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.