shame | it's an ugly color

Gah! I hate when this happens...and it always, always happens! I get all hyped up on staying updated with the blog, or running, or eating nothing but leaves of lettuce... I promise I'll keep whatever promise it is forever and ever. Then I don't. Then I feel shame. But before the feeling of shame I give up - if only for a moment. This is good news, the fact that I'm here, typing, and feeling ashamed. It means the feeling of giving up has passed and I'm ready to try again. I'll say it's without promises, but in my heart it will be full of promises. Luckily, for any readers I have left, this blather is typically all just contained within my own head. Okay, sometimes in front of the mirror. Or when I'm doing dishes. Or laundry.

Today, I just want to post about today. About the normalcy of living. Today I had to work until nearly 5pm. (Woe is me, and most every other gainfully employed human, right?) No, but really, when you get up at 4:30, 5pm hurts a little. Especially in heels. Thank goodness I was wearing flats today. I came home to find my teenager using *my* laptop, with her headphones in, working on her "homework".   I'm still not convinced. She barely lifted her head to greet me. It's okay. She's thirteen. I think no greeting is preferable to some I've given at her age.

At the sound of the door closing, Drew bounded down the stairs, jumped into my arms, and demanded a "three hug", which is when Steve and I both squeeze him at the same time. Adorable. I know. He got his three hug right quick and just as fast was out the door to play. I had just enough time to shovel a handful of cashews, with a dark chocolate chip chaser, down my throat, and gather Livy for gymnastics. Thankfully, Livy also had a hug to give. Typical scene of the American family. In Doha.

What's not so typical? Driving a sorrowful Livy to gymnastics because she misses her grandma, who we were so very lucky to be able to spend time with when she came to visit last month. She misses her friends. She misses her green and blue. As my dad always says..."it's a passing storm, a passing storm." And it is. Like a storm it will come back. I tried to tell her that. I quoted Rumi, because it's the only thing I know how to do with tears, and told her to welcome this guest of sorrow, because behind it may be a new delight.

Zoey, too, has been full of mourning this month. She mourns the loss of dance. In a brief attempt to be a good parent, I sifted through local magazines to find a dance studio. I did find one! Of course, I found the dance studio that requires a one hour screening to see if she could run with the big dogs. Big city livin', I guess. As any decent parents would do, we took her to her dance screening. Fortunately, she made the cut. Unfortunately, getting her there and back took 3 hours. Yes, THREE hours. Three hours of our lives, spent in Doha traffic, all in an effort to to find Zoey's dancing legs. A worthy pursuit, for certain. The dance instructor gleefully told us that Zoey qualified to be in the Monday and Wednesday night class from 6-7pm. What I actually heard her say was, "That will be a total of 6 hours, per week, in traffic, at the worst time of day, in Doha - a small price to pay for your daughter's happiness, no?" We inquired further about the Saturday option, which is only for older teens. I may have implored the dance teacher to just let Zoey in the Saturday class - and in the next breath try to make her understand that I wasn't "that mom", that it had nothing to do with skill, that I didn't care if she was the best...no, no. It really was simply a scheduling issue. I'm sure she bought it. Sigh.

As for Drew. His today was as normal as his yesterday, and the day before that. Of all the kids, Doha has been the kindest to him. He gets to continue with soccer, or football, as we've learned to call it on this side of the world. He's also found some mad running skills hidden in that short stature, and his track coach is a super-human runner from Nigeria. Not a bad world for a seven year old boy. His afternoons are filled with a frantic sprint to the finish line that is the completion of his homework. All so he can barrel through the front door and go play outside with his pals of Sesame Street until the darkness of night, or hunger, chase him back in.

Steve, well - he's better than ever, save for one slight inconvenience. The poor guy has a hernia. He will need to be surgically patched back together next month. Another experience in becoming one with the city we more regularly refer to as home now. If you know Steve, it will come as no surprise to you that he views this as a sort of retreat. No doubt he'll lap me on the 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' episodes we're trying to catch up on. Yeah, so we got the memo late, but it's still some pretty hilarious television - even if it came out before the iPhone. Nah. I don't think it did.

And me... bleh. Not much to report. I live. I work. I (try) to run a few times a week. Oh, I have recently discovered yoga, which interestingly enough, just makes me feel bad about myself. Because I'm awkward. And squishy. And have a hard time finding my calm center. Whatever. I'll keep trying. But if I still feel like an epic failure after another month, I'm out.

In closing, I wanted to repost the words of wisdom that I used to try to soothe Livy's soul today. This was my first ever Zolirew post, way back in 2010, about 57 posts ago. Shame shmame. I'll post when I can. How 'bout that. That's me, meeting you at the door, shame. I'm laughing at you.


This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whomever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

--Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi