A Difficult Day

I was a young mom who thought, by virtue of having gone to college, that I knew what to do with a newborn. Or at least could read a book and figure out how to do it right. Of course, the first few weeks of motherhood quickly cured me of that delusion. In one of my many calls to the hospital help line, I was told about a support group that met once a week at the hospital.

I showed up that first Tuesday morning and out of my insecurities judged some of the other moms I saw; she's got money, she's kind of earthy-crunchy, she's got a tattoo. What I did not know then, but would soon greatly appreciate, was the life line those moms were. We came from different backgrounds, but we bonded over the same desire: to be good moms, to do right by our children. We would meet every week and share our triumphs and our challenges. We would trade whatever knowledge and information we had found, encourage each other in what ever way we could. But the critical part of this group was not the tips, tricks or advice. It was the simple knowledge that we were not alone.

Most of our conversations might have seemed superficial to an outside observer, but what we were communicating to each other was that we were not alone in our struggles. We were telling each other there were other moms who were just as insecure, but just as eager to learn and grow. I'm sure the other ladies would agree that this group helped us be better moms to our children, and I think I became a better person.

Over time, we grew more confident in our abilities, our children grew up and some of us had more babies. As a result, we drifted apart from each other. I do not mourn this as a loss because I realize there are seasons in life. We are not always able to keep things the way we'd want it to be forever, and this is a good and necessary thing. This is important to note: just because that season has passed and my need to meet with these ladies waned, they are not any less significant to my life. I am grateful for those ladies who helped me through the first years of motherhood.

So it was with great sadness that I learned of the death of one of the moms. Heather was the one with the tattoo. While I thought this was odd at first, as I got to know Heather, I appreciated her outlook on life. She was witty, she was artistic, she was compassionate and kind. We got together a few times after the moms' group stopped meeting and I always enjoyed our conversations. What I didn't know was the emotional pain she endured that led her to take her own life.

This is what I struggle with. I am sad she's gone, that she suffered for so long and so greatly that she ended things this way. My heart grieves for her husband and her children faced with living without this most vibrant wife and mother. Yet I am frustrated as well. Because, like when I was a new mom, there are things I cannot grasp. I read this comment today: "Having the courage to endure childbirth is probably more courage than many, if not most, men have." Heather was that kind of brave. She traveled the world. She thought nothing of moving to a new house. If there was a new hobby or interest, she pursued it with gusto. Yet she despaired, and I cannot fathom a despair that would lead someone to turn that kind of courage towards ending their life. In doing so, she left behind three beautiful children and a husband who loved her so. They will sit shiva on Mother's Day.

The officiant at her memorial said that there are some things in life we will never understand, some knowledge that will never be ours to grasp. Though this frustrates and saddens me, I will accept this about you, Heather. But my deep, deep hope will remain that, somehow, you will know how much you are loved and how much you will be missed.

Adventures in Karaoke

I really didn't plan to spend my Friday night working a karaoke gig,

I'm a stay at home mom, not a DJ. On Friday nights, I put the kids to bed, watch a few episodes of 'Frasier' (the new 'Matlock') and it's lights out by 10:00 PM. But my friend 'Stina called me in a panic. The ride to her karaoke job fell through and she was in a pinch. So I agreed to drive her to the karaoke job, find a quiet corner and do some knitting until she was done. Easy money. At some point during the set up, she asked me, "How do you feel about being MC?"

Wait, what?

I feel like a fish out of water, a stranger in a strange land, that's what. But as we're setting up the equipment, she's quickly losing her voice. Really? This has to happen now? You can't run a DJ/karaoke party with no voice! C'mon, 'Stina, this isn't funny.

10:30 PM. The party was supposed to start at 11:00 PM but there's already people filling out song request slips. So we get our groove on early. I'm amazed there's so many people with the courage to do this.

The next thing I know I'm spinning "Fancy" by Reba McIntyre. I grab the mic. "Steve? Dude, you're up next with Blink 182! Give it up for Steve, yo!" Who's Blink 182 anyway? I look at 'Stina, "You totally owe me two iced lattes now!" I am made fully aware of my age by the fact I barely know any of the songs that are being requested.

It's 12:44 AM. Holy lateness, Batman! I should have been in bed for two hours by now, but these guys are just warming up. C'mon people! It's past my bedtime! A woman takes the mic. You're really not going to try Sinatra, are you? Really? The New Yorker in me dies a little bit. Kiki saves us with the next song. Kiki, you do Cher better than Cher! And without the Bob Mackey gown!

1:00 AM and there are 8 singers lined up. Don't you people quit?!? Hey you in the grey shirt! I spent the 80's listening to George Michael. Please don't ruin my memories. Next person is Mary. Girl, you sing like an angel! Come back up anytime. No, really. Because George Michael wants another turn and I don't think I can take it.

What is that over there? Interpretive dance for peace? Yes? I avert my eyes. The next contestant steps up. I see his selection and I ask 'Stina, "Does Dave realize this Alanis Morisette song is about a girl breaking up with her boyfriend?" 'Stina just smiles. Ok, Dave! Take it away!

1:30 AM. I start putting away the song catalogue books. I'm cutting off  the "performers" because they show no sign of slowing down and I'm dying here. Besides the gig is over at 2:00 AM and there's still 10 people left to go. Karaoke at 2:00 AM. Who does that? 'Stina's taking pictures of everything and posting it on Facebook for posterity.

'Stina sees me taking notes. I tell her it's for a possible blog post. The things I do for blog fodder. I'm starting to get punchy.

"Are you fussin' at me?" 'Stina says, "Yeah, I think you're tired, is what! Make sure that gets in your post."

Kiki, closed us out with Lee Ann Rimes. Dang, she's good. Wait? That's not the last one? Oh, for the love of all that's good, he wants to do AC/DC?!? The singer valiantly fights his way through a song 15 years older than he is.

2:00 AM. We're done! Oh, happy day! We're done! It took us two hours to set up, but five minutes to break it all down and get out of there.

4:00 AM. I'm home. I'm all out of snark. I never got to my knitting, but I'm safely home, in bed.

And I find myself wondering if the kids would like karaoke...

Back in the US of A

Part 9: For a girl who grew up strongly connected to her family and her roots, Arlene had a certain adventurousness that she couldn't deny. It first appeared when the AFS opportunity came up and again when her husband was offered a position in the US. Only this time, things were different going to America. South Africa was in the process of change, and change for the better; Mandela had been released, apartheid was dismantled and so there were no musicians singing about not playing Sun City. But all was not easy going in New York (after the fall of communism in the USSR, the movie villain of choice became South African). Never the less, Arlene expected great things upon her return to the US.


Arrival
America. The first time I was in NYC was in 1985 at the end of my AFS year abroad. It was an amazing day; tons of sightseeing capped off with the Grucci's legendary Fourth of July fireworks display. I had fallen in love with New York and I told myself I was going to return to the US some day.

It was the summer of 1991 and I was excited to be back. I was excited to be married, to be married to a diplomat, and to be starting what promised to be an international adventure.

The first time I arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport in 1985, I was taken to an AFS orientation program at C.W. Post campus on Long Island. For that week, the campus turned into a big international melting pot of Norwegians, Frenchmen and Swedes and we spent a few days learning about American culture and customs.

This time was different. Ian and I had to hit the ground running. Straight off the plane, we were met by our limousine driver and taken to our hotel; a nice one between Lexington and Park Avenue. We spent three months there while looking for an apartment and waiting for all of our stuff to arrive from South Africa.


Getting Settled
The apartment buildings we looked at were fancy with concierges and valets. They looked more like hotels. I could not believe my eyes. I mean, we didn't live in squalor in South Africa, but coming to New York was like coming to an island of opulence, and we didn’t pay for anything. As members of the diplomatic corp, everything we needed was purchased for us; furniture, crockery, cutlery, china. We even had a clothing allowance. And we had to buy good stuff. When we went shopping for porcelain, it had to be top quality, because when we had our dinners and cocktail parties, we were representing South Africa and South Africa wanted to look good. I was in awe of the daily amount of money that they spent on us, and we were junior diplomats.

We didn't have to look for a real estate agent ourselves because those big apartment buildings had rental agents, and as soon as the word went out, “there’s a diplomat looking for an apartment,” the agents contacted you to show you the building. Thankfully, we had our rent paid for us because I don't know how we could have afforded the $3,500 a month rent.

All the diplomats lived in very nice apartments. The Ambassador was driven around in a Lincoln Town car.  I remember feeling almost a sense of guilt because it was like we were living in a bubble. As South Africans, we put ourselves on the same level as all first world countries in terms of the opulence and the fanciness of every thing and I remember thinking, “This is crazy!” Was this representing the South Africa I knew? It seemed like the diplomats were representing an elite group and not the South Africa I knew. But I didn't complain.

At the UN

Working in and around the UN was like working in a different, very cosmopolitan world. It’s almost like it's not the United States.

It seemed to me that the whole South African diplomatic corp agenda was the agenda of the white regime, the National Party government. Part of Ian's job was public relations. I remember one of his tasks was lobbying other countries to replace the word "regime" with "government" in whatever documents and papers that referred to South Africa. The purpose of this was to gather credibility for the government under DeKlerk. So he had to lobby key countries to change words like "the apartheid regime" to "the apartheid government." Little things like that that meant a lot to the South African government.

Ours was an uphill battle. Though I felt like the relationship between the US and South Africa was better than it was when I was first here in 1985, there was still a sense of exclusion. For example, outside of the UN general assembly room, there was a hallway with larger-than-poster size black and white photographs of the unrest in South Africa, portraying the police in full gear, large protesting crowds, Nelson Mandela, poverty, etc. This hallway/exhibit was one of the stops on the UN tour that the public paid to take at that time. For the rest of us at the UN, it was a general walkway that delegates, spouses and other dignitaries passed through frequently. I never liked those pictures. Probably because it was just a harsh reality to face, but also because I felt it did not include pictures of the beautiful country I knew and loved. I thought it was a skewed portrayal; necessary perhaps, but it seemed like propaganda to me. Like my host family in North Carolina, people were always surprised to hear my stories of living a very 'normal' life in South Africa. The paintings and photos made it seem like all white South Africans were white supremacists, and this made me angry because the person portrayed on the wall did not represent me.

Election Day(s)

The freedom and ease with which Americans vote is completely taken for granted. After the release of Nelson Mandela, there were four years of talks between interested parties about what the new government would look like. As if having discussions between former enemies was not hard enough, they were sprinkled with violence by groups that felt left out and smaller parties interested in continuing the only thing they knew: armed struggle. As the author David Horowitz noted, "When you went into combat, it was only natural to put your trust in warriors who were prepared to be ruthless and brutal. But these characteristics of the revolutionary vanguard were not traits of good rulers, in whom judiciousness, moral scruple and caution would be obvious virtues. Yet how could the conquerors be persuaded to step down?"[1]

Given the enormity of the occasion and the number of candidates and voters involved, the elections were slated to take place over four days: April 26-29, 1994. There was mayhem in South Africa leading up to the voting. There was no registry of voters so the interim government had no idea how many people were eligible to vote. Millions lacked identity documents and many were illiterate or in areas so remote, they were unreachable by roads. Only 5 of the 28 campaigning parties had any electioneering experience. And there was to be more violence before "peace broke out." On April 24, a car bomb went off at the headquarters of the ANC and the PAC, two of the campaigning parties. Six more polling stations were bombed on that day and the next, including a bomb at Jan Smuts International Airport in Johannesburg. But South Africans were determined and the vote took place. In those four days in April, black South Africans learned what whites knew: how to vote, and white South Africans learned what blacks knew: how to wait. Despite the confusion and the seemingly endless lines, an election was held, history was made, and the world rejoiced with South Africa.

I remember that day in April 1994 when we voted for South Africa's first democratically elected president. We stood in long lines to vote, and there was huge media coverage. We voted right at the consulate, on 38th Street. When we walked into the polling place there was the old South African flag, and when we walked out, there was our new flag. It was so symbolic, and the party that night was unbelievable.

The South African vote that day was very much supported by other African countries like Nigeria, Zimbabwe and Angola. I remember dignitaries from those countries present everywhere that day, and being part of the party afterwards. It was like a big celebration not just for South Africa the country, but for all of Southern Africa.

In July 1992, Mandela came to the UN and it was insane. Security people were everywhere. As the wife of a diplomat, I had a pass to go anywhere in the UN complex. So I was in the general assembly when Nelson Mandela and Mangosuthu Buthelezi of the Inkatha Freedom Party spoke on the same day. Afterwards the consulate had a huge reception for Mandela. The moment was huge. I was so happy. The party was an interesting reflection of South Africa at the time. I mean, most of the South African delegates were white, but a lot of the black Africans at the party were from Nigeria, Ghana, and other African countries. I remember they were all in their native African dress. And they were ecstatic.

The Reality
Before we arrived in New York, I had plans for what I wanted to do in the US. As a diplomat's spouse, I wasn't allowed to work but I thought I would do some studying while I was here. Apparently, matriculating in a school wasn't allowed either.

It almost seemed like the men were here to be political and work but the wives were here merely to socialize. So most of what I did was socialize with the other wives. I thought what the men were doing was awesome. Especially leading up to the election, they did a lot building up in promoting the new government, and creating credibility. The South African Tourism Association was involved as well, promoting South Africa as a destination, "a world in one country", "the rainbow nation." But I was beginning to feel like just decoration.

So I decided to join the UN Local Expatriate Spouse Association (UNLESA) or what I called the UN wives' club.

The UN Wives' Club
Joining the wives' club was not as easy as I thought it would be. Remember the UN hallway I spoke of with the posters of South Africa? That's what the other wives thought I was, part of the "old regime" It was hard to get people to understand that I was just Arlene from South Africa, I wasn't from this crazy place portrayed in the news. However, some of the other black African spouses didn't want me to join because I was a white South African. I remember particularly a Sudanese lady who caused a big stink about my membership. It actually became an issue and I had to meet with the South African ambassador and explain what was going on. I had to advocate for myself and eventually I was made a member of the club.

I was happy to be part of the organization. Rather than just go to lunches and have parties, I was now able to do something significant. Among other things, the wives' club did some fundraisers for UNICEF. I remember one time we had a massive raffle where the first prize was actually two tickets to South Africa. The second prize was some hand painted piece of art, and third prize was a smaller piece. I won third prize. I still have the piece.

Unmet Expectations
The crazy part was, all this made me depressed.

On a typical morning, I'd get up, make Ian breakfast, and he would leave for work. I was then left in this unbelievably beautiful apartment; two bedrooms with big sliding doors, big floor to ceiling windows with a spectacular view of Manhattan's Upper East Side.

And I would lie on the couch and watch one talk show after the next; "Montel Williams" and "Live with Regis and Kathy Lee." At three o'clock in the afternoon I was still on the couch. I put on so much weight that year because I was eating M & M's like they were going out of fashion.

I didn't realize at the time that I was depressed. I just thought I was being lazy. Whatever was going on, one thing I knew was I was not happy because the truth was I didn't like the lifestyle. I thought it was fake. There was so much going on in the world at that time, so much going on in our own country, so many people who needed help and it seemed like most of these diplomatic spouses were only concerned with the quality of your porcelain or how you made your spinach salad. The other wives were into their art and their painting and shopping here and there, but I was 24 and I just couldn't relate to that at all.

To make things worse, very soon after our arrival in New York, Ian told me that he felt like he made a mistake in marrying me.

I was shocked. I really didn't know what to do. When we left South Africa, we were like the golden couple; young and with boundless potential. We had been together all through high school and college. At Rhodes, we had problems I should have noticed, but as a young girl, I didn't. It's always easy to see those things in hindsight, isn't it? With everyone pulling for us, I didn't want them to know that there was trouble in paradise.

When we were in Benoni, we were members of the church I grew up in, and we went regularly. Once we got to New York, we just stopped going to church. I wanted to go, but Ian didn’t. A couple of times I went down to the Times Square church with Pastor Wilkerson, the one who wrote “The Cross and the Switchblade.” I also went to the Brooklyn Tabernacle a couple of times. But for the most part, Ian and I weren’t plugged in spiritually. We weren’t going go church. When I look back, I see that as part of the problem.

Even being a part of the UN wives' club, I didn't really connect with the other UN spouses, and so I spent a lot of time on my own, exploring New York City. Eventually, I took a volunteer job proofreading and editing at an advertising agency run by two South African men. There was a man  there named Carl, an American proofreader. We started talking and eventually became friends. I confided in him. I think the mistake was that I started talking to him about everything that was going on between Ian and me.

After a couple of these deep conversations with Carl, I went back to Ian and I told him that I thought my conversations with Carl were not a good sign. I told Ian I wanted to recognize the trouble between us and figure out what to do. It was then he confided in me that he had begun an extramarital relationship six months after we arrived in New York.

I was devastated. Apparently, when I had been in Texas for ten days with my mom, something had started up between him and another woman. Even after she went back to South Africa, they still corresponded for awhile.

However, it was news of my relationship with Carl that got relayed to the South African Ambassador. Apparently I was considered a security threat because I was having an affair. I was called in to meet with the deputy Ambassador who wanted to question me about everything. I was terrified. None the less, I met with the deputy and I told him that no state secrets were being revealed and that my personal life was my own business. He was quite nice about the situation. He told me that he cared about Ian and me, and he wanted to see our marriage work.

Eventually though, Ian's family found out about our situation. His mother in particular, whom I never really got along with, was extremely angry. I think it was because she felt that Ian and I were splitting up because I was having an affair.

So as Ian's three year UN assignment was concluding, our marriage was failing. The last few months in New York felt like chaos. Actually, it was chaos. Not only did we have to pack up all of our belongings to go overseas again, but also simultaneously divide our stuff because once we got back to South Africa, we would be divorcing.

We flew back home and while our families were there to greet us, there was no fanfare like last time.  From the airport, Ian and I left in different cars and went to different places. And that is how my New York adventure ended.




footnotes:
1. Horowitz, David. Radical Son: A Generational Odyssey. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster, 1997. p. 273.

How Much is a Bo Hunkmeister Worth?

This article about how much a mom would make if she were paid made the rounds of Crackbook recently. I see these kind of articles every year or so. I’m not sure what the point is of these articles. Are we trying to validate moms? Is it a slow news day? Have the Kardashians not done anything outrageous lately? Oddly enough, I never see one about how much husbands/fathers are worth. So being the servant of the public good that I am, I took it upon myself to try and figure this out. Please be aware that I’m basing this article on Bo Hunkmeister and what he does around our house. In light of how fabulous he is, I would suggest a 20% reduction in the final salary for the average American Dad (excluding my own dad, of course)

Ok, let’s get started:

1. Driver
    When Bo’s at work, I drive the kids to where ever they need to go, but when Bo is home, he does all the driving and I pretend like I’m Miss Daisy. Why, I’d sit in the back sipping tea if it wasn’t for all those kids taking up the seats. Seeing as how he’s at work most of the time, I’ll use the Yahoo article number reduced by 50%.

$2,084/year

2. Animal Control Officer
    As much as Bo and I try to keep a calm and peaceful household, periodically the cup doth runneth over. Every once in a while when things get a little too hairy here, and I get to my wit’s end, Bo takes charge and restores order. Additionally, as I explained before, one of my boys’ favorite pastimes is wrestling. Being the delicate flower that I am, I leave this activity to Bo as well. For these tasks, I’d use the phrase “Child Care Provider” but let’s be real here. With four young lively boys I think my term is more accurate. Given that one of them is still toilet training, I’m going to toss in an extra 20% hazard pay.

$34,700+20%=$41,640/year

3. Therapist
    After a trying day, Ive been known to look at Bo and ask, “Are you the only other non-idiot besides me?” To this, he gently replies, “Tell me about your day, sweetie,” and then I vent on him like a F-15 fighter jet. After composing myself, we discuss things, he gets me to put the explosives away and life is good again. Or there are times when my children and I have lost the ability to speak the truth in love to each other. Bo is able to calm everyone down, get to the root of the problem and speak to everyone in ways we chose not to previously. I’d lend Bo out to the UN, but he’s got his hand full here at home.

$80,000/year

4. Massage Therapist
    For fear of going into TMI territory, I’ll just leave this one short and sweet. I like frequent foot rubs and/or back rubs. Were I to purchase these services, not only would I have to put my coffee down and go some where, but I’d be out $37,000/year.

5. Accountant
    Running a family such as ours on one income is no small feat. In order to keep the Domestic Goddess in the lifestyle according to which she has become accustomed to, we have a budget. Making sure we stay on that budget is the kind but firm Bo Hunkmeister. He diligently tracks our spending, records our transactions, and balances the check-book so I have enough money for more books and Dunkin Donuts coffee food and clothing. Due to his efforts, we manage to make things work in a state where the governor is so hard pressed for cash, he wants to tax soda. Yes, soda. To pay a professional and, most likely, a less handsome man to do this accounting, would set me back about $60,000/year.

6. Handyman
    We own a house and have six kids so as you might guess, in addition to the typical homeowner maintenance like sinks exploding, things break frequently around here and when they do, we turn to Bo. I’ll cook, stitch or knit something together, but everything else lands on his work bench; broken furniture, broken toys, broken children, etc. With a mix of duct tape, gorilla glue and a few power tools, Bo repairs that which would have headed out to the junk heap (excluding the children, of course)
           $32,000/year

7. Stylist, Travel Agent, Errand Boy/Personal Assistant, Cheer-Leader, Cabana Boy
    Honestly, I don’t know how I got into art school. Maybe I was part of their affirmative action plan for Long Island mall chicks. But for the life of me, I am lacking in the fashion areas. I have frequently asked Bo to dress me as I’m at a loss for what to wear or what goes with what. 
   Then there are all those smaller but no less important things Bo does around here. He arranges the travel and accomodations when we take trips, he goes to the store to fetch things for me, he’s my biggest cheerleader when it comes to encouraging me in my various projects and I’ll leave the cabana boy part to your imagination. I’d google the salary for stylist/personal assistant/cabana boy, but I’m a bit scared at what hits I would get so I’ll just make up a number
           $40,000/year

So my grand total for what I’d have to pay someone to replace Bo should he run off and join “Stars on Ice” is $292,724. That’s really a lot more money than I’d make blogging here. Seeing as how I can’t earn the cash to pay Bo what he deserves, maybe I’ll make him one of these.

Annual Kerr Christmas Letter

Wow? Is it really that time of the year for the annual Kerr Christmas letter? It must be because there are three dozen cookies and baklava cooling on my kitchen table. That can only mean one thing. I've totally given up on good nutrition. It's Christmas time!

So what happened this year in Kerrville?

In January, Buttercup placed second in a spelling bee having only practiced for three weeks. I'm kind of glad she didn't get first because the girl who did spent three months practicing. The winner might have blown a gasket had she been beaten by Buttercup's three weeks of practice. Regardless, we were quite proud of her.

In February, Bo Hunkmeister and my dad took the girls to a Father Daughter dance with the local homeschooling group. In order to teach the girls the basics of gettin' yer groove on, we held a family dance party cueing up some Bee Gees, Jackson Five and, of course, C + C Music Factory. It was here that we learned Gummi was born with only one dance move, but W. Bear is double jointed in every joint in his body.

April was a big adventure for the girls as they traveled by themselves to San Francisco to see Grandma Barbara and Grandpa Richard. I've only recently recovered from letting my little babies get on a plane to fly across the country. Despite mom's neurosis, the girls had a great time. They saw all the sights, met family and had dim sum!

In the summer, Bo Hunkmeister went and did piratey things at Gaspee Days in Warwick, RI. Gaspee Days celebrates the Revolutionary War burning of the British schooner Gaspee, but more importantly, that we Rhode Islanders stuck it to The Man before Boston did. The yearly event culminates with burning the Gaspee in effigy in the harbor. I love a town that celebrates independence each year with pirates and burning effigies.

In August, the Bo and I celebrated 20 years of marital bliss by going on an overnight trip. Not content to let us have all the fun ourselves, my parents (the babysitters), made friends with the neighbor's guests from Holland (still with me?) and had dinner parties with them. There were rumors of an epic water fight and the weekend culminated in taking said neighbor's guests to Iggy's for clamcakes and doughboys. The Dutch visitors have since returned to Holland and I believe have taken up the vegetarian lifestyle in an effort to purge all that fried food from their bodies.

Like I said...rumors.

There was also the "S'more Incident" but we won't bring that up again.

Mistakes were made.

In September, we had a lovely visit from Grandpa Michael and Grandma Peggy. A wonderful, relaxing time was spent by the water near picturesque Wickford Village. The grandparents spoiled the kids, and best of all, I didn't have to cook for a week! (Come again soon, guys. Really, anytime.)

Bo went to the Newfangled retreat in October to eat fabulous food and avoid games of RISK (the boss will do ANYTHING to gain Kamchatka). Meanwhile, in an effort to gain a little more culture and refinement, the kids and I went to New York to do a little Shakespeare with my friend Lisa. This did nothing to lessen the burp and fart jokes from the boys. Better luck next time, eh Lisa?

Oh and Hurricane Irene? How could I could I forget kickin' it Laura Ingalls style? We were without lights for four days, but I'm not complaining because I got a sparkling clean refrigerator out of the deal. It was actually a wonderful experience in learning what we could live without and improvisational dinners with neighbors. 

No hurricane's gonna cramp our fun!

Justin is still working for Newfangled Web Factory. It is quite possibly the coolest place on earth and that's just not because they bought me a flourless chocolate raspberry torte.

Me, I'm still cookin', writin', and cookin' some more.

Princess Buttercup is still taking pictures, but her current obsession is the Beatles. That's her picture at the top getting her brothers to re-enact Abbey Road. She's also taken up playing guitar.

In April, Princess Git Er Done auditioned for the RI Youth Philharmonic and was admitted! In between playing violin, she makes earrings and uses her camera to make stop motion Lego videos.

W. Bear is the latest member of the family to discover photography. Boy are we glad for the digital age. 435 photos on film would have been really expensive to develop. W. Bear is also a serious Lego devotee.

Tater has moved to an upper bunk, learned to let go of the side of the pool and is also a major Lego devotee. It seems to be epidemic here.

This is Baby in one of his non-hospital pictures. He's learning to read this year. Maybe we can teach him drive so he can take himself to the hospital.

Turning the cute up to 11!

And last, but certaintly not least, Gummi! His latest fascination is puzzles, announcing he's up from his nap and charming everyone he meets.

So from all of us to all of yours, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and best wishes for a wonderful New Year!

Life After University

Part 8: The new decade was to bring significant changes in South Africa. The powder keg that was South African race relations seemed on the verge of exploding at any minute. Despite the regular violence and protests, life for many South Africans continued as 'normal' That is, if normal was regular bomb threats. While it might seem as if the release of Mandela would have diffused the powder keg, if anything, politics got more tumultuous as various groups jockeyed for positions of power in the new South Africa. But again, for most white South Africans, amidst what would seem like chaos to others, life went on as if everything was 'normal'

Ian and I graduated from Rhodes University at the end of 1989. I had wanted to pursue a master’s degree in psychology and my grades were good enough, but my advisors at Rhodes told me to get some life experience first. Like most students, I had gone to university straight out of high school. It made sense that before I got my master's and started counseling people, I had some practical life experience. So I moved back to Benoni near Johannesburg and lived with my mom and sisters.


Since I had received a government scholarship to go to Rhodes, I re-paid it by working for the Department of Home Affairs in their human resources department. My job was in Pretoria, the administrative capital of South Africa, an hour north of Benoni. Everyday I car pooled with Ian and two other friends from Benoni to Pretoria and back. Back then, with the Nationalist Party still in the majority, government personnel were predominantly white; Afrikaans speaking whites to be more specific. There was an Indian girl and myself who were the only English speaking people in our entire human resources department.


It was a tumultuous time not only for the country but for me personally. Ian and I had been dating since high school and all throughout university. I even switched universities to be with him. Yet in 1989 we started to question whether we should stay together. In my own family, after twenty three years of marriage, my parents decided to divorce after struggling in their own relationship.


In February of 1990, Nelson Mandela was released from prison. I was still working for the government and while I don’t remember the actual day itself, during the weeks before and after, I remember the reactions around me at work. A lot of people were in fear of losing their jobs because of what they thought was an impending affirmative action plan. The more racist Afrikaners were saying, "I will never work for a kaffir!" (extreme racist term) or “If a black man comes in here and has to work, I’m leaving!” or “There’s no way I'm working next to a black man.”


I want to point out that I also met some Afrikaners who were liberal minded. I remember one lady in particular, she was excited. She told me, “I can’t wait for the changes, you know? I almost ashamed to be Afrikaans...” But then, given the environment we were in, she also said to me don’t say this out loud, don’t let everybody know, and I knew what she was talking about.


I do remember seeing in the news on TV the jubilation around the country by the Xhosa people. There was dancing in the streets and massive gatherings of people wherever Mandela went. I remember how he always wore those floral shirts, always waving at people and always smiling.

In my circle of friends and family at that time, including my Methodist church, there was great excitement and a readiness to get voting. It was almost surreal in a way. Looking back I do not think I realized just how significant these events were. We were all sick of the violence, the unrest, the sanctions and the negative view of the world. We wanted peace and we knew that the National party was coming to an end.


While most South Africans, white and black, were jubilant at Mandela’s release, there was an underlying fear of what it meant for the country. There had been so much violence and bloodshed, everyone was pretty convinced that civil war was imminent, and, contrary to what the world thought, Mandela’s release did not bring immediate peace. There would be four long hard years of negotiations amidst more violence and protest before South Africans elected a new, truly democratic government.

Towards the end of 1990, I announced to my father that I wanted to work for South African Airways. Take aback, he said, "You have a degree. Why are you going to do that?" I told him, "Because I want to fly, I want to travel some more." I still wanted to become a psychologist, but since my advisors said I needed life experience, I thought travel would be a great way to do it. I applied to South African Airways in October of that year and started working for them as a flight attendant in December.


In April 1991, the plane I was on had just started backing out of the gate when the captain announced that we had to go back and evacuate the plane. Apparently there was a bomb threat, which, in South Africa at that time, was a weekly event. Having been with South Africa Airways for a few months by then, I was used to the announcement. We went back to the gate so the authorities could search our luggage. As we helped the passengers disembark to a secluded area, in the midst of a large group of Chinese tourists, I saw Nelson Mandela! Oddly enough, my first thought was, 'How do these Chinese tourists know who he is?' I stood off to the side watching the Chinese take all these pictures of him. Then my boss said to me, "Can you make Mr. Mandela a cup of tea?" I couldn’t believe it. While I was so nervous, I was determined to shake his hand and tell him that I admired him. And that’s what I did. I gave him his tea and shook his hand. To this day, I remember what his hand felt like. I said to him, "I think you're amazing." Then I asked him to sign my appointment book, on the date of our flight, and he signed it simply, “Mandela.” I doubt I will ever part with that book.

After graduation, Ian worked for the Department of Foreign Affairs. Since his area of study at university was international affairs, he applied for a position in the diplomatic corp. Given my love of travel, even with our rocky relationship, I told him in no uncertain terms that he was not going to abroad without me. As circumstances would have it, Ian got a position at the United Nations in New York City. I was so excited to realize my dream of returning to the US. However, in order for me to join Ian in New York, we needed to be married.


On hearing the news of our engagement and impending departure, my parents were flabbergasted. My mom said to me afterwards, "You left at 18 and you never came back." As I said before, we were a close family. It was kind of like a sad, heaviness for her, to lose her girl to America.

Ian and I were married in June 1991 at the Benoni Country Club. Ours was a very elaborate wedding with many people because Ian’s dad the mayor of Benoni. Flora, a former maid of my family, and her son, John, were invited. As a result, some of my conservative Afrikaner uncles did not attend the wedding. This incident was a mirror of what was going on in South Africa; huge changes that many had a hard time coming to terms with. Interestingly enough, despite their prejudice against black South Africans, my Afrikaner relatives never considered leaving the country despite the inevitable power shift from white Afrikaner to black South Africans.


We honeymooned at Gold Reef City, a resort built around an old gold mine near Johannesburg. Then we lived with Ian's dad and his dad’s wife for three weeks while we got ready for our three year overseas assignment.


The South African government did little to prepare us for this diplomatic corp life. While Ian had some political and technical orientation, mine was simply conversations with other wives in the corp who had already completed a few overseas postings. The only formal training I remember was around dinner protocol; who sits where, how you set the table, and not leaving the party before your own ambassador leaves. Otherwise my orientation into this new life was just what I could glean from my conversations with the other wives, and those conversations pretty much revolved around finding apartments and furniture once we arrived at our posting.


Even though I had been to the US before, I was still excited about going abroad again. And just like when I left for my AFS year in North Carolina, all of our family and friends were at the airport to see us off, excited for us, our new life and the adventure that lay ahead of us. I mean, the whole thing was like a fairy tale. Ian and I were married in big wedding and now we were traveling to the United States. And it wasn’t just to New York; we were going into the diplomatic corp. Who knew what other international postings lay ahead for us? So we had this big glamorous career ahead of us and I was very excited.

They Call Me Mister Moneypenny

As is the case with most of these emergency rooms visits, I had plans for a nice quiet evening. The little boys were in bed, the older boys engrossed in Lego-land, and the girls and I were going to snuggle on my bed and watch a classic movie.

Now, every evening after the little boys go to bed, I expect a certain amount of "I need to go potty!" and "I need a drink!" and "Dad didn't give me a hug!" sort of shenanigans.



But this evening we had an entirely new pronouncement.
Baby came out and announced, "I accidentally swallowed a penny."
"What?" I said.
"I accidentally swallowed a penny. Pennies don't taste good."
"Why did you swallow a penny?" I asked.
"Because I didn't want it on my bed," he said.

At this point, I was at a loss for words and a rush of thoughts railroaded through my head:
Did he really eat a penny? Is there any harm in swallowing a penny? Should I just tell him to stop eating money and go to bed? What if he gets really sick from swallowing the penny? I'm not going to watch my movie, am I? Why the heck did he swallow a penny? What is wrong with that boy? Should I call the doctor or just Google this?

I decided to call the doctor to avoid finding out that the internet was wrong at 2:30 in the morning.

The pediatrician informed me that of all the coins Baby could swallow, pennies were the worst. I told him I expect no less of Baby than full throttle. After an awkward pause, he told me his concern was that the minerals in the penny could chemically react with whatever is in Baby's stomach and start causing ulcers. With the heavy sigh of a mom giving up her quiet evening, I told him I would take Baby into the emergency room.

Now let me pause to give you a little perspective here. In my 29+ years (42 for those who know me well), I have been to the emergency room twice. Just two times. In Baby's five years, he's been three times. Doing the math, that means I will visit the ER many, many, many more times before this kid moves out of my house. I would like to take this opportunity now to suggest to Hasbro Children's Hospital a call ahead seating arrangement for frequent patrons such as myself.

Anyway, bless their hearts, my girls, known as "Can!" and "Do!", sprung into action helping me prepare for an ER visit. As a seasoned veteran, unless someone is coding on the floor, I've learned to slow down and pack some essentials for a visit to the ER. The girls dressed Baby and got me some cash. Meanwhile I packed snacks, water and that ER must have, a good book. Then we headed out.

We got to the ER at 8:15 pm. We did triage, we did registration and then we settled in for a long wait. After a while, we were called in for x-rays whereupon Baby, through his extensive questioning of the technician, managed to earn his associate's degree in radiology. Then I heard the technician say, "Yup, there it is." Ever have one of those moments were you experience that perverse relief of "Oh good they found it, so I didn't come down here to find out Baby was pulling my leg."?

Having the pictures they needed, we were ushered out to the lobby to wait for the doctor. Here Baby asked me, "Can I have a penny?"
"WHAT?"
"A penny," he said, "I want a penny."
"WHY? Are you hungry?"
"No, I want to do a magic trick."
"NO! You are not getting a penny!! I will never give you a penny! From here on out, all your financial affairs will have to be conducted with bills or coins larger than a half dollar!"
"Ok," he said.

Soon we were called in to speak with the doctor. He showed us Baby's x-ray with the "foreign object" noting that the size of said object was "consistent with a coin". This was a good thing according to him, and here's why: (you mommies of orally fixated kids might want to take note) small coins are generally not a problem. It's those little tablet batteries that you find in those noisy Oriental Trading toys that are. If one of those bad boys gets swallowed, you have three hours to get it out. As the doctor told me, "It's one of those all hands on deck kind of emergencies." So it was important to note on the x-ray that the size of the object was coin size and not battery size. I made a mental note to clean my house of any and all tablet batteries lest Baby get any ideas.

As far as we were concerned, the doctor told us that since the penny had gone down smoothly, all we had to do was to let Baby poop it out. We didn't even need to keep an eye out that it had passed. I expressed my gratitude to the doctor for being relieved of poop surveillance for the next few days. After an awkward pause, he told Baby that the only thing he should put in his mouth was food.

Baby acknowledge this by saying, "Yes, food and whippits."

The doctor looked at me and I sheepishly told him that in our house, Bo sprays the whipped cream directly into the kids' mouths and that is what the kids call whippits. I assured him that they were in no way doing inhalants, in addition to eating money. It's the grace of God the man didn't call child protective services at that point.

Lest you think I'm one of those cynical mommy bloggers, I'd like to take this moment to give thanks here. If that's not your thing, scroll down to the end of the page.
I'm thankful that pennies are really harmless.
I'm thankful for 24/7 access to my personal pediatrician.
I'm thankful for access to 24/7 quality health care.
I'm thankful for helpful daughters and a husband who understands mommy hormones.

So we got home at 11:00 pm tired, but with some really cool pictures of Baby's innards. While the pictures show the coin in his belly, they do not show what makes him tick. The best part though, was the next morning when we all got the opportunity to exercise our pun and joke talents” "Hey Copperhead, whaddya want for breakfast?" "Excuse Mr. Moneypenny, please pass the napkins." and so on and so forth. Feel free to contribute, I think it would make a nice scrapbook page in Baby's book.