November | blue hair, baseball, and the memory of a brother

November is a month to endure.  I'd rather not think of a day or week as something to endure, and certainly not a month, but November?  Sorry, November, you just kind of suck sometimes.  The stars and stripes wave with pride, even way over here in Doha.  They don't literally wave the American flag over here, but social media makes me feel right at home as we celebrate our veterans. To many, those flags signify gratitude for the brave servicemen and servicewomen who risk their lives for our freedom.  And I am grateful.  Don't hear me saying I'm not.  It's just that this day and this time of year dredge up other memories for me.  November is the month the world lost my brother.  I say the world because he wasn't mine.  He wasn't just my brother.  He wasn't just my loss.  His departure from this place was a loss to many.  And those waving flags, they're all I remember seeing the day Aaron took leave of this place.

Because Pixar is far more clever than I am, let's talk about Sadness.  This is the fourth November I have had to have a talk with Sadness.  I tell her again and again, "Stay in your circle, Sadness!"  No one likes Sadness.  Every November, Sadness wins.  But this one year, I might be okay with that win.  I'll tell you why.  All the other days, all the other months, I work and I play and I grocery shop.  I teach, I prepare meals, I call home a couple times each month, I do laundry, I clean, I dream of future vacations and sometimes even get to plan them.  I live.  If I'm honest, Aaron rarely crosses my mind.

But, November.  November won't have any of it.  Sadness makes me think of him, and thinking of him isn't such a bad thing.  I'm learning, as each November passes, how to do it better.  I think of the times he made me mad.  No one could or ever will be able to make me mad like he could.  I think of the times he made me laugh.  Gosh, he was funny.  I think of his passion for wildlife, for his friends, for his dog, for life.  I think of his great big belly laugh.  I think of how he didn't care if weevils infested his spaghetti noodles.  "Just boil 'em.  The weevils will float to the top; you can just scoop 'em out."  Gross.  So gross.  And, as Pixar taught me, without Sadness, I wouldn't think of any of that.  I wouldn't think of how much of him I see in my own son every time he wears Aaron's baseball cap.  I wouldn't, not without November.  Without those waving flags, that chill in the air, the onslaught of whatever Starbucks holiday mug makes its appearance -- without all of that, I'd just charge forward without the memories of a man who was once a boy who influenced my life for the better.

Without Aaron and with November, there will always and forever be Sadness.  But you know what else there is?  There is Joy.  There is the Qatar Little League opening game; Drew's first baseball game playing for the Orioles.  There are hotdogs and the National Anthem and snow cones and big sisters who get bored by it all.  There is Jared and there is sweet little Gwenyth, who come to watch Drew play, to cheer him on, give him high fives, and love him like only Doha family could.

There is Olivia and her blue hair.  There is Corinne, my Doha sister, who sits with us for hours to support Liv's smurftastic transformation.  Corinne, who with true enthusiasm, pours over Pinterest to find just the right shade of "now I am thirteen" blue.

There is the warmth of my mom's famous Hearty Hodgepodge that I must make every November 7th for Olivia's birthday dinner.  There is my little scrap of paper, tucked away in a cookbook, to be unearthed each and every November, with directions on how to prepare a proper Thanksgiving meal in the absence of my mother there to do it for me.

There is Zoey.  Zoey with her heart so in tune to mine who calls me up from the store one early November day and says, "Mom, there is German chocolate cake mix at the store right now.  That's Aaron's favorite."

"I know Zoey. I know it is."

Zoey who gets up early on a weekend day to watch her sister's hair turn blue. Zoey who gets up early on a weekend day to watch her brother's first baseball game.  Zoey who just came in here and offered me the last cookie as I was typing.

There is Thanksgiving.  There are our friends on this side of the world who we get to invite into our home and share a meal with.  There is thankfulness.  There is happiness.  There is pumpkin pie, for gosh sakes!  Pumpkin pie!  Without November, there cannot be pumpkin pie.  I actually don't even like pumpkin pie, but I do love whipped cream, and what better vehicle for whipped cream than a slice of pumpkin pie?

There are new Joys. There are old pangs of Sadness.  November isn't bad.  November just makes all the experiences richer, the Joy and the Sadness.

olivia | the journey of a twisty spine

Yea.  I know.  Same song, different verse, a little bit louder, and a little bit worse.  I'm terrible at this blog life.  I'm not even going to pretend to be otherwise anymore.  But, this entry - this one isn't about me or my lackluster blogging performance.  This one is for Livy.

June 30th.  To most it's the day before July 1st.  It's five days until we celebrate the independence of America.  It's the third in the short list of the nursery rhyme we all know and love that helps us to remember that it doesn't have a pal, June 31st, right next to it.  But to Olivia, and to us, it's the day of her Spinal Fusion surgery.  This winter, Olivia was diagnosed with idiopathic scoliosis.  She has both cervical and lumbar curves in her spine.  Just imagine the letter 'S', and that's what her silly little spine looks like.  She always has been a mover.  Girl can't hold still to save her life, even when she lived in my belly.  Looks like her spine has followed suit.  I won't bore you with the medicalese of it all, mostly because I barely understand it myself.

What I will bore you with, though, is how strong and amazing Olivia already is.  If it were me, I'd be a basket case.  I probably would have called every friend and family member I know to verbally process my anxiety, called in sick to work to mentally cope, sucked Steve into doting on me as much as possible, and whined about my discomfort on a daily basis.  At the very least, if I was her, I'd try to get out of my household duties.  Not Olivia.  She's a strong one, that girl.  In her own words, she's a "fierce tiger lady"!  That sounds super sweet, but it's from an awful music video that is her current favorite.  Oh, I'll try to post it so you can all experience Liv's sense of humor.  Get excited.

From the moment she found out she had scoliosis, she has been nothing but positive. She's expressed thankfulness that it can be fixed, been an advocate for herself when a local orthopedic surgeon suggested bracing it, and has truly looked for the good that it has brought out in all of us.  "I'll just be in the hospital for five days.  That's not very long, Mom.  I'll be uncomfortable for a little while, but in the end, my spine will be fixed.  So, it's worth it!"  Yes, Olivia, it is worth it.

We are grateful for many things through this, for Liv's positive spirit, that we work for a company with worldwide health coverage,  for the kind people we have met via FaceTime and email at the Children's Hospital of Los Angeles, that we live in a time that her scoliosis can be corrected, and for our family and friends who are already supporting Livy.

Her surgery is scheduled for June 30th at the Children's Hospital of LA.  We chose that particular hospital after hours of research.  Research that started with a google search, "best orthopedic hospitals in the United States".  Another thankfulness, the opportunity to choose where her surgery can be done.  She will be in the hospital for 4-5 days and will have Steve and I by her side every step of the way. We will remain in LA for a couple of weeks after she is released from the hospital to continue her recovery before we fly back to Oregon for a short little summer there.

Yes, this is rather public sharing of what might seem a more personal family issue.  Who am I to decide who gets to care about Olivia?  I share this on a public forum because you know what isn't a bad idea?  People praying for and caring about Liv.  Lots of people!

I will (promise) keep this blog updated as we move closer to her surgery date.  Here, I will post updates on how she is doing and how you can send messages to her directly.  The month of June marks the beginning of a journey for Olivia.  At the end of this journey, she'll be two inches taller.  "Will I be taller than Zoey?"  she loves to inquire.  Probably, Livy.  Probably.

doing life | the only way we know how

Yea.  So It’s September and the start of another new year.  Zoey is 14 now.  She just started 8^th grade.  Livy just started 6^th grade and Drew is creeping out of elementary school one year at a time. Like we all do - or did.   He’s in 3^rd grade. Weird.  I don’t know what it is about the start and the end that feels like it needs documenting.  I can write a letter to my kids on their given birthdays like any good mom and I am a superstar blogger in June.  And September.  And nowhere in between.  What happens in between?  I don’t know.  I guess dinners get made, lessons get taught, homework gets done, teeth fall out (not mine…yet), and we all keep moving along and doing that thing we do.  What maybe was originally about certain nonsense became about living abroad.  Then living abroad became life.  And then I guess I lost my purpose.  Or my audience.  Or maybe both.

Truman pooped on Drew’s bed today. I’m not sure when.  But we all, well four of us, had a good fight about it.  The laundry didn’t get done.  Someone doesn’t have a uniform to wear tomorrow.  And, let’s be honest, after a summer in Italy and America, my pants are too tight.  Blog worthy?  Probably not.  But, what is anymore.  We live between two worlds.  Our summer world.  Our school year world.  A world where, on Facebook, we watch all our American friends in their American clothes with their little American backpacks, head off to their first day of school. Our first day of school is a chaotic shuffle of uniform pants being thrown up and down the stair case, unsure of who wears the 7s and who wears the 5s, realizing we didn’t replace Drew’s shirts that we gave away to the neighbors, and morning arguments that include words like, “you can make your own darn breakfast!”  Who puts that in their blog?  And, maybe ‘darn’ wasn’t the adjective that was used to describe breakfast on this first day of school. That’s okay.  Right?

Our abroad world isn’t like our summer America world.  But it isn’t entirely different. We can’t keep up with laundry. I think I’ve created and abandoned at least as many chore charts and after school homework plans as I am years old.  Our kids are latch key kids.  In a foreign country, does that make them, I don’t know, pick lock kids?  It seems harsh enough in America to come home and raise yourself.  In the Middle East?  Geez.  Who does that to their kids?  We do.  We struggle to keep food in the fridge that the kids will actually eat.  We can’t seem to keep the plants alive; my plans for teaching tomorrow include…a math packet and some posters.  That should last 7 hours.  Or not.  I haven’t called either of my parents since we landed.  And, that, that is the difference between our worlds. 

The pace over here, it’s exhausting.  Exhausting and exhilarating can be interchangeable in my world.  Which may be part of the problem.  I don’t know if it’s the 4:30am mornings or the 6:30pm sunset.  Or both.  All I know is that I feel like time moves faster and everyone grows older. I can’t keep up with it all.  I try to share, to the best of my ability, via Facebook and Instagram, and Zolirew.  I try.  And I fail.  I post and I text and I know.  I know it would be nice to hear about our lives one on one.  I know a phone call would be nice.  A hot cup of hot coffee on a couch would be nice.  My heart does ache for the connections that I can’t have between hemispheres.  I also know I love to share.  Perhaps, overshare, and sometimes that leaves those closest to me wondering…why you gotta blog that mess?  Just call me!  I would.  If I could.  You see, the problem is your 11am is my 9pm, my Friday is your Thursday, and your Sunday is my Monday. Did I mention the 4:30am part?  This is certain nonsense.  It’s also living abroad.  And in my own crazy little way, I love it.  I just want all of it: the cup of hot coffee, the lingering morning couch talks, the American first day of school with new backpacks that smell like a mix of formaldehyde and sweet tarts.  

But I also want the adventure.   

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

the whole 30? | or maybe 27.8

The Whole 30 Challenge. Herewego.

Yep, I’m about to be the annoying girl. Wait for the next post (coming soon) if this is too much for you. At least I know I’m annoying. I think it’s also important for me to post about real life. Life in Doha is still life.

There was a time when I was a hefty 212 pounds. I try to forget that, but it’s my truth and I need to remember it, soak it up, really feel it - so that I never live it again! Let’s be honest, when you get to the point where you can no longer shop at the Gap, it’s time for a change. And so, way back in 2006, I decided it was time. I was done having kids, I had the added benefit of burning bonus calories by simply feeding my own infant, and Weight Watchers was having a joining sale. The stars had aligned and I buckled up for a wild ride down a bumpy road of embarrassing public celebrations, tire popping pitfalls, and infuriating plateaus. Don’t worry, I have no intention of having you endure the scenic route of what that all looked like. Let’s just fast forward to today, where I now have a much healthier understanding of the role food plays in my life, how exercise has become a non-negotiable, and how Doha and it’s endless doughy temptations had to have a head on collision with a massive cement wall. Hello Whole 30. Goodbye Doha Dozen.



Those of you who were unfortunate enough to know me when I attempted the 21 day sugar cleanse that later became known as the 21 day sanity cleanse, go ahead and thank Allah that I live in the Middle East while I embark on these dietary experiments.

I’ll paraphrase, mostly because I don’t have the book in front of me, but the introduction to the Whole 30 starts off by sort of making fun of people like me who think the world might end if I can’t find a way to put legal heroin in the form of sugar into my body. They write about how this program isn’t really hard, it’s not difficult to drink your coffee black, to pass on the plate of donuts, or to resist the temptation of an ice cold Corona with a wedge of lime alongside your cheese-less, tortilla-less, chicken tortilla soup. Okay, I added that last one. And the following image was clearly taken pre Whole 30.



Battling Cancer is hard. Losing someone you love is hard. Eating clean? Not hard. With an intro like that, how could I say no? Well, with an intro like that and a friend like Corinne who was in it to win it with me? We may have had a weight loss competition going that didn’t end well for either of us. It did end with a shared box of donuts, though. Also, we’re still friends and even though neither one of us made it to our elusive goal weight, we’re still winners.




First things first, what does Whole 30 look like? Well, as much as I hate (yes, truly loathe) the word paleo, it kind of looks like the paleo lifestyle. On steroids. You see, eating based on the Whole 30 approach means you cut anything worth living for out of your diet. No sugar, no form of sugar (that means no honey, no syrup, none of that sugary stuff…even what is considered the “good” sugary stuff. Even if it’s 100% pure, straight from the beehive, dug out with your own little caveman hands). None of it. It also means limited fruit consumption (gasp), because, well…the whole point is to break the sugar addiction and while the naturally occurring sugar in a syrupy sweet mango is preferable to a putting a heap of processed brown sugar in your mouth (yes, I’ve done that), it’s still sugar. It’s still sweet. It leaves your mindless little taste buds longing for more. Back to the plan: no refined carbs, no alcohol (gah, wine is natural!), and no dairy. Great. What am I supposed to eat?

What you can eat is meat. But not hotdogs or bacon or pepperoni. None of the best meats. I guess now is the time I get down on my knees and express my thanks for living in a country that bans all pork products?

Oh, what else? You can eat vegetables, delicious fruits, nuts (but not peanuts, because those are legumes), eggs, and anything you can concoct using those ingredients. Think salsa, sunflower butter, ummm… that’s all I can come up with right now. I did discover manna from the Gods over here in the form of coconut. Coconut milk became an instant go-to, as did coconut oil, and coconut cream, oh, and coconut butter. Watch, in ten years scientists will discover that coconut is carcinogenic. Until then, I will continue to indulge. If you’ve never had a latte made with coconut milk, it’s high time you try it. If anyone can find a way out of this binding 30-day lifestyle, it’s this girl. And yes, Corinne and I did boldly take a can of coconut milk right into a Starbucks and sweetly ask them to please jab a hole in it and whip us up a couple of coconut lattes. Oddly enough it wasn’t well received at every coffee shop we went to and the ritual of keeping a can of coconut milk (rather than a bottle of wine) in our handbags became just weird.



Let me share the general guidelines, and these are very general, because this blog post is not to inform or persuade. I’m simply here to entertain you…er, myself. What? Whose teaching about ‘author’s purpose’ in 3rd grade reading this week? Was it that obvious? Yes, yes, the guidelines. They go a little something like this: with each meal you are supposed to have a palm-sized portion of protein. Think meat, nuts, etc. Your fat source should be about the same size as your thumb, and the rest of your plate should be full of vegetables with about 1-3 small servings of fruit smattered here and there in your day. That’s it. Easy. Right?



Day four of the Whole 30 found me panicking in the kitchen the night before a two-hour spin-a-thon I had signed up for. I didn’t want to back out. I couldn’t be a Whole 30 drop out so soon in the game, but being trained with the mindset of carb loading before intensive physical demand had me in a tizzy. A little pacing and a google search (duh) later I realized I could still get the carbs I needed to carry me through with a sweet potato. Hooray for the sweet potato. I topped that pup with a little coconut milk, some ground walnuts, and a sprinkle of cinnamon for a breakfasty delight that easily took me through that two-hour workout. Challenge one: met and completed.

Don’t let me fool you. There were plenty of temptations, moments of panic, outright mental meltdowns, and even a text from my boss who wrote something along the lines of “please, for the sake of your students, eat a slice of pizza!” There was even one epic fail where I ingested 4 cupcakes, 3 candy bars, and 2 glasses of wine…yes, in one night. Don’t judge. It was the fateful night I found out the laptop I had purchased in Doha, a Mac, had a faulty hard drive and had crashed. Gone? Everything. All of my photos. All of my word documents. All of my Power Point presentations. All of my tax documents. All of my music. Recovered? None of it. I never thought I’d say these words, but thanks to that cursed iCloud, the photos I had taken on my iphone remained, so that’s something. I guess. Needless to say, I learned something about myself. When presented with an amount of stress that fizzles the wires in my brain, I will take a one-way trip to the town of Sugarville, and plummet, face first, into the first sugary substance I can get my greedy little hands on. It was a great learning experience. I learned that I simply can’t allow stress in my space. Stress and sugar are no longer welcome here. I’ll let you know how that goes.




The moral of the story is that I did it. Mostly. And I actually grew to like it. Day 3 found me mopey and tired because all I really wanted with my steak and veggies was a buttery baked potato. Wah. Poor me. On day 9 I nearly dove under a table to recover an Oreo that had fallen out of the filthy hands of a wide-eyed toddler. Oh, I wasn’t going to recover it for him. I wanted to eat that Oreo. By day 20 it was in the bag. I had this thing. By day 29 ½, as we drove by Dairy Queen and ordered the Blizzards that we’d promised to our three sweet children, I caved once again (not cave-man style, because I would have clearly said no, had I simply channeled my inner Neanderthal) and ordered the Butterfinger Blizzard. And it was divine. Also I felt ill for a good two hours after. Which, oddly enough, isn't enough to keep me from having another one some day.



I liked putting food into my mouth that actually had a job to do. The food I was eating wasn’t just to fill my stomach; it was to nourish my muscles, my brain, and my body. And that felt kind of cool. I loved watching my kids fight (literally yelling fighting) over red bell peppers at the dinner table. Not only was I not eating useless food, my family wasn’t. We were eating useful food. They didn’t embark on the whole goodness of the process with me, but dinner was pretty much a clean meal. We explored the miracle of cauliflower. It’s like a cloaking food. Who knew it could be a vegetable for dipping into spicy sunbutter sauce, masquerade as rice, and even show up to dinner as a mashed potato double? Brilliant.

A friend of mine who was battling cancer once said, “everything you eat, it either feeds the beast or it fights it.” I think we all have a beast to fight or feed within us, whether that’s cancer, fat, age, or something else. We all can choose to either feed the beast or fight it. For the most part, this 30 day experiment taught me to fight. Shocking, coming from me…I’m sure. Ha!

I think it’s important to note that I’m typing this with buttery fingers and dried cookie dough on my forearm (literally). I just felt like it was important to clarify for those of you who will have the pleasure of my presence this summer. I will still indulge in s’mores, the occasional (who are we kidding) Ruby Ale, and a savory grilled hotdog (or two) tucked nicely into a starchy white bread poison bun. But what I really want to do is eat as clean as I can, not for 30 days, but for however many I get to have on this planet. Who knows, maybe this choice will add one or two to that equation. Don’t be annoyed if I turn down your fresh baked pie and don’t judge me if I gobble it down like I haven’t eaten in three days. I’m just here, doing my best to be the best version of me I can. Some days I’m winning. Some days I’m not.

the real world | episode 2

There's this little game the teeny bops play on facebook, tbh - or, to be honest... and then you're supposed to post some image boosting comment, like - tbh, you have the best hair ev.er. Sometimes fights will break out - "tbh, you never were my friend." I'm kidding. Kind of. I haven't actually seen that post, but in trying to channel my 14 year old self, I would imagine that could happen. It's silly. But we've all had our years of youthful...umm, silliness?

In the spirit of tbh - this Easter, I've decided to play a little game of tbh. To be honest, this is me, processing, coping, trying to get through another Christian holiday in a Muslim country. And it's not just that. Really, it's hardly that at all. It's more me trying to get through another holiday without our people, our traditions, our way of doing holidays. I'm reading a book right now about how to bring these three kids up in a culture that isn't there own. Yes, another parenting book. In the book they quote Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof and it just keeps haunting me:

"Because of our traditions, we've kept our balance for many, many years. Here in Anatevka, we have traditions for everything: how to sleep, how to eat... how to work... how to wear clothes. For instance, we always keep our heads covered, and always wear a little prayer shawl that shows our constant devotion to God. You may ask, "How did this tradition get started?" I'll tell you! I don't know. But it's a tradition... and because of our traditions... Every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do."


Because of our traditions I know that we dye eggs with a table full of loved ones. We laugh. We fight. We dip. We dye. We outdo each other; always besting whatever egg was last carefully dried and placed in the green carton holding place. Why? Because that's the tradition. It sometimes ends in laughter. More often in tears. But it's the way it's supposed to be. We eat the cracked eggs, sometimes cracking them on purpose to desperately fuel our protein deprived bodies on this sugar saturated holiday. It's tradition. We rise early Sunday morning. Too early. The baskets have been delivered. The eggs have been hidden. And tired little feet scurry through the house to see if anyone else is awake yet. Maybe to snag a coveted Easter basket trinket. Maybe to do a little reconnaissance mission for hidden eggs. Tactics. Not only do you have to dye the best egg, but you're nobody if you don't find the most eggs.

Cups of coffee are chugged, orange rolls bake away, and there's suddenly a mad rush (you'd think, because we've been up since 4am, that'd give us plenty of time - no.) to get everyone bathed and ready for church. Church. One of two services of the year that everyone attends. Seemingly, every.one. We bribe our way through church with promises of hidden eggs, more candy, and time with friends and family. After church we come home, starting to slip into an early afternoon sugar coma, revived by a sliver of neon pink tucked beneath the branch of a tree. Eggs. There are eggs to be had! Barreling out of the car, all three bound into the yard squawking like a passel of baby chicks all lurching forward for the same neon pink egg. Soon, they are joined by another car load of kids. And suddenly there are six fighting for the same neon pink egg. Again: Laughter. Tears. But mostly laughter. And memories.

Easter. The one I just described, well that's a myriad of Easter's past. It's not one particular Easter. It's all of them. It's tradition. It's the box of Easter goodness that my mom sent to us. She sent it because she knows me. She knows that Easter without the trappings, well that's no Easter at all. Easter without my mom's ridiculous puffy cotton ball looking chicks (that she manages to find year after year) displayed throughout the house, isn't Easter. Eater without an egg dyeing party? Not Easter. I guess what she didn't realize, is that the only thing she could have put in that box to make it feel like Easter was herself.



To be honest, I love every little bit about living and working abroad. No. I'm not being honest. I don't love every little bit about it. I don't like holidays over here. I just don't. They're lonely. They're hard. They aren't what they're supposed to be. I find myself trying to fast forward through them or distract myself from them or just pretend they aren't here. But the reality is, I have three little people waiting for me and for Steve to help create their image of what a holiday looks like. What will they write in their journals about what Easter looked like growing up? Will they remember egg hunts with their friends? Will they remember hurried showers and uncomfortable church clothes as we shove them out the front door? Will they remember that we always, always have orange rolls for breakfast and ham for dinner.

Always.

Except when we don't.

Except when we live in a country that forbids pork products and didn't manage to get a shipment of Pillsbury orange rolls on their last barge. Will they remember that we bought them a new Easter outfit every year? Will they remember that they always wore those darn outfits for the total of about 4 hours once a year? Will they remember what the holidays feel like? What the laughter sounds like? Will they remember the smells of the holidays in Oregon?

To be honest, we are living the adventure of a lifetime over here. We had Rome. We have a pool practically in our back yard. I don't remember what it feels like to be cold. Our kids are seeing the world and learning a second language. We did have a table full of people dyeing eggs with us. Our Doha friends are what keep us going. We laugh a lot. We love it here.

To be honest, there is something to be said for tradition. There is something to be said for living in a world among your people. Your people who dye eggs. Who hunt eggs. Who spend irrational amounts of money on 4 hour wardrobes. Your people who march faithfully and dutifully through those church doors.

To be honest, the unraveling of tradition hurts and no number of trips to Rome or Dubai or the backyard pool can cover that seeping wound.

To be honest, it's 8:36pm over here. That's 3 hours and 24 minutes until I can put one more holiday in a dark plastic bag, toss it in the trunk, and drop it off at the nearest dump. And then we can get back to actively being in our laughing place.

With that... Happy Easter! Haha! No, truly... it has been a happy Easter. Just not in the traditional sense. To all of you back home, celebrating your traditional Easters - have a colorful, laughter filled day!

roma | this is rome (part one)

What a dumb title. It's hard to come up with something clever to say for the amazing parts of life. I can be clever beyond words for a blog post about our pile up of laundry, or medical care in a foreign country, but give me the task of titling a post about Rome and I've got nothin'. I've got a lot of pictures. I've got a lot of memories. But clever titles...not so much. Give me time. I may come up with one. This blather. It's all part of the writing process. Part one is this. Part two will be just photos, from my better camera. Not my *good* camera...but better than my iphone, camera.



One of the many reasons we decided we wanted to give international teaching a whirl was for the opportunity to travel. When we decided we were going to Rome, one of the first questions people asked was, "Why Rome?"

What? I have a better question. Why not Rome? Okay, to answer that question: at some point, Steve and I had a conversation about our dream destinations and Rome was one that made the top five for both of us. I kind of have a crush on Europe and, as far as continents go, it's probably my favorite (okay second favorite, only because I'd be a bad American if I didn't rate my home continent first). Part of Steve's family is originally from Italy, so he was excited to find brethren with equally impressive noses. Ha! I kid! That's just my nose envy talking.

We wanted to really feel Rome, so we searched for an apartment we could rent in the heart of the city. We wanted to live it, experience it, not just vacation in it. I'm all for room service and tour bus rides, but for Rome we wanted it to be a more authentic experience. Maybe even a little bit educational for the kids.



Poor kids. They probably just want a week in Disneyland, a heated outdoor pool, continental carbalicious breakfast daily, Mickey Mouse ears to take home, churros to munch on when you run out of energy under the hot afternoon sun, and a plastic bag full of glittery goodness to take home after visiting the endless row of princesses. Nope. Instead we gave them history!







Tours through the streets of an ancient city, riveting lectures on a day in the life of a gladiator, cooking lessons, gelato tasting, and souvenirs in the form of books and pictures and lasting memories. They did get their carbalicious overload on a daily basis, though. It wasn't all bad. The truth is - they loved it! Thank goodness!



We rented a cute little apartment within walking distance of the Spanish Steps.



Although we were just there one week, we lucked out in finding a private tour guide (who was amazing!) to take us through the Colosseum one day, through the ancient city of Ostia Antica another day, and best of all, she taught us how to order coffee with an extra shot of espresso. Although they don't call it espresso because all they serve is espresso, which is why it's called cafe. Coffee, which is like drinking swamp water to them, is called "American coffee". Shoot. Why do we have to be associated with that, especially since what they serve as "American coffee" is Nescafe from a jar. It may be my life mission to educate the world about what we truly drink over in America. It most certainly is not crystalized coffee chunks from a jar. Ew.



Focus. Okay. Two of our days were tour days. One of our days was spent in the home of a chef who gave us private lessons on how to cook authentic Roman cuisine. It was fantastic! We made ravioli, tortilini, traditional meat sauce, a béchamel sauce, and three different flavors of gelato. The best part was eating all of it when we were done cooking. I have to say we completely lucked into meeting a host of fantastic people. It all started with the apartment rental that we booked through Silvio, who introduced us to Gina, who set up amazing tours with Priscilla and a cooking lesson with Francesca. If any of you ever want to visit Rome, let me know because these people are amazing and I'd be happy to give them more business.



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And because who doesn't love a top 10 list?
The top 10 things I thought I'd never do in Rome:


10. Um, be in Rome.


9. Walk on the ground, the very ground, where Julius Caesar was assassinated.



8. See Steve get in a yelling match with a street peddler who wouldn't leave Drew alone while trying to sell us a flashy laser light ditty.


7. Be so cold that I had to (no, really I *had* to) by a pair of Italian leather gloves. They're beautiful. I may need them to survive the summer in Oregon.



6. Eat at a one of the top ten most unusual McDonald's in the world. True story. Check this link. It's located in a 2,000 year old building. That seems so wrong, on so many levels.

5. Hire a street vendor to paint a picture of the Colosseum for us and watch him do it in about 12 minutes flat.


4. See the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo's real true paintings, and walk the macabre corridors of Saint Peter's Basilica. Steve scolded me for using the adjective macabre, but listen, when there are dead people entombed in glass boxes...that's macabre. Saint Peter's Basilica was stunning. Breathtaking. Awe inspiring. Yes, all of those things. Also, macabre.



3. Stand on the roof of a crazy old building and see the Roman cityscape beneath a golden sheen of February sunlight.


2. Devour a plate of ribs, onion rings, and New York cheesecake, with a Shiraz chaser.

1. Put my son in a time-out on the Spanish Steps. (Yes, that is Drew, second photo down, in the lower right hand corner of the following image, in a time-out.)



One of my all time favorite moments in Rome was in the Vatican Museum. It was the tail end of our last full day in Rome and we were all weary. Steve was being the good grandson that he is, and writing his grandma a postcard from the Vatican City. He thought it'd be cool for her to get a postcard from the actual post office there. Such a sweet guy. So, we all waited while Steve polished his halo. I found a little bench to sit on. The kids found souvenirs to bide their time. We were all content. While I was waiting, Livy comes strolling on over and sidles next to me and, as she leans her head into my shoulder says, "Well, when was the last time *you* sat next to an ancient bust?" Bhahaha! That kid. She cracks me up. Livy in the upper left hand corner, sitting next to an ancient bust.



And that, was Rome.


But, there are five Canfield coins in the Trevi Fountain that say we're coming back! Until next time...