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!