The Christmas Turd

I love Christmastime.  I love the music; I love the lights; I love choosing presents; I love the warm furry feeling deep down inside; I love the traditions.  I love it all.  And now that our daughter is almost two years old, I love the idea of creating new traditions for her to grow up with; starting with the Christmas turd. My husband grew up in a house with very consistent traditions.  They included the same menu, the same people, practically the same discussions, and definitely the same arguments year after year.  This was particularly apparent when he was away on a study-abroad program one year and called home to wish everyone a Merry Christmas.  Without missing a beat, he said he was able to replay the entire day's events, despite the 4,000 mile separation., down to the post-dessert discussion of how the presents should be opened, oldest to youngest, or youngest to oldest.  For being so far away, he said it was nice to know exactly what he was missing.

Conversely, in my house growing up, our traditions were a little more loosey-goosey.  Some years we'd be with family, others we'd have friends over, some we'd just spend at home.  Sometimes we'd go to church, sometimes we wouldn't, sometimes we'd have turkey, sometimes we wouldn't.  The one consistent point was that my mother would be madly wrapping gifts until the wee-Santa-hours.  Then inevitably after opening all our gifts Christmas morning, she'd pause and say, "Wait a minute!" and dash off, only to return with a gift she'd forgotten to wrap and had stashed in a "safe" spot back in June.  It always made for an extra touch of excitement and wonder.

Friends of ours have an annual Christmas ornament contest among wide-spread family members.  The goal is to find, or make, an ornament that best summarizes their past year.  They can highlight a specific event (a move, a birth, a marriage, a surgery, etc.), or get creative and summarize their whole year.   Then on Thanksgiving, or the day after, all of the ornaments are shared (some via photos or Skype), and a pre-selected committee gets to decide which is that year's winner.  My friend said, "We always try to play up the sentimental aspects of whatever the ornament represents--if you can make a judge cry, you'll probably win."  (Good to know.)  Regardless of the named winner, however, everyone gets to have a nice collection over the years to reminisce over.

Since getting married, our primary holiday tradition has been collecting ornaments from all the places we've been.  Even from places such as Oman, where Christmas ornaments are not readily plentiful, we have a lovely silver Omani dagger keychain that works perfectly.  So every year when we get out the tree and start unwrapping the ornaments one by one, we get to remember our gondolier from Venice, or our Santa on a lion from Tanzania, or our White House ornament from Washington, DC, or even our humuhumunukunukuapua'a fish from Maui.

And over the years, to add to our collection, my mother has been slowly passing on ornaments from my childhood.  She started with my favorite, baby Jesus in a walnut shell.  And every few years she passes on a few more; the bristly hedgehog, the yarn Santa, the paper ballerina pig, and most importantly, the Christmas turd.

Now, I didn't grow up calling it this.  It earned this title when my husband unwrapped it one year and exclaimed rather harshly, "Why do we have a Christmas turd?"  Prior to that, I had always thought of it as a dried seed pod (of the lotus variety) that my mother and I had coated with glue and large glitter pieces one year when I was about six.  Over the decades since, it never occurred to me that it might be seen as anything but sparkly and homemade; until now.

But that's the fun thing about traditions.  They're highly personal.  One person's cranberry jelly with the crenelated can markings, is another person's snow ghost pie; or staying up for midnight Mass, is another person's "Harry Potter" marathon.  So, whether your traditions revolve around the guests around the table, or the meal on the table, or whether you unwrap gifts according to age or rank, they're what make Christmas special to you.

And in our house, our traditions may not be completely consistent, and I may be more inclined to be doing the midnight wrapping frenzy, but at least we'll always have the Christmas turd (and the accompanying "Oh, Christmas Turd" song my husband sings for weeks).  And not only will I happily pass the ornament on to my daughter, but maybe we'll even make some fresh Christmas turds of our own (of the lotus variety, of course).  Traditions must be passed on, after all.

The Mother's Day Magnanimous Gesture

This past Mother’s Day was my second. However, it was my first where I got to spend it with my husband, as we were separated due to complications getting our daughter’s passport last year. While I wasn’t expecting fanfare and fireworks, I also wasn’t expecting what I got. But to quote my husband, I got a “magnanimous gesture.” Now, when you think of a devoted husband’s magnanimous gesture to the love of his life, the mother of his child, the yin to his yang, you may be thinking something sparkly, or at least highly fragrant, or possibly comes with a masseuse for the day. I was. Instead I got a proclamation from the father of my child, in celebration of this annual praising-of-mothers day, stating that he had “hosed off the dirty cloth diapers.”

He was, in fact, so pleased with himself that he sauntered around the house for the better part of 30 minutes singing operatically to a Mozart tune, “Hosing out the diapers, poo poo, pee pee pee pee pee, Quarterly we hose out the pee, poo poo, pee pee pee pee pee,” and such, laughing with great mirth. I did not join in. When I hose out the diapers, the remaining forty-plus times during the week, it honestly never occurs to me to praise myself with song. Maybe it should, he was having a blast.

To give him credit, marginal as it is, he did bring me flowers later in the day. But hearing of friends getting to have a spa-day, or breakfast in bed, or a day-all-about-them, left me feeling a little empty on the celebratory scale. Granted, they didn’t get serenaded by their betrothed, but then again, they also didn’t get a pee-pee song sung at them. I guess it’s all in how you look at it.

Two days later, however, his magnanimous gesture took root and he found himself on 100% Daddy-duty (and doody). I was out cold with the flu, fever, chills, aches, pains, moans, groans, you name it, I felt it. But, without me even having to ask (not that I was conscious enough to ask), he took the day off and played stay-at-home-dad. For the first time in fourteen months, I didn’t lift a finger for my daughter all day. Frankly I couldn’t; it was just too heavy.

As I flitted in and out of consciousness, I heard my daughter’s laughter as Daddy pretended to eat her broccoli, or heard her clapping with glee when he pretended to chase her down the hall, and I heard spontaneous songs about toast and Chuckles the kitty. When I rejoined the living later that night, I realized that for all the hilarity I had heard, I didn’t once hear the Mozart diaper ditty. “I guess I just didn’t have time,” he said. Ahh, reality, you take all the mirth out of life.

I resumed the stay-at-home role the next day, and had time to reflect on this Mother’s Day week. Granted, my actual day was not that grand or envy-inducing, but despite his lack of planning, when the need was dire my husband was there and my daughter and I were well-cared for. So, would I rather have a spa day, or a husband I can rely on and trust? I choose the latter, with the caveat that a spa-day would just be the cherry on top; oh, and no Mozart, please, I’m finding he gives me a bit of a rash.

Mouse Games II

The last time my husband left on a business trip, Bean was five months old and I was still getting my head, feet, and hands around this parenting thing. I had great trepidations about being a single parent for three weeks, but in the end it all went fine and Bean and I survived and dare I say, even thrived. However, when my husband recently left again, I felt secure in my parenting tasks, but it was the time-filling tasks where I had my doubts. So, lists were made, crafts were lined up, and Kuwait destinations for exploration were selected. We were set!

The first day of his absence didn’t start off well, though. Bean was a grump most of the day (either due to the arrival of four new teeth, or because she was missing Daddy), and after finally getting her to nap in the late morning, I happened to walk by the kitchen and saw it was flooded. There was water everywhere. I waded through it and tracked it back to our washing machine, which was happily spewing out waves. My first instinct was to grab towels; not the best idea (requires continued use of said-malfunctioning washing machine), but then I remembered the floor squeegee we have and I proceeded to fight back the waves and direct them to the drains in the floor.

I will admit that I did a second load after this. I wasn’t sure whether something was actually broken, or I had somehow over-loaded the machine. Following the next round of wave squeegeeing, I knew I hadn’t overloaded anything. Since I typically just call my husband when something breaks or needs repair in the apartment, I called his boss to get the number of the repairman. They were there within an hour and discovered a loose hose in back. They fixed it and suggested I let it dry fully for a few hours before using it again. I wasn’t taking any chances; I let it dry for 48 hours. The towels can wait.

Our time-filling list of things to do included “create Kuwait bucket list”, which I did, “visit malls”, which Bean and I did and you can read about all the excitement in my last mall posting, and “daily outings”. This last one was a bit nebulous, but I figured I had the car, I had a curious 10-month-old, and I had 12+ hours a day to entertain her; so we managed to go grocery shopping every few days by buying very little at a time, we walked along the Gulf and on our favorite shaded walking path in Mishref, we did quite a bit of mall walking, and we window-shopped and looked at things we couldn’t afford and wouldn’t know where to hang if we could afford them.

We did some pool-bobbing with a friend and her daughter, and Bean learned how to splash and pedaled her legs under the water like a budding Olympian (hey, high expectations are good for a child). I attempted to water our little garden three times, but for whatever reason the hose was always dry. I did manage to cart some watering-cans from a distant hose, but Bean’s patience level that day had been reached, so the garden only got a dribble. But regardless of the drought, I harvested seven pea pods and kept my eye on one small zucchini. However, based on the rate of growth, I wasn’t planning any large dinner parties anytime soon.

While at home, during Bean’s naptimes, I puttered around the house and attempted to address my list of tasks, crafts and other time-suckers. I bought some anti-slip decals for our shower and artfully peeled and stuck them down. During my next shower, as soon as the water hit them, I watched as seven of the nine decals wiggled loose, floated a bit and then gently rode the current to the drain where they all collided. Gotta love Chinese-made and Kuwait-bought products! I finally started to put together the mobile I designed for Bean’s room a year ago. And I attempted to burn down a jar candle that had broken during the move. So every day, for hours, we had geraniums and cedarwood wafting through the air. Yes, folks, that is the smell of expat-excitement.

All in all, it wasn’t horrible, but admittedly I was counting the minutes until my husband returned. It wasn’t that I needed his help with Bean, though it’s ALWAYS appreciated, and nothing unmanageable happened with the house, but my evenings were boring. And the last time I was bored I got a new job, self-published a book, and applied to grad school. And frankly, I just don’t have the time or energy for all that right now. So, welcome home, sweetie! Oh, and watch out for the safety decals in the shower.

Cats in the Cradle... and the Stroller and the Crib and the Swing...

There are many old wives’ tales about cats and babies; none are very positive. “They’ll suck the breath out of the baby!” “They’ll smother them licking the milk from their lips!” But I don't recall hearing anything about, "They'll claim the changing pad for afternoon naps." And yet, that's what we're dealing with.

From the beginning, I wasn't concerned how our three boys, Chuckles, Ricky and Louie, would react once we brought our daughter home, but I was certainly curious. Chuckles is highly self-assured and confident, so I knew he wouldn't be too put out, providing his feedings and cuddlings weren't drastically altered. And despite his size and indifferent attitude, he's great with kittens, so I thought maybe he'd be intrigued with the baby.

Ricky is our sweetest and nicest cat. He's a lovebug who never raises a paw, even in self-defense, and would ideally like to live on my husband's shoulder. I knew we'd have no issues with him. Louie is our Egyptian and he's semi-parapalegic (though he doesn't realize it so we're not telling him). He doesn't like strangers, so I knew it may take years for him to adjust to the baby. Maybe he'll come around for her high school graduation.

But over these last ten months, Chuckles and Ricky have proven themselves very patient with the baby; Ricky even allows her to “pet” him, which typically results in her having a handful of his fur. Chuckles will allow some supervised petting (we’re trying to teach her to pet with the back of her hand; progress is slow), whereas Louie remains at a safe distance, plus six feet. I think as her mobility and speed increases, Chuckles and Ricky will adjust quickly and will soon learn the benefits of staying in the "Louie zone"; just out of reach. So, we definitely have no smothering concerns, however this "possession is nine-tenths of the law" attitude may need to be addressed post-haste. In the meantime, I'm going to look into a feline forklift.

Dating Difficulties

Dating was never exactly fun for me. Whether it was the pre-date stress of deciding what to wear, or trying not to sigh audibly when my date spoke of his robot factory in his mother’s garage, or pretending to listen attentively while another prattled on about his ex, the Duchess of Hades, my dating history was rife with more tales of woe, than tales of woah. But that all changed once I met and married my husband. Not only had I finally found the love of my life, but I figured I’d never have to worry about dating difficulties ever again. Apparently I was wrong.

We managed to have several years of difficulty-free-dating, however, our recent dating issues resulted from the arrival of our daughter. My husband likes to claim that we had our first date, post-parenthood, at the six-month mark. I disagree. Yes, it was the first time we’d gone out together without our daughter, yes, we had a specific date and time scheduled, and yes, we even had a driver. The fact that the reason for our outing was our long-awaited trip to the Kuwaiti DMV doesn’t seem to factor in to my husband’s thinking. Of course, I will admit that no where is it stated that a date cannot involve bureaucracy, cow-crossing road signs, a trip out to the edge of the desert near the new highway construction, three other people and a written test; so maybe I’m the one with the definition issues.

Having visited DMVs throughout the U.S., as well as in Egypt, and assuming that a Kuwaiti DMV was no different, we decided it was probably no place for a baby. So we asked a friend to watch our daughter for a few hours. Thirty minutes later, as we were racing along in the van, with our driver and three other eager wanna-be-legal drivers, my husband reached over and grabbed my hand. As delighted as I am typically with spontaneous gestures-of-affection, this time I merely smiled at him and said, “This still doesn’t make this a date. Now pass me the study guide.”

In the end, getting our Kuwaiti licenses was similar to that of getting our Egyptian licenses; you sit on a well-worn couch in some official’s office while people come and go and he stamps a lot of things; you drink scalding highly-sweetened tea (though in Kuwait, I was not offered any, only the three men were); then you shuffle in your group to the next office where another official with a desk-full of stamps proceeds to wildly stamp away as you wait. Then you’re done. No test, no questions, no nothing. License received. And not surprisingly, they managed to misspell all of our names.

Our real first date, according to me, occurred on our anniversary, almost two months later. Again, we asked our friends to watch our daughter, and dutifully dropped her off early with all her piles of accessories. Our plan was to go to dinner at Marina Crescent, grab dessert at the Chocolate Bar for an added layer of decadence, and then head back to pick her up.

Best laid plans and all… we neglected to fully comprehend one external factor: it was Eid al-Adha, the four-day Muslim holiday celebrating the Hajj and Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son. So, like us, the rest of Kuwait City (aside from our babysitters) also had designs on heading out for the evening.

So, for the next three hours, we crept along the Gulf Road, routinely being passed by motorcycles and teenagers on bicycles, even some strollers. We finally made it to the Marina Mall, and proceeded to get stuck in the parking lot. I actually started to have some mini panic attacks; there was no where we could go, there were parked cars on either side, and a line of awaiting cars that stretched out behind us and in front of us, leaving us truly and absolutely stuck.

We finally were able to reach an exit and promptly threw ourselves back into the non-moving traffic jam on the Gulf Road. After two-and-a-half hours (and about 20 miles) of this non-stop hilarity, we finally made it back to our apartment. By this point we were starving and in a complete fit of desperation, we parked and walked in to the Sultan Center grocery store, where I got a Taco Bell bean burrito and my husband grabbed something at McDonald’s. I wanted to leave and just go get our child and return home, but my husband wanted to eat there. So we perched on some white plastic chairs and ate our “anniversary” dinner while being surrounded by delighted screaming Arab six-year-olds. Rather surreal.

Over an hour later, we stumbled back into our apartment, sleeping baby in tow, put her to bed, and collapsed on the couch. We did manage to have a successful third-attempt at our first post-parenthood date. But this time we brought the baby, managed to pay our cable bill along the way and got our Chocolate Bar goodies to go. Not necessarily the romantic candle-lit dinners of our past, but there wasn’t one mention of robots or the Duchess of Hades, and for that I will be forever grateful.

Happy Fifth Anniversary, dear.