Amy without crying.  It’s so embarrassing to not get two words out and melt into tears.  I’ve seen her say goodbye to a lot of great friends here and it’s too moving to see.

The people here in Colombia (at least the ones I’ve met) seem admirable and lovely.  The women are beautiful, soft-spoken, genteel and some of the men I’ve met are so polite, adorable, and endearingly sweet. I feel like tugboat Annie around here.

My first morning in Bogota Amy took me to watch Santi and Amy in his group swim lesson with Amy. He’s such a sweet, adorable little white-blond toddler who seems to understand everything in both languages.  But he speaks more Spanish from his nannies and from Amy.

In case you are wondering, Amy is a very good mother.  She keeps a sharp eye on both the kids and the help and has that much needed parenting skill of being able to look ahead and predict what could happen (to endanger her dolls.) She spends a lot of her time writing and doing yoga and when she is engaged with the kids, she is relaxed and focused on them.  The good discipline method she heard about from Jen Piccione takes concentrated effort and follow-thru. (It’s something about the Baby Whisperer technique.)

The babies, as I call them are good natured and laid back.  Santi is into saying emphatically “yes” and “mas leche.” He calls Amy Mama and me Mom (because he hears her call me mom).  He seems to understand English well but is more fluent in Spanish. The first morning we walked to his swim lesson, which was fun and interesting for me to watch.  I predict he will be an engineer from his curiosity about everything more than the swim lesson.  Another day we went to his five-day a week gymnastics class for toddlers, very professionally done, great program and studio. He used to go to Gymboree but this looked way better.  It almost made me think a person could get used to living in Colombia. I asked one of the instructors to explain to Amy why it was so bad to pick up these toddlers by their upper arms and she got a long explanation of the injuries that can be caused. This made me happy.

Zadie is also a little darling, very strong for her age of 11 weeks.  She has incredibly long Behling fingers and toes and I look forward to hearing her play piano someday.  She already knows she has to share her time with her mother as whenever she gets to nurse, Santi is running up to his mama is his strong little toddler voice saying mas leche, mas leche!”  He’s probably seen the nanny/housekeepers cleaning so much that he loves to go get the mop especially if there is an accident on the floor (of some kind.)  Amy has this potty training method where he wears no pants or pull-ups on the bottom and potties are in all the main rooms.  I don’t remember seeing a single accident while I was there (she got this method from something called Baby Center).  For his age of 21 and ½ months he is exceptionally well trained for a boy.  When they go out he wears outer pants but no diaper or underwear and they bring the potty with them.

Going out in Bogota is not for the weak of heart or body.  When you walk anywhere (and Amy walked my legs off – I am still a little sore) you take a chance on stepping in a hole or tripping on a curb that sticks up or a tank trap in the sidewalk. (That is if you don’t get hit by a taxi) they aim for pedestrians and the cars and trucks have the right of way not the pedestrians.  It does help to be carrying a baby though and in Colombia if you have a baby you go to the head of the line in most situations.  Riding in these crappy tin can taxis is no picnic either.  Every day you are in near accidents. Of the eight days I was there, each day I was counting how may more days ‘til we leave that country, if we live thru the taxi rides.

Grandma Karin wears Zadie on the street.

Almost every day Amy took me out to a great restaurant to eat and write or proof read. That’s where she gets so much writing done.  At her favorite restaurant, Masa, she said she was their best customer (it had the best carrot cake I’ve ever tasted) and on our last day, the owner paid our tab.  It was probably a mixed blessing to see Amy leave as she must have spent hours taking up their tables.  Amy had me proof read there while she did some errands.

Though I loved being with Amy and her darlings, it is very good to be back in the good old USA!  From the condition of my nerves while I was gone, I can safely say, it will probably be the last international trip I take.  My not so subconscious concerns over diseases to be picked up on planes went up exponentially and there wasn’t even time to wipe down the armrests and tray tables that Amy and the babies would be sitting in (although I was well prepared with Clorox wipes and rubber gloves.)  Not being able to at least take a swipe at protecting them (we were in three separate seats) just about did me in.

We flew into D.C. on Saturday night and went through an ordeal of over an hour and a half going through customs and immigration with Santi calling out “mas leche, mas leche!” while Amy carried him thru the endless line.  Thank God Gloria (the nanny) was with us.  At one point Amy was carrying both babies, Zadie, nursing in the front and Santi on her back.  People were offering to let us go ahead but the official wouldn’t allow it.  I kept saying ”Feed that kid” and she eventually relented.

On Sunday morning we took Zadie to be dedicated at Amy’s church in DC.  It’s a 99% black Church of God on Third Street that Amy has attended for 17 years when stateside. No princess, even at St. Paul’s Cathedral ever had a more heartfelt dedication from a more loving and welcoming pastor and congregation. Santi was very well behaved for the three hours that we were there and Zadie was a perfect angel sleeping almost the whole time. “Good as gold” Grandma Lovejoy would have said and oh what would she and Grandpa have thought to see these babies carrying on their name in this jumping black church with great music and a New Orleans beat.  When Amy was around two years old, Dad and I went on vacation leaving her and Julie with Grandma and Grandpa in Florida.  After one week, Amy was calling Grandpa Lovejoy “Daddy” (Out of the mouths of babes…was it destiny?).

Love to you all!  MOM

Single Mothering By Choice–Night Time Parenting Two under Two

Or arrived, I explained to him how to help Santi sleep.  ¨Just lie next to him and keep telling him it is time to get to sleep.  You can also sing a few songs.  If he says ¨Mas luz, mas pasta, mas books, mas olla, chichi, or mas agua, just hold your line and repeat, Santi it is time to go to sleep. Don´t let him come out until 6:30 a.m.  He will wake up and say ´mama, bebe, leche´and just hold the party line.¨

In a helpful, chipper, optimistic mood he accepted the challenge and helped navigate the nighttime rigmarole, not even minding that I had forgot to tell him he would be spending the night.  He did not bring pajamas and lay down with Santi in his street clothes.  I then moved Zadie into my room to do our nightly, and manageable newborn shuffle.

In the morning, when I heard Santi marching Or around the kitchen at 5:00 a.m.  I went out and reminded him that Santi needed to sleep until 6:30 a.m.  Or had lost some enthusiasm from the night before and seemed to be convinced, as so often happens, that Santi really needed to be up.  They played for 90 minutes.  I fed Zadie and slept some more.  Or came in my room with Santi at 6:30 a.m. saying he needed to leave to go to work.

¨Amy, I decided last night I don´t want to have kids.¨ Or is 31-years-old.  ¨I hardly got any sleep, always having one eye half open on Santi. And this morning, I realized how little patience I have.  I started the morning like a mediation letting Santi guide me, but when I realized there was no game, no play, no role for me, I got bored.  He just wanted to order me around.  I watched myself lose my patience. ¨

I understood.

Monday night, I thought I had it made.  The night nurse was supposed to be here at seven, Kelly left to move her son to her aunts for a few nights, and I falsely assumed the night would go smoothly.

I got Santi and Zadie vaccinated yesterday.  There could be a whole post here on my mixed feelings about vaccinations.  I will spare you.   But I will say that I wish I hadn´t given Zadie the full treatment that the US Embassy recommends yesterday. It was seven shots delivered in three needles. She reacted terribly, strongly, horribly and I will space the rest out over a long period, dribbling them out one at a time on a delayed schedule like I did with Santi.  Even the Colombian pediatrician I called when she was howling told me it had been too much.

Santi was asleep, Mary and I were on the phone, and Zadie kept waking in pain.  I thought it was from the actual shots in her legs.  When it did not stop, Mary and I got off the phone and the intensity of her wailing got worse.  The night nurse was not here yet.  If Santi woke up crying, needy, it would be too much for me.

The worst part of watching her writhe in pain was how her body arched, how she was stiff as a rock, her body seething with cortisol, and she was so upset she could not close her mouth to nurse.  After thirty minutes, I felt scared.  What will I do for real if Santi wakes up demanding attention?  I don´t know my neighbors, ask the porteros to help.  I called Or, no answer.  I called Paula, no answer.  I called Gloria, no answer.  And I searched my brain. Who else knows Santi well enough to comfort him while I take care of Zadie if he wakes up.  I called Carmen.  She was just back form Italy the day before and still jetlagged.  She thought I was calling to welcome her home.

I gave her the same frightened line, ¨Come immediately.¨ She heard Zadie wailing in the background and was here in five minutes.

We tagged teamed for 90 minutes she shhhed, rocked, walked, patted, and sang to Zadie. Santi did wake up and I put him back to sleep. ¨Bebe? Bebe?¨ he asked concerned.   The night nurse arrived, Carmen and I gave Zadie a bath, something like infant Tylenol which I usually oppose, and she eventually slept straight through the night.

Single Mothering by Choice–Daring to do the Nights Alone. Part One.

Sunday afternoon, 1:00 p.m. Bogota, Colombia–

My dear friend Julie jumps in a cab for the airport.  We had just returned from a memorable Bogota walk: the almond croissant at Masa, strolling down Cyclovia—which I now understand is in L.A.–, passing serious cyclists, kids on pink bikes, skateboarders and a lot of babies.  Martin whisked by, the four-month-old son of Masa´s owners in a baby jogger in front of his father, a nanny pushed twin 14-month-olds while their fit-enough mother sped walk along side.  I stopped her to ask my standard questions, ¨How old are they? How were they born? Which clinic? ¨  The biggest surprise was that after years of trying, and having the twins though invitro, they got pregnant naturally and also have a two-month-old.  She has three kids less than 14 months.  God help her.  Julie said with eyebrows raised, ¨I can´t believe how much information she told you in four minutes. ¨ We walked to Parque Chico, the Bogota classic with geese, a double decker bus that serves pastries and coffee, and where kids can paint ceramic dogs and pigs in addition to swing and slide.  We sat on a bench in the shade, Zadie resting on my chest and continued our three-day-running conversations.  I changed Zadie on the wooden slats, a friend who frequents all parks came by to say hi, and we took Zadie´s most amazing out door picture.  When we decided to get up, Julie offered to wear Zadie.  I said ¨Yes, please. ¨

 

We walked to Parque Virrey that stretches 12 blocks from east to west.  We roamed through three different spectacular muscular feats while peaking in strollers, noticing a zillion kids, like Julie´s daughter Avery, on scooters, and Bogota´s countless dogs off leash.  ¨No leash law here? ¨Julie inquired. ¨No leash law, no seat belts in the back seats of cabs, no car seat regulation and no walk sign at intersections. ¨

 

The first set of fit, young, daring, youth wore all white, stood in a circle chanting, while two members squared off for the Brazilian martial art Capoeira.  Picture two people who look like they will wrestle, doing a lot of kicks that never make contact, all while moving left and right in unison.  I once received a free one-on-one Capoeira class in Chicago, it almost broke me. It isn´t for the weak.  A few steps later we stopped at the Urban Workout, read muscle beach, outdoor gym that all the ripped guys have taken over.  During the week as we zip through the park to gymnastics, 15 men and women do cross fit here, on Sunday´s it is like a skate park for 50 men who want to do Urban Muscle Art. Picture five men, all entering and exiting high bars in strength demanding ways, holding them self horizontal to vertical bars, flipping and jumping like gymnasts on rings. As soon as their biceps give out, a second set replaces them, a third set replaces second set, and so the show goes.

We didn´t have much time but hustled to the far end of the park to see the Cirque de Soleil-esque youth wrapped in long streaming swathes of red, blue, and green fabric that hung 50 feet in the air.  We took pictures.  I will never be able to do Capoeira, muscle high bar, or aerial dance. For now I walk around the park, one day I can hope to run

 

Nearly 1:00 p.m. we jumped in a cab and returned home.

Next, my weekend nanny and I worked on her visa application for the states.  She has an interview on Wednesday.  My fingers are crossed that she will be able to join us.  As Kelly´s schedule no longer allows her to travel.

With the Sunday nanny leaving at 4:30 p.m. I think it might be fun to try one night on my own with the kids—I don´t call in the reinforcements.  I don´t let the fact that they have both been sick deter me. I take the opportunity as a challenge, like something memorable, I imagine it might make a good blog post.  It does cross my mind that the night could be so horrific that my day could be ruined, or worse, the cold I am just running out in front of could catch me and bite me in the ass.  I mean I am all for adventurous mothering, but really, why start with a solo night shift with two kids just coming out of cold hell who both wake multiple times crying a night?  But, this is the night that no one is available for support.  How bad could it be?  Many parents have done it before with children my age.  Some women raise twins.  I decide to try it, accepting that I am a mothering light weight I decided to line up back up help.

I text my friend Or.  He, more than anyone here in Bogota is always offering to help out, play with Santi, give me a break, even if it is just to sleep.

¨Or, can you be on call tonight.  I won´t know if I will need your help until later, but if I get overwhelmed, I want to know I can call someone and they will be here in less than ten minutes. ¨

He happily agrees.  He is an enneagram seven.

I am well rested, I got out and saw the sun, I even took the last hour of of the nanny’s shift to sit at Harry´s bar and post picture of the spectacular dinner Julie and I had at El Cielo.  See Facebook if your interested.  I feel energized, optimistic, and confident.  Kelly will be here at 8:30 a.m.  How hard could this be?