Shout Out to the Expat Moms

I just wanted to take a moment on this (American) Mother's Day to give a shout out to my fellow expat moms.

You are awesome!

You potty train your kids.  Then you teach them how to use a latrine, how to pee in the bush, and what that "little teapot" next to the toilet is really for.

You spend the entire time your kids are in school searching for a functional ATM just to pay their teacher.

You go to parent teacher conferences in your second, third or even forth language.

You go all in for whatever after school activity you can get your child into near your current home.  Ballet?  Drumming?  Mosaics?  We've got this.

You spend countless hours on the internet figuring out how to make something that resembles mac and cheese using local ingredients.

You make Thanksgiving dinner, cheer for the local team during the world cup, buy a goat for the Tabaski feast of your neighborhood and remember to wish your veggie salesman's wife Happy International Women's Day.

You teach your kids your favorite family recipes, and teach yourself how to butcher a chicken using YouTube videos.

You juggle your own dentist appointments, weeks when your spouse is traveling for work, children's illnesses, and work stress without the luxury of a family member to lean on, your best friend to baby sit, or even your favorite beer to pop open after a particularly hard day.

You are your family's rock when a loved one back home is sick or has passed away, even when all you want is to be able to break down and get a hug from your own mom.

You aren't only responsible for passing on your own culture, religion and traditions to your children, but for teaching them how to navigate and be respectful of those of your host country, which may change every two years.

So on this Mother's Day, after a great afternoon with my husband and kids, I am so thankful for my mom, grandma, aunts, and the other amazing women who helped raised me.  I am thankful for my two wild children who keep me laughing, keep my heart full, and have changed me in more ways than I could have ever imagined.  I am also thankful that Bean and Sprout passed out after an afternoon of swimming and that the German managed to get their car seats into the house without waking them, giving me an hour of quiet.  And I am thankful for you, fellow expat mom.  Thank you for sharing my struggles, commiserating with me, being my friend, and bringing up some amazing, culturally sensitive and well rounded kids who, thanks to the experiences and guidance you have provided, will make a huge difference in the place they eventually call home.  To you, I raise my bottle of cheap, local beer and say cheers!  And thanks for keeping the show on the road.

The Outdoor Kitchen, An Exposé

The other day, the German was telling me about our friends who are expecting a baby this summer and just rented a new apartment in Germany.  When describing the great deal they got, he included that "the kitchen is in".

"Oh wow!  That is awesome!  That is going to make things so much easier for them when the baby is here.  They can be cooking while the baby naps, and get snacks after dark without getting eaten up by mosquitoes."  The German stopped me and clarified that he meant the appliances were included.  It was Germany.  Of course the kitchen is INSIDE.  Oh yeah.  Duh.  I forget this.

Because my kitchen is in my yard.

Anyone who knows me has heard me say this phrase... A LOT.  It is like my special forces badge I mentally tack on to my credentials.  "Ecologist and creative mother of two wild, free range toddlers, raising her children to speak three languages in Africa...and her kitchen is in her yard."

In my less gracious moments, it is phrase I use to one up my woe is me complaints.

"I know what you mean, it is so hard to make a dinner everyone will eat when the kids are hungry and crying and asking to be held but you are trying not to take shortcuts so the food is as healthy as possible...and plus my kitchen is in my yard."

"Bleh, rainy season, when you track mud everywhere and have to walk through calf deep water to get to you car...or your kitchen.  Because my kitchen is in my yard!"

"Hot season.  Man I miss America with it's central air where I didn't sweat the whole time I cooked.  And I wasn't outside.  Because now my kitchen is in my f-ing yard!"

It works it's way into most arguments between the German and I, and to be honest most of our arguments tend to be about whether or not we should move.  He loves our house and doesn't see a need to move, which makes sense because he doesn't cook.  In the yard.  But I even sneak it in places where it doesn't belong.  It is my equivalent of dropping the mic and walking off stage at the end of any disagreement.  "Baby, I'm sorry you had a rough day and spent hours in traffic and got puked on by our kid and stepped in dog (you hope) shit on the part of the street that should be a sidewalk if we lived in a country with sidewalks.  I did all that today too.  Then I came home and made us dinner.  In the yard. BECAUSE THE KITCHEN IS IN THE YARD."

But if I'm being honest, truly honest, there are days when I love my kitchen.  Usually these are days when Bean and Sprout are on my last nerve and I can pass the reins to the German, and retreat to my kitchen in the yard.  Sometimes I play the music my mom always played while cooking (The italian hippy mix including Rod Stewart, Janis Joplin and Frank Sinatra) , my phone propped on the window sill to pick up the neighbor's wifi, and dance around with a glass of wine while cooking an old family recipe.  And sometimes I make something that only takes 10 minutes, and I spend the rest of the time sitting on the floor, reading the news and drinking my wine from a measuring cup because there is no way in hell I'm risking going back into the house of crazy to fetch a real glass.  Like a good friend of equally wild toddlers, sometimes that kitchen keeps me sane.

If the German ever asks you, yes, it does take over an hour to make a quiche.

Baal ma

"Mama, look, another little boy at my window! 'Hi boy! Hi!'  Mama, what does he say?"

"He is asking us for money, sweetie."

"Do we have money, Mama?"

"Yes sweetie, we do."

"Let's give him money, Mama."

"We can't honey, because we don't want to support a system that facilitates child abuse."

One of the most amazing parts of parenting an almost four year old is watching Bean become more aware of her world and begin asking questions.  It makes me see things from an innocent perspective, it drives me near crazy some days ("Why? Why? But why?"), and then some days it breaks my heart.  Because sometimes she asks the tough questions and the answers are full of big words and bigger concepts and depressing truths.

Talibe of West Africa have hit the news this week as a new human rights watch report has outlined the continued failure to stop the abuse of young boys sent to Quranic schools Senegal: Decade of Abuse in Quranic Schools.  Every day, as I drive Bean and Sprout to school, dozens of talibe tap our car windows whenever traffic is slow enough.  When you arrive in West Africa, most people will tell you that when sales people or beggars come to your car, just to look straight ahead so they know you aren't interested or aren't going to give them anything.  This doesn't settle well with me, so for better or worse, when a talibe comes to me I have chosen to make eye contact, smile and wave and say "baal ma", a phrase my friend taught me which is roughly "forgive me".

Baal ma

I SEE you.

Baal ma

I won't give you money, but you have my respect.

Baal ma

I'm sorry your parents chose this fate for you, regardless of if they thought this was the only option, or if they think this is acceptable.

Baal ma

I would love to take a picture of your beautiful face, and show the world who we should be protecting, but I refuse to be another person who exploits you without your consent.

Baal ma

I feel so guilty that my well fed babies are filling a bucket with sand and laughter, while you, near naked, fill an old tomato paste can with coins and sugar cubes to give to the person who mistreats you.

Baal ma

I'm so angry that the people with the power don't put your well being above their wallets.

Baal ma

Maybe my spare change could keep you from being beaten tonight or put food in your belly, but I tell myself it is better to give it to a charity working as your true advocate.

Baal ma

I'm ashamed I don't do more for you.

I hope these boys forgive us for not saving them from this life.  I hope my children forgive me for not doing more to protect those who need protecting, and that growing up here will make them better defenders of those in need.  I hope I forgive myself for not doing more.  If anyone knows of reputable charities working for the talibe, please share them.

On excess and old underwear

Of all the changes that moving to a developing country brings, one of the hardest for me personally has been dealing with suddenly joining the ranks of the most wealthy in a society.  When first moving to West Africa, I had all kinds of questions, and luckily met some sympathetic and experienced expats to guide me through some of the basics.  How do you respectfully handle children begging?  How do you have someone over for dinner, or give a birthday gift and not feel like you are showing off?

And then, there are some unexpected questions that aren't as easy to ask.  Such as, how do you throw away your old underwear in a country where everyone goes through your trash?

After six years here, I thought I finally had this last one figured out. Our first day in the States on our most recent vacation, the German and I were unpacking at my grandma's house when I removed a grocery bag from my suitcase and successfully threw it away. "What was that?", the German asked.  I matter of factly replied that it was my old underwear, feeling a little bit caught.

"What do you mean, your old underwear?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, my old underwear."

"But...what's wrong with them?" (he sounded a little horrified and grossed out at this point)

"Well...the elastic is shot in those, and those I have had since high school, and then there are the huge ones from right after I had Bean which had better never fit me again, and the leopard print ones my mom gave me that are just...wrong."

"And you didn't throw these away at home because...?"

"Because I know someone is going to check it out to see if it is still useful.  I can't explain it.  It just makes me uncomfortable."

"Wait a minute.  You just spent a month in Germany.  Why didn't you throw it away there?  You seriously carried your old underwear across three continents just to throw it away?"

"Because you guys have 20 different recycling divisions and I didn't want to ask your dad which bag was for old underwear and have this exact awkward conversation we are having right now, with him."

So how do you deal with the feelings that come with having so much excess when surrounded by people who have so little?  Because really, no matter how much I downsize and purge, I still have so much.  And just the act of purging becomes uncomfortable.  Gone is the ease of anonymously dropping off boxes at Salvation Army.  Most people just give the things they want to give away to their house helper or guard, but even then, what do you say?  "I have so much stuff that it is messing up the flow of my house, so here is the stuff I like the least?"

My first time in West Africa was a bit easier.  I moved there single, with two suitcases.  But still, my first day I was hit with how much I have, and how much value there is in what I throw away.  I walked down to the local boutique, a shack the size of a small closet, and bought a potato and a can of peas and carrots for dinner.  After my meal, I brought my potato peels and empty can out to the shared trash can, and not two minutes later watched out my window as a neighbor ran out to grab my empty vegetable can.

This time, we are here with two kids and a house full of stuff.  And man, do we have a lot of stuff.  From talking with my friends, it seems like a lot of us have these feelings of, well, I'm not sure how to label it.  Guilt?  Privilege?  One mentioned that when she asks her house helper to cook with her, she makes sure to pull the meat out of the freezer before her house helper gets there, because she feels bad about how full her freezer is.  Another turned down the consumable shipment they are allowed through her husband's job, because having two years worth of dry goods laying around just didn't feel right when surrounded by people living day to day.

It's like it multiplies while we sleep.

I'm not sure what the answer to it all is.  For now, when I give things away, I have settled on "We no longer need these things.  If you know someone who does, could you please pass them along".  Life in West Africa has definitely made me appreciate our good fortune.  Even our old socks and kids clothes covered in stains that I wouldn't dream of donating back home are needed and wanted by someone here. And living here has definitely opened up my imagination to the dozens of second uses for things I used to thoughtlessly throw away.  I'm not quite up to German recycling standards yet, but I'm working on it.

Home

It was my first day back in West Africa after 5 months away, and my first car drive to run some essential errands.  I greeted my neighbors, successfully explained my plan to our guard, checked the seat and mirror settings on the car, and set off on my own. My confidence was pretty high. I pushed my way into the first two traffic circles, swerving around the taxi trying to play chicken with me with a smile and thought, "I've got this".  My first mission, get some phone credit.  I saw a phone card salesman and rolled my window down, pulling over to the side.  "Bonjour!  Une carte de credit pour cinq mille, se il vous plait!" I said as I put my SUV into park and promptly squirted the guy in the face with wiper fluid, the car jolting forward and almost running over his feet.

"OH MY GOD!  I'm so sorry!  You see, I have been driving my mom's Dodge Caravan for the past few months and forgot where the gear shift was!  I mean, Entschuldigung.  Shit.  Pardon!  Excusez-moi!  Shit."

I purchased my card completely embarrassed, and headed to the next stop, officially reminded that I am a bit out of my element and thrown off balance just about everywhere I am.

We've been home for two weeks now.  Home.  It is a difficult concept to pin down at this stage in our lives.  Is home in the States, where my mom and I spend afternoons full of laughter hitting all the thrift shops?  Where my grandma patiently prepares for our visit all year, and we arrive to a fridge full of all our favorite foods and Bean and Sprout spend calms weeks cuddled up with her reading books, baking cookies, playing cars and dolls with her on the carpet (carpet!  wall to wall carpet!), and rushing off to their baths so they are out in time to watch Wheel of Fortune before bed?  I have this perfect image of Bean running naked from my grandma's bathroom, where the big tub is, yelling to me over her shoulder, "Hurry up mama!  Let's see what Vanna is wearing tonight!"  Or is it in Germany, where Opa is in the middle of his jam making season but still takes the kids on daily three hour walks into the next village and they come home exhausted and flushed, rattling off all the animals they saw in cute, if imperfect German?   Where our Christmas was full of snowmen, warm fires and mulled wine?  Or is it here in West Africa, where we have, for the time being at least, built a life of our own?  This crazy, cross-cultural smorgasbord life where we have friends we've missed and a routine that makes sense for us and our own pictures on the wall.

I keep getting the same question from everyone, "How does it feel to be back?", which I answer with as much enthusiasm and honesty as "How is your dissertation coming?".  I always say, with a halfhearted smile, "I am adjusting.  We are getting there.  Only one bag left to unpack!" because the truth is as complicated as my graduate school career.  I have zero inspiration and motivation to finish my dissertation, but am excited by the prospects and fleeting ideas I get about it.  I miss my family so much I can't look at a picture of my grandma yet, but I like being able to make a cup of coffee in my underwear.  I miss every day life being easy, but I like it being just the four of us, together.

I always have a period of adjustment coming home, where I muddle through language and learn to fall in love with the culture again.  I try to focus on the not so perfect things back at our other home(s), like that horrible jet lag when traveling to and from the States, and the lamp in my father in law's guest room.  Oh that f-ing lamp.

This lamp.  Oh this lamp.  Fifteen years ago it hung over a 

coffee table.  Now it hangs, at brow height, over the outside 

corner of the guest bed.I have hit my head on it, at least once, every 

time we have visited for eight consecutive years.

And then, I do what I always do when I return after a long absence.  I tear up a room in our house and completely redo it.  I think it is a kind of renewal for me, making this my home again.  I give away things with a frenzy, move everything around, sell furniture just to buy something different.  It drives the German nuts.  This time, I'm moving my office back down to the guest room in case professional inspiration strikes.  I'm choosing optimistic return to nomal.  One day, I will finish my dissertation and live the perfect balance of work, family, friends and place.  Home.  I am adjusting.  Anyone want to buy a full sized bed?

Renewal.  New nail polish, a new tattoo, and a new 

coffee cup from a sweet friend.

The Expat Girlfriend

It was the end of the first week of Bean and Sprout's swim lessons.  We are on vacation back home in the States, and I had been casually greeting the mom of the little girl whose lesson is before ours all week.  Today she hung back and we made small talk for ten minutes or so.  I mentioned that we were here on vacation, that we come back a few times a year to stay with my grandma, what our jobs and educations are, that we were planning a few days at Disney, etc.  As the lesson ended, I started gathering up our things and dressing Bean and Sprout when she suddenly blurted,

"Well, let me give you my number, because maybe we can get coffee.  Do you have a car here?  It doesn't matter if you don't, because I can come pick you up!  And you know, maybe when you are gone I can check on your grandma for you, or take her to lunch sometimes.  And let me get your email address too, because then you can let me know the next time you are going to come to town and we can all go to Disney together!  Let's just rent a vacation house in Orlando for a week!"

I'm sure this poor woman has scared off one or two potential friends with a similar speech, but luckily, I speak expat.  And I get it.  That desperation that comes from going too long without peer conversation.  I get it.  It turns out, she is from Central America and her husband is from Europe.  They met in California in medical school, and now she finds herself out east with no friends or family.  Her husband works long hours and she stays home with their daughter worrying about how and when to restart her career.  Is she "wasting" her education like her in-laws say?  Will the job market forgive her for taking time off for family, for letting her spouse's career take the front seat for a while?  Are these tantrums normal?  And is there anywhere to get some decent ethnic food around here?  Yeah, I get it.

In fact, I have made the scary speech before myself.  It usually starts innocently enough.  I spy someone I have never seen before at the grocery store looking for cheddar, therefore she must be new here. What plays out in my head is like that scene from 101 Dalmations where Pongo is looking for a mate for his owner.  She looks to be in her 30's.  Native English speakers!  Oh look, her kids are around the same age as mine.  Crap, Bean just gave him stink eye and yelled, "I don't like you".  Wait, wait a minute! He hit her on the head with a baguette and they worked it out!  He can hold his own!  Now if only her husband...here he comes now.  He looks normal!  And he just made a joke!  It wasn't funny, but it wasn't sexist or racist either!  The German could definitely tolerate him!  Then I walk over, way too skippy and say much too quickly and loudly,

"HI!  My name is Awa!  Are you new?  What neighborhood do you live in?  Do you have a playgroup yet?  Are you busy Thursdays?  Because I know some people, and we have coffee on Thursdays!  Have you been to the coast yet?  We are going for New Years Eve.  You should come too!  And then you can meet my mom!"

I made just this spiel to a perfectly pleasant blond woman with a three year old son and 8 month old daughter not too long ago.  I gave her my number, but she didn't call us.  The German warned me as we walked to the parking lot and I rambled on about how nice she seemed and which car do you think is theirs?  "Baby, I know you are excited, but you need to take it down a notch or people are going to think we are swingers trying to pick them up".

Luckily, along the way, a few women I have met have gotten it. These expat girlfriends of mine are irreplaceable and the "what I miss the most" on vacation.  It is such a different type of friendship.  It seems like it forms faster than the regular variety.  I have no idea what their college mascot is, what the color scheme was at their wedding, or what the dynamic is like between them and their siblings.  I do know that one word they always forget in French, the wax print that reminds them of their last post, and the edge that comes into their voice when they need a malaria test for their child in the middle of the night.

Souvenirs for expats:  favorite candies, party supplies, and 

prescription glasses.  Totally normal.

So even though I am back home right now with my "old" friends who I miss terribly the rest of the year, the best friends who helped me fix my hair for prom and held my hand through first heartbreaks, my "new" friends are also on my mind as I collect some of their favorite things to bring them back, and heavy on my heart as I think that, for the second time now, a friend will be moving on to her next post before we return from vacation.  So, to her, thank you for getting it.  Thank you for the friendship, the laughs, commiserating about the frustrating parts, sharing the fun parts, and inspiring me wear more cute dresses.  You will be very missed, but Vienna is going to be amazing.  And to the rest of my expat girlfriends, can't wait to see you soon!  Thank you all for being my sanity, for telling me my kids are normal, for helping me to appreciate life abroad.

Time for a break

It happened yesterday.  I was at the boutique down the street from our house, buying a few last minute things for dinner.  The owner was adding up my purchases on her calculator, I was seconds from being on my way, and her cell phone rang.  A cousin from Guinea.  I was waved over to the steps to sit and wait for her to finish her call, and I almost cried in frustration.  That's how you know as an expat that it is time for vacation.  When the parts of culture you actually appreciate most days, like the appreciation for the moment, can drive you close to tears, and when the mildly annoying can push you right over the edge.  The traffic jams where everyone gets out of their car to discuss whose fault it is instead of just moving out of the way.  The paint falling off the ceiling because, like every other house in this city, the roof wasn't sealed right.  The dairy and vegetable delivery that shows up a day and a half late, and the delivery driver yells at YOU for not being home waiting.  The "express line" at the grocery store that is never enforced, until one day, you are so fed up, you ask for the manager and he explains that the sign just came free with the register, so he hung it up.  When, despite the insane humidity and the fact that rainy season officially started a month ago, it just wont start raining.  I need a break.

Luckily for me (and sorry for my friends who have to suffer through the rest of hot season), it is time for our annual vacation!  And that means it is time to pack.  Sigh.  Balancing what I will need with saving room for what I want to bring back...and, the added expat variable, what I may need should there be an evacuation while we are gone and I can't access anything for who knows how long.  Birth certificates?  Translations and apostilles?  Hard drives? The blanket I am making Bean for Christmas?  And what if I don't get to go shopping here again?  Do I have enough baskets?  Wax print?  I can never have enough baskets or wax print.  Gah, I should have bought more last week!  And what about those cute shoes that don't quite fit Sprout yet.  Think he will grow into and out of them while we are gone?

Clothes. U.S. summer and German fall.  Flip flops and boots, shorts and jeans.  How much wax am I really going to wear in the U.S. and Europe?  Is this too much?  Not enough?  Mother/daughter matching wax?  No, that is definitely too much.  But what if we don't wear it at the same time?  Better bring it.  I need all new shirts.  These are so worn out.  I'm not bringing any of them.  Well, I guess I better bring one to wear to the mall in case someone pukes on me on the plane.

What we don't bring, toys.  On vacation we are trading piles of construction rubble lining the sand streets and dodging honking taxis the second we step out our front door for neighborhood playgrounds we can walk to from each grandparent's house, orchards where Bean and Sprout run with the other village kids, stealing apples and pears, and family walks on paved, safe, tree lined paths.  If it is anything like the previous trips, they won't touch a toy for weeks (this parent's dream come true), so they each get a makeup bag to fill with their favorite treasures to bring.  Chances are they will forget about them the second we step off the plane.

What we do bring, milk.  Ten kilos of powdered milk spread through all our suitcases.  Because my kids spit out the fresh stuff in disgust.

Friend goodbyes.  Do you need me to bring you any cream of tartar?  A can of green chilies?  I'll see you in a couple of weeks!  Unless, ya know, we get evacuated because the ebola outbreak spreads.  If so, I'll meet you in Berlin or Istanbul.  Maybe Tennessee?

Two kids?  Check.  An entire purse dedicated to various passports, divers licenses and resident IDs?  Check.  The rest doesn't really matter.  Despite years of experience in attempting to pack light and still bring everything necessary, there is definitely something I forgot. But, it doesn't matter, because we are going to the land of Target, where I can replace almost anything.  The land of public libraries with story time, traffic lights, and a culture that waits their turn in line.  And what I also know from experience is that after all the fun at amusement parks, picnics in lush green grass, time spent with family and friends we miss terribly the rest of the year, ten weeks from now (inschalla), when we land back in West Africa, we will take our first deep breath of exhaust and burning trash, and it will feel nice to be "home".

#igtruth

Following this blog post that was going around a couple of weeks ago, my weekly coffee date girlfriends and I challenged each other to 24 hours of #igtruth.

The way I look at it, in this social media and blogosphere culture of both inadvertent and intentional shaming ("So what's your excuse?", Mommy Wars, "You have just as many hours in the day as Beyonce", etc.), at what point does Instagram become just another manifestation of the standard of having it all, but with no messy bits?  So, lets take 24 hours to document and celebrate our real life, imperfections included.

You know those photos of inanimate objects we all share, with our flawlessly pedicured toes in the background?  Thankfully, they don't show that my custom made shoes are way to big.

And those sweet, innocent little gifts our children give me?  Like the banana peel Bean hurled over her head while we drove home from her play date, one in a half seconds after mumbling "Here ya go, mama.  Hold this".  It smacked me in the cheek before landing in my lap, almost causing me to swerve into the car next to me.

I share pictures of the well-balanced, fun and organic lunches I make our kids just before they create me something amazing during art time, but what about those days when they eat take-out chicken nuggets while watching Cars 2?  An afternoon that definitely won't make it on one of those mommy blogs where every new toddler book or song gets a matching themed craft, snack and sensory bin.  And the dirty band-aid, unbrushed hair, and that gold headband that she hasn't taken off for 3 days?  Yeah.

I probably posted half a dozen pictures of Bean and Sprout helping The German build their train table, of myself lovingly painting topography and lakes, and of the first time they played with it when they took turns being the giant monkey who attacks the train station.  I usually crop it out of shots now, since 95% of the time it is covered with all the other junk we haven't put away.

All those photos of the vibrant fruit and veggies I buy from the vendor with a tiny wooden stand on the end of my street?  These were the best potatoes she had today.

The fancy meals prepared for friends in a cute and impractical apron?  Tonight it's shepherd's pie, because I have 5 kg of cooked ground beef to use after my freezer decided to defrost itself without warning.  And I'm going to use a gravy packet.

The romantic date nights photos.  But what about the nights when, despite an hour long routine of warm baths, stories, and getting tucked in, Bean and Sprout rejoin us at 9 p.m.and then we spend twenty minutes explaining why the people were riding a giant bee to the space ship on TV.

And lets not forget the shots of my feet, intertwined with The Germans, as we share a bottle of wine and watch the sunset.  What about the other 4 out of 5 nights, when romance is laughing til we snort while watching "20 Funniest Viral Videos" in bed?  Yeah, we were totally watching a cat video here.

So yes, I started yesterday morning with a leisurely coffee at the city's fanciest and most expensive hotel with four beautiful, put together, funny and cultured ladies. Then I came home to wired and crazy littles.  Some days I make my kids frittatas full of veggies and shaped like sailboats for lunch, then we make Montessori worthy mosaics out of recycled bottle caps.  Other days we eat takeout and color in our Disney coloring books. Some days I make three course dinners just for us that would shame even The Barefoot Contessa.  Other days, dinner all comes in one casserole dish and the recipe included a can of cream of chicken soup.  So as I crop, filter, and pose my way to the perfect Instagram pic, I'm going try to sometimes capture the truth too.  Because, as the cliche goes, that is probably what I will remember, cherish and miss anyway, like this morning's cup of too hot, store brand tea, at 6:30 a.m. instead of 10:30,  hastily gulped through now burned lips while Bean and Sprout race to be the one who gets to help The German feed the cat.  Yup, I've got it all.  Messes, tantrums, and short cuts included.

Doudou's New Boubou

It sounds like it should be the title of a children's book, right?  But this is actually a really big deal!

Doudou, which I'm assuming (hoping?) is short for Amadou or Mamadou, or something of the sort, is our guard, P's, young son.  He is hanging out at our house today because the tailor down the street from us is going to measure him for a new boubou to celebrate the end of Ramadan.  This is his first new boubou since his youngest sister (now 3 years old) was born, and it is all happening because The German is obsessed with his bike not getting dirty.  When we moved into our house, because it is a lot smaller than our previous one, we needed to store a lot of our sports equipment outside.  It was getting filthy fast, so The German asked P to find a nearby tailor and coordinate getting covers made for everything.  As a thank you gift for bringing him to us (and for the obscene amount of  money we spent covering things that are supposed to get dirty), the tailor is making P's son a new boubou.

It has been like a bizarre "take your son to work day".  Doudou arrived with P around 7 a.m.  He has helped P water our plants, learned how to check the gas level in the generator, and spent hours being dragged around by Bean and Sprout playing hide and seek, learning to ride a bike, swinging, and even reluctantly petting our cat at Bean's insistence.  Poor Doudou has also suffered through Bean and Sprout's odd diet.  The look of confused disgust when I handed him a bowl of scrambled eggs with spinach was quite comical.  While I didn't understand the words, based on the facial expressions and body language I'm guessing his conversation with his papa about it went something like this:

Doudou:  (looking between me, the bowl, and P), "Tell her I'm not hungry".
P:  "It will make you strong.  Now say thank you and eat it."
Doudou: (gulping), "Merci".

The grapes, cheese, and spoonfuls of peanut butter went over a little better.  And now we anxiously wait for the tailor to come take measurements.  Doudou is all dressed up for the event, and took his nice shirt and shoes off to play so they wouldn't be dirty when the tailor arrives.  He keeps asking his papa questions about whats to come and checking out his arms and legs.  He is the embodiment of excitement and nervousness.  After the much anticipated measurements, Doudou will hang out here with P until his shift ends, usually at 7 p.m., but today closer to 9 so that our night guard can break his Ramadan fast with his family.  I am so curious about what kind of impression of his papa's job Doudou will leave here with today.  If only my local language skills were better.

Doudou and Bean watching a local tv show in the garage.

Today has been overcast, my friend's kids are all sick, and Sprout and I are fighting a cold. It has been a pretty "blah" day for me.  But not for Doudou.  For Doudou, today has been HUGE.  Because Doudou is getting a new boubou!

Cheez Puffs

My kids won't eat dinner because our house helper stuffs them full of Cheez Puffs all day.  If I did hash tags, this post would probably be something like # expatproblems.

Having a house helper, or two...or five, is a pretty normal part of expat life here in West Africa, but something I've always been uncomfortable with.  For one, since I don't work outside the home, I feel like it should be unnecessary. But I think my discomfort is also partly due to the fact that back home, my mom cleans houses and caters for a living.  Since my dad died 17 years ago, she also works the 2 to 8 a.m. shift at UPS for health insurance.  She is kinda a super hero.  From the time I was in elementary school, until I finished college and moved to West Africa (and actually, even sometimes now when I go home for vacation), I tag along whenever she needs some extra help. So, you could say I have seen what the cleaners of the wealthy have to deal with sometimes, and it ain't always pretty.  I am so grateful for these experiences.  They grounded me, taught me how to clean and cook like a beast, and I made some great memories with my mom.  I still snort when I remember my mom and I trying to carry that hideous statue up three flights of stairs of some mansion she was cleaning, made more difficult because we were both laughing so hard we had to cross our legs.

But I have also seen how quickly otherwise nice enough people can take advantage.  People calling my mom the day before Thanksgiving and asking her to "pop in for an extra clean, oh and could you whip up a couple of sides and brine the turkey while you are here?  Actually, would you just go ahead and do the grocery shopping on your way.  It isn't too late to buy a turkey, is it?  I will just reimburse you next week, okay?"  Oh and I will never forget two days before Christmas, my senior year of high school when my my mom came home and handed me a four page list and a blank check and said "Okay, you take the kids, I'll take the husband and boyfriend.  Let's try to get as much done tonight as we can so we have tomorrow night for the wrapping."

What I have heard people say here, even The German, is "If they don't have time, they will say they can't." But really, will they?  My mom never did.  She needed the extra money, and was worried if she said no to too much they would find someone else who always said yes.

A lot of times I see people advertise on our expat community message board looking for household help.  "Urgently searching for a nanny.  In addition to caring for our three children, she must clean, cook Western, Chinese and Ethiopian cuisine, speak English, take the older kids to school, teach the baby ballet, help with homework and baths until the night nanny arrives,and will have every other Sunday off."  Okay, I exaggerated a bit, but not much.  After I attempt to swallow my initial judgement (I mean, maybe they both have really important jobs, right?  There must be some reasonable explanation for this...RIGHT?), I try to imagine the person taking this job. She is probably relatively well educated.  She probably has kids.  She will probably make less that 1/4 of what would be considered poverty level for a single person household in the United States.  Half of that she will pay to the woman who is working in her home, taking care of her children. And, not unlike my mom, she probably needs the money to much to say no.

Not to say that all, or even most, expats treat their employees like this, by any means.  One of my friends is continuously hiring new house helpers for the opposite reason.  She is constantly encouraging and honing their talents, helping them establish their own businesses, like food delivery or tailoring, after which they don't have time to help her around her house anymore.

We currently have three employees at our house.  A day guard, a night guard, and a house helper (E) who cleans and sometimes watches Bean and Sprout for me.  We have had someone to help me with the cleaning in the past, but E, who has been working for us for about a month now, is the first person we have asked to baby sit. Our previous house helper was a friend of a friend who had never cleaned before.  Seriously.  I'm thinking maybe she had never even picked up her own bedroom before.  She was awful, but I couldn't bring myself to fire her because I knew she was paying her own college tuition.  Some days, I would even clean behind her just so The German wouldn't fire her.  This summer, she graduated, so I felt free to encourage her to go build the career she really wanted.  Then we hired E, an experienced woman in her 50's who had been working for our departing expat friends. And E has been amazing.  I told my friends after her first week working for us, I finally felt in the groove with having someone else in my house.  Folding clothes with her while chatting with her about her children almost felt like hanging out with my mom.

Bean and E, playing with the watering can.

And that is the part about having household help that is hard to explain to people outside the expat community.  These three people have become our friends, our lifeline at times, and a replacement family.  E doesn't just mop our floors.  On the worst days, she gives me a few minutes to myself to go cry and drink (just kidding...maybe) in the bathroom and commiserates with me about the "excitement" of raising toddlers.  She makes play-doh farm animals that are so beautiful, I cringe when the kids squish them.  Every Friday, she has a beer with us when The German gets home from work before heading home herself.

Our guard, P, doesn't just open the door for me when I pull up.  He helped teach Bean how to ride her new bike.  He translates for me (Awa French to real French) when the milk vendor can't understand me.  One time, when The German was traveling for work, both kids woke up vomiting with fevers at 2 a.m.  After the doctor left, I gave P my wallet, near tears, and asked him to find an all night pharmacy.  Because who else can you call for help when your family is half a world away?  He invited us to his daughter's baptism, where she was dressed in the outfit we had given her.  The relationships can be complex, but our household employees can be such a gift, and so much more than employees.

So, I guess I'm still feeling out my comfort zone with having help around the house. I'm working out how to ask E to use the toilet cleaner on just the inside of the toilet, without feeling like I'm reprimanding my mom. How to ask her for extra help when The German is out of town, not knowing if I am asking too much.  How to ask her to please, PLEASE, stop stuffing my kids full of the f-ing Cheez Puffs that she so sweetly purchased with her own money.  In the meantime, I tell myself at least I know Bean and Sprout are getting enough fat in their diet.

Still here, "keeping the show on the road".

It has been so long since I posted, I couldn't even find this page.  I had to find a link to it on my friend's blog, then tried more times than I should admit to remember the password.  There are plenty of big excuses; we moved houses, I took Bean and Sprout to the US by myself to visit our family, had two 3rd birthday parties for Bean (one on each continent), both my mom and The German's came for a visit (separately, thank goodness), it was mango season.  And then there are the mundane, every day excuses.  Like, today I had to go to the ATM.

Check out all these mangos waiting to be canned!

A few months ago, I read this post (http://sixdegreesnorth.me/2014/03/07/trailing-spouse-the-graveyard-of-ambition/), and it couldn't have been more timely.  I was just returning from the States, and feeling a bit sorry for myself getting asked countless variations of, "So, you're just a mom now?", "Aren't you bored, just sitting around?", and "But, like, what do you DO all day?"  Well, dear, well-meaning family and friends.  Yes, I am just a mom.  But, like, survivor style.  Well, city survivor style, at least.  I don't sit around.  It is hot season and if I did I would get the couch wet.  If I'm stationary, it is because I have found a patch of cold tile and I'm laying on it, naked, counting the minutes until it is acceptably late enough in the morning to turn on the AC.  And, what do I do all day?  Well, today I went to the ATM

 Want to make a salad?  Don't forget to factor in a few 

hours for bleaching and air drying your veggies!

This little adventure started shortly after 9 a.m. which is when I dropped Bean off for "playschool", which happens three mornings a week.  Sprout and I set off for the ATM to pick up money to pay Bean's teacher for the month.  I had waited until this morning to go, because I can really only go to the ATM with one child or less.  You see, there is no drive up ATM here, and the banks don't even have parking lots, so you just have to stop your car in the right lane, ignore the honks, wait for a brake in traffic to jump out, and run in. This is much easier when there is only one child who you have to maneuver in and out of a car seat and dart through traffic with.  The exception to this is the mall, where two of the three ATMs accept my card.  We tried here first, but one of the ATMs was down, and the other was out of cash.  The second ATM was also out of service, but I did get to witness a security guard getting chewed out for it as Sprout and I sprinted back to the car.  Side note, why, when coming out of the ATM box, does nobody here tell the next person in line that it is out of service?  So strange to me.  And what are they doing in there for five minutes to make those behind them assume it is working?  The thing is clearly blinking "hors service" (out of order)!  At the fourth ATM, we got lucky.  If being 10th in line for an ATM in hot season can be considered lucky.  Somewhere along the way, I pulled over so Sprout and I could enjoy a lunch of bananas and Pringles from a street vendor.  My poor second child and his neglected nutrition.

We exited the ATM box, both sweating and both more that a little cranky, at around 11:45, giving us just enough time to make it back across town to pick up Bean.  The irony of this all is that the only productive thing I did today was pick up money for the person I pay to entertain and educate Bean for me 9 hours a week so that I can be more productive.  And the reason I have a moment to write this now?  The German took the kids to get new passport photos.  Experience tells me they will be gone at least a few hours.  Plenty of time to cook dinner, do some laundry (if we have water pressure long enough), and even write my first blog post in months.

Sweet Nothings

A week of colds and sleepless nights over here that has Samuel L. Jackson's voice running on repeat in my head (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gv6b0CretuE). I do not function well on lack of sleep.  I had a few moments hysterical giggling this morning remembering the sweet and naughty things The German used to whisper in my ear at 3 a.m back when we slept.  This morning, when it was my turn to enter the madness that is the kid's room in the middle of the night, those sweet nothings sounded more like "She doesn't have to pee.  She peed 20 minutes ago.  She is just trying to squeeze a turd out so you have to give her a ca-ca candy**.  DON'T FALL FOR IT. Oh, and the new rule is Elmo only gets tucked in once.  If he kicked the burp cloth off it is his own problem."

**Back when we were potty training Bean, she was terrified to poop on the potty.  I resorted to the promise of ca-ca candy and a special song, which I then had to make up on the fly when it happened.  She often sings the "Bean is a big girl" song under her breath when she is in the bathroom, and sometimes insists I sing it  with her as encouragement.  I wonder if 20 years from now she will hear that song and feel the need to eat an M & M every time she goes.

I'll leave you with that for now.  I have a goat leg to defrost. 

Throwback Thursday

I have been spending the past few evenings crocheting baby blankets to try to fill the cute little all black German Shepherd puppy sized hole in my heart.  Yes, this is a last, desperate attempt to change The German's mind.  But I'm fairly sure he doesn't read this, so it's not really manipulative, right?  I know, I know, he is right about this one.  I would be cussing myself out cleaning up puppy puddles while we try to move. But...sigh. If you know him, feel free to email him subtle photos of children playing with their dog in the park.  Totally realistic here in big city West Africa.  I mean, come on, Bean and Sprout could totally spend their afternoons rolling around with their dog in the piles of construction rubble and decomposing trash that line the streets and fill every empty square foot here!

                                   

Anyway, back to the crochet.  My great-grandma taught me how to crochet when I was probably 6 or 7.  A sweet, vertically challenged woman who I always picture with her purse in her lap, twiddling her thumbs, she would come down from "up north" each year to stay at my grandparent's house, which is where I spent a lot of my childhood hanging out.  I would sit next to her, on that old, yellow couch in the upstairs sitting room making long chains.  I can almost hear her voice, prompting me how to hold the yarn, but it's a bit faded and I can't seem to imagine the tone just right, the way voices get when you haven't heard them in too many years.

Every summer, I would ride up north with my grandparents to go visiting for a month or so.  These road trips are one of my favorite memories, full of stories and sage advice from my grandfather who I adored, and I'm sure a fair share of eye rolling as I hit those pre-teen years.  The tv my grandparents bought for me for the trips a good 30 years ago still sits in the top of my closet.  It plugged in to the cigarette lighter, and if we weren't in the mountains I could sometimes watch a few minutes of a cartoon here and there.  I just can't bring myself to get rid of it.

When we arrived, I would stay with my great-grandma in her one bedroom apartment in the retirement complex.  A few dozen ground floor apartments in a row, with widows and widowers sitting in their matching lounge chairs by their front door.  I loved it.  During the day, we would read tabloid magazines that she bought with the spending money her grand kids would send her, a sweet way to thank her for the years of two dollar bills she sent all of us for every holiday, a pile of which I still have in my bottom drawer.  In the evening we would watch the live line dancing show on the country music channel. She used to make a mouse out of her hanky that might randomly jump on you when you pet it. I can never get my mouse to "jump" as perfectly and subtly as she did.

"How to make a napkin or handkerchief mouse"  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fe_RQxz_s9Y

So now every time I crochet, I get warm fuzzies thinking of road trips, family, hours spent "making the rounds" and visiting on couches, my grandma teaching me to put on lipstick in my great-uncle's attic bedroom, those orange shaped chewy candies my great-aunt always had out on her coffee table, and my great-grandma.  I think I'll have to try out my skills at the hanky mouse on Bean and Sprout again tonight.

Ya try to have nice things...

The weekend started out as a bit of a bummer.  First came this huge zit on my cheek.  The kind that deserves a name of its own.  The kind that prompts The German to suggest we switch sides of the bed for a few nights because he is worried it will scare him if it is the first thing he sees when he wakes up.  It is horrible, and I don't think it is going anywhere anytime this week.  I've decided to call it Fred.

Then, I lost my bid for a puppy. An acquaintance has a litter of perfectly adorable, 8 week old all black German Shepherd puppies.  Practically speaking, it is probably for the best.  We are getting ready to move houses, we have a vacation coming up, and, as The German says, "Don't you think you spend enough of your day cleaning up after someone else's shit...literally?"  But he could be a running buddy for The German! And an awesome security system!  And Bean would really love a pet she could play with and snuggle!  She keeps trying to cuddle and throw toys to the old cat we adopted and has quite a few scratches to show for her efforts.  In fact, when she was just a tiny Bean and you would ask her what sound a cat makes, she would make a claw hand at you and hiss.  Sigh.

Then there is my bra saga.  I won't bore you with the details, but all the wonderful new bras I ordered from Victoria's Secret's sale are being held captive by an import company in Ireland whose payment website doesn't work.

But, things are looking up!  We've scored a few inexpensive armoires for the new house.

They need a bit of work, but I needed a new project and The German has generously offered to sand and prime them for me while the kiddos and I take a mini vacation to visit my family. Plus, Bean had a blast helping.

Sprout, the precocious little nugget, spent the weekend hitting us all in order to put himself into time-out.  We haven't started time-outs with him yet, so it took us a bit of time to figure out what he was doing and where this sudden burst of violence was coming from. The one time Bean needed to take a time-out this weekend he even took off "running" to beat her there, a huge grin on his face despite the fact that he was the one that just got whacked across the head with Doc McStuffin's doctor kit. I've never seen a kid so happy to sit on the bottom step.

In perhaps my greatest find in big city West Africa, we have finally procured fresh milk!  Well, I've known about it for almost a year now, but I finally got myself together and ordered some.  In village West Africa, this is no big deal.  Just ask around for nearest Peul household, and they will sell you some. Actually, in my experience, they will probably just give you some and tell you to come back whenever you want some more, or just for a visit.  The milk is amazing and creamy and screamed for Oreos.  The kids both hate it.  Bean gagged and demanded her "real milk" back. Sprout just opened his mouth to let it run back out, then waddled off to the kitchen, returning with the powdered milk tucked up under one arm and the Nesquik under the other.  I guess if you are making requests, might as well aim high.

Then last night I made a near perfect from scratch pot pie (thank you Ina Garten!). And now, for my high of the year to date, we have gotten the call that the espresso machine we ordered in September is arriving this week.  Yes, this week is definitely looking up!

One more try, for K

                                          Somewhere between ironic and retro.

This is actually the third blog I have started since I found out we were moving back to West Africa.  The first, I posted on once.  I can't remember what it was called, where we hosted it, or what the password is. The second, I started when Bean was born.  I actually did find it this morning and remember the password. It had 11 posts, but the last three or four were uninspired, two line updates. I decided to try one last time following a conversation I had with friends regarding arm pit hair.

I recently started going with a couple of friends every few weeks to get sugar waxed.  Not at a salon, a middle aged fully veiled woman waxes us in the guest room of her downtown apartment.  She isn't veiled at home, so it isn't quite as scary as it sounds, but I'll admit I thought it was a bit shady the first time. So as we are waiting for the cab to take us to our waxing lady, I am telling my friends how Bean has become fascinated by my grown out arm pit hair.  So much so, that the night before I had to use it as a bribe to get her to eat dinner.  Trying to juggle dinner, baths and bedtime with two toddlers who are running circles around the table, screaming and refusing to eat while The German worked late, I finally gave in and promised Bean if she ate all her dinner I would show her my arm pit hair.  She stopped in her tracks, jumped up in her chair, and shoveled it down.  With the last of her scrambled eggs and peas still stuffed in her cheeks (yes, sadly this is dinner on desperate nights), she threw her spoon down and mumbled "Lemme see it".  After telling the girls this story, my friend K laughed and said, "You should blog".  An hour or so later, after recounting a tale from my latest GYN visit during another friend's bikini wax which I had specifically saved for its distracting properties, K said "Okay, you really should start a blog...but maybe anonymously."

I laughed it off because really, my life isn't that interesting.  The next day I texted K to see if she needed anything from the grocery store we were passing.  It is in the middle of downtown and a pain to get to, so a once a month kind of stop, but it has the only mozzarella that is affordable in this city. She asked what we were doing in that neighborhood and I explained how we were on our way back from the hospital where I had just had an x ray and 6 holes drilled through my toenail for drainage after Sprout broke a wooden bar off the baby gate and smashed my foot with it, sledge hammer style, as I turned the corner to see what all the noise was about (see the still purple toe, one month later, in the above picture).  She texted back "You. Blog. Now."

I finally let her convince me last week, when Bean apparently taught the daughter of S, our mutual friend, how to pee in the yard during preschool. Bean is a pro at this. She hasn't lost her balance or splashed on her pants since her second birthday.  She is also pretty good at finding any snacks or meals our guard has stashed for himself in the garage and eating them when nobody is looking, leaving me to come up with an impromptu meal replacement for him.

So here ya go K, this is for you!  I'm pretty sure you are the only one who will read it, but I will give it a shot!

Awa in West Africa

My name is Awa, and I live in West Africa with my husband, The German, and our two kids, Bean and Sprout.  I was named after the mother of the guy who worked at the food boutique near my home in the small, rural West African town where I based my dissertation research.  It was also across the street from the one of the town's three restaurant/bars, which is where I met The German.  I love cooking, growing things, being creative, even though I suck at crafts, and basically anything to keep me away from finishing that 2/3 of a dissertation that is staring me down from across the room.  I'm an idea person, but not so good on the follow through.  I'm just about always frazzled and trying to remember something.  You know those moms that look like they have it all together?  Yeah, I'm not one of them.  Most days I go through life looking like I just woke up.

The German is a 6'2, bald huge hunk of a soldier from a tiny village outside of East Berlin, and really none of my stories that involve him make any sense without this context. His work is the reason we were able to come back here to West Africa while I stay home with Bean and Sprout.  He loves riding his bike, is a wiz at languages, super handy around the house, tells long, rambling stories that make you forget where the start was, is always late because he stops to chat with everyone and anyone, and is the best snuggler in the world. He makes me laugh and blush daily.  I'm a pretty lucky gal.

Bean is two and a half.  She loves dressing like a princess, her pink crocs, testing her physical limits, and peeing outside.  She is funny as hell, smart as a whip, she is a native speaker of two languages and speaks French, well, better than I do at least. She is the perfect combination of a sweet, sensitive heart and someone who doesn't take any crap.  She is the master of the stink-eye.  I want to be Bean when I grow up.

Sprout is 16 months old.  He has a perfect, gap toothed smile on his face 95% of the day and greets everyone we pass.  The other 5% of the day he is throwing tantrums worthy of any 2 year old, complete with banging fists and an exorcist yell.  He gets his flirting and his patience from his father.  He loves airplanes, cuddling, copying his big sister and he can eat his weight in egg salad. His sweetness melts me.  I'm pretty sure I don't deserve Sprout, but I'm keeping him anyway.

So here we all are, living in West Africa.  In big city West Africa, not the rural village West Africa we first met and fell in love with.  Most days we find glimpses of the life we moved back here for, and some make us count the months until The German's contract is up.  On the whole, we are glad to be back, and know moving was the best decision for our family. Hopefully, we will even manage to do a bit of good while we are here. This blog doesn't have a specific purpose or agenda.  It's just about us in West Africa.