It’s been nine weeks and a day since I’ve had the time and focus to sit down and write this.  My life has changed significantly over the past month.  The last time I blogged, my life was fairly simple and uncomplicated, as I wore the hats of only a daughter, sister, wife, niece, granddaughter, cousin and friend.  Since then, though, I’ve come to wear a new one – one that trumps all of the others.

Now I wear the hat of a mother.

Transitioning to this role was no simple task.  After carrying my pregnancy to full term at 40 weeks on June 1^st – my daughter’s estimated due date – I woke up that morning with sensations I’d never felt before.  I remember opening my eyes that morning and staring out the window after having tossed and turned for 30 minutes and trying to sleep through the soft surges of pain radiating periodically in my lower back.  I finally gave up the sleep idea and got up, thinking to myself, could this be it?  Though I’d always known my due date was June 1^st, I’d argued with my husband and everyone else my baby would not be coming on her due date; in my heart, I figured she was coming on my husband’s birthday, the 5^th.  He’d argued she’d be coming as early as the last week in May, but he obviously lost.

Still, I was feeling pretty good about what was happening.  I went into the living room as to not wake him, and began texting my mother and best friend that I thought I was in the beginning stages of labor.  I eventually called my midwife about two hours later just to let her know what was going on, and from that point, I just waited for things to progress.  I was scheduled to have my hair braided that morning and, since my “contractions” were quite bearable and irregular, I kept that commitment.  The beautician and her daughter showed up to my house that morning at 11am.  While braiding my hair, the mother asked when I was due, and I told her, “Today.  I’m actually in labor right now.”  Both her and her daughter’s mouths fell open.  I told them to calm down and that I was fine.  If anything, that definitely motivated them to work faster, and they were done by 4pm.

During that time, the contractions began to wane, and by 5pm, they were gone, and I was sitting on my couch with a horrible headache.  I was so disappointed, realizing perhaps I’d jumped the gun a little bit.  That night, my sister-in-law came by to drop off more essentials for the baby (she’s such a great auntie) and took off.  When my husband came home, I told him that, sadly, the baby was showing no signs of coming that night.  With my headache, all I wanted to do was get back in bed and sleep it off.

After taking a long hot shower, I was under the covers before I knew it, watching a TV show about the Kennedy family when my midwife called to tell me she and her apprentice were on the way to my place.  They showed up at 3am.  They gave me a massage, told me to relax and sent me back to bed as they spent the rest of the night sleeping on the sofa.

Soon, the Saturday sun was up, and so was I, as the contractions had come back.  This time, hubby woke up, too, and we slipped outside to walk the neighborhood, trying to encourage the contractions to take on a sense of regularity.  Though they never got on a definite pattern again, they did pick up in intensity.  Surprisingly, though, the “worse” ones were still manageable.  After about an hour of this, we came back into the house where he got ready for work, and I sat with the midwives.  After he left, we sat and watched TV until the apprentice had to leave.  From that point, it was just me and my head midwife.  We both ended up falling asleep on the couch while watching old movies on TBS.  Again, my contractions had never picked up speed but, instead, just died off completely. I was becoming frustrated, but I remembered something my midwife had told me at the beginning of my pregnancy – the one thing I’d learn about being in labor is that I am not in control; I had to learn to be reactive and just go with my body.

That was a foreign concept to a control freak like me, though, lol.

This sort of thing went on for the rest of the week.  My midwife told me that my daughter was taking her sweet time to “emerge gracefully”.   Tuesday was hubby’s birthday, and it came and went with, again, a lot of contractions and no baby.  After that, he called into work every day thinking it was finally time, only for us to end up sitting there, looking at one another and no baby.  On Wednesday, we were sure the time had come, as my contractions had finally picked up intensity a great deal and were coming every 5-10 minutes.  My midwife, who had spent the night before, told me it was time to grab my birth kit and prepare the bed, so we took out our supplies – two sets of sheets and a shower curtain – and used them to prepare the bed for birth.  We took the necessary supplies out of the birth kit and set them up on the nightstands and then grabbed the sterilized towels from the baby’s room, along with the clothing she was to wear after she was delivered.  I was excited the time finally seemed to be there.  My midwife even checked me to see if my cervix had dilated.  She reported she could actually feel the baby’s head already engaged, but that my uterus was tilted back, so she had difficulty feeling the dilation.

I had to pull out my birthing ball in the living room and use it to get thru the contractions.  Admittedly, the ball, itself, didn’t help much with the pain.  It was deep breathing and exhaling; it was actually very effective for coping with the pain.  Also, when a contraction would hit me, either my midwife or her apprentice would be over to me in a flash, applying counterpressure to my tailbone; that was like heaven for each 30-second shot of lower back pain.  This went on to the late afternoon when, like always, the contractions began to die off again.  The midwives had gone off to a nearby spa to give hubby and I some time alone, but I’d grown so disappointed by the way things were going, I only wanted to sleep.  Hubby left to get dinner, and, after he returned, I gobbled it down and passed out in bed.

Thursday was hell for me.  After going thru the false starts for six whole days, on this seventh day, I just gave up, determined not to get my hopes up anything was going to happen.  Of course, the contractions had come back, as always, and they were getting stronger, but I didn’t care.  My hubby must have been stressed, too, as he took the day to go shoot hoops at a local rec center.  My mother offered to come over to help me get my mind off things, but we quickly got in a fight when she finally made it to my place, as the first words out of her mouth were, “I’m going to help you get that baby out today.”  Eventually, we’d make up with the help of my brother, who’d come along as well.  We went out to get some Mexican food, and I drove and ate, all the while with contractions hitting me on and off.  My best friend dropped by to give me another gift she’d gotten for me and the baby – a glider.  I was so happy about that, as well as just having someone else to talk to besides my mother, that I stayed outside with her for a bit while my brother lugged the chair up to our place.  A couple of contractions hit me while we were talking, and she started looking concerned like everyone else.  I told her like I’d told them – I wasn’t dying…I was just in labor, sort of.  She spent a few more minutes over before leaving, and I went to pick up hubby and drop my mother and brother back off.  After getting home, I started reading about women with tilted uteruses again (I’d done it on Wednesday night, too, once the midwives left), and began getting sadder.  Internet info suggested it was nearly impossible for women to have “easy” labor with this “condition”.  I had to back away from the computer.  At one point, I ended up talking to my midwife again, and she asked me if I was having any emotional issues, explaining that they can inhibit the progress of a woman’s labor.  I told her I was growing frustrated of always having to call her and her assistant over to my house, only to have them sit there all night and have nothing happen.  I told her I felt like I was wasting their time, as they were trekking to my house either right before sunrise or right after sunset.  She then told me that was the nature of the job and that it was totally fine, that I needn’t feel any obligation to “do” anything (labor-wise) when they got there, and they were willing to do this as often as needed until the baby came.  When she told me that, I felt something in me relax and let go…it was like I’d been holding on to this deep fear the entire week, and it was instantly released.  That night, the two of them did return for a short while to give me some evening primrose pills.  I’d read these pills are usually inserted in the cervix and help with dilation.  After they set me up, they left for the night, and I decided to get some sleep.

When midnight on Friday, June 8^th rolled around a few hours later, I woke up with contractions again.  However, these contractions were worse than anything I’d been feeling the entire week.  They lasted at least 1 minute each, and, unlike before, I was not able to sleep through them.  I tried getting on my knees and kneeling on the side of the bed to cope with them.  When one would hit, I’d try my breathing and burying my face deep down into the mattress, but nothing helped; I only wanted to sleep.  From 12am to 6am, I tried taking a hot shower and letting the water run on my back and soaking in a hot bath to relax.  Neither one slowed down the contractions or dulled the sensation.  I didn’t know what was going on.  It’s funny to admit now that, after having had false hope for the seven days prior, it didn’t even occur to me that I had finally entered active labor.  At 6am, I was about to call my midwife when I received a text from her, asking how I was doing.  I explained what was going on, and she simply replied, “I’m on the way.”

I don’t remember how long it took her to get there, though it seemed like she was at my side before I knew it.  She checked my cervix when she got there, and, much to my shock, reported it was open, meaning I was indeed in labor.  We began getting the bedroom back in shape; all of the supplies still lay around the room from our episode on Wednesday.  At one point, hubby, who’d been sleeping in the living room, came into the bedroom.  I don’t remember how things transpired from that point though, only that he left the room and, soon, I was laying in my bed in my “laboring clothes”, surrounded by him, my midwife, and her apprentice, who had arrived at some point.  He was feeding me grapes, dry bread, fruit snacks and water as I went from lying down to standing up to kneeling to leaning over the bed, working through my contractions.  I kept waiting for them to become excruciating (per the description of labor by all of the women who’d told me I was crazy for attempting labor at home without drugs), but they never did (I was very adamant throughout my pregnancy not to let anyone give me an “expectation” of what labor would be like…I was actually looking forward to being surprised).  They just felt like menstrual cramps gone terribly awry, but nothing that made me want to cuss out anyone, lol.  I went back and forth between my bedroom and the baby’s room, my midwife trailing me with drop clothes for the floor to protect the carpet.  This went on for hours, it seemed, as the labor progressed.  At some point, I lost my clothes but I was too exhausted to feel any shame about it.  I was feeling overcome with sensations in my back, and I was growing tired.  It was to the point that after each contraction, I’d doze off for the 3-5 minutes in between.  Having had no real sleep the night before (hell, the whole week before), those few minutes of sleep were what would eventually save me and help me endure my labor.

Hours passed, and I’d totally lost track of time.  Eventually, I hit another phase of labor, where the baby had descended so far down the birth canal, I kept feeling the urge to push.  This was where things started to get interesting.  Again, it was not entirely painful, just tiring.  The process of moving a baby down the birth canal took a lot of energy, and I tried to use gravity as much as possible to help.  I varied positions again, going from laying on my back to standing and leaning on my husband to getting on my hands and knees and clutching the headboard of my bed.  After a few minutes in that position, I was ordered to do something else, as all of my supporters were in agreement that I would rip it clear out of the screws of the bedframe with the force I was using to bear the contractions.  It didn’t seem that way at all from my point-of-view, but I imagine they saw a side of me I was unable to.  At that point, I was just focused on getting the baby down and out.  The sensation of pushing, or, rather, wanting to push was unlike anything I’d ever felt.  They compare it to “the biggest bowel movement you’ll ever have in your life”…that was putting it lightly.

My pushing, in my mind, was taking every ounce of energy I had, but my midwife began chastising me I was not pushing correctly.  She explained I was against pushing against the baby instead of with her, resulting in me pushing her back into me as she was trying to push her way out. She explained if I kept it up, I could put the baby in distress.  Hearing that, I immediately regained focus.  I knew in having a home birth, I could not afford to stress the baby out and endanger her; plus, I knew that just as I was experiencing this labor, so was she.  I got myself together real fast and started focusing on my pushing again.

Soon thereafter, the midwife said she could see the head of the baby emerging from within; she even invited my husband to take a look.  From his view, he saw only what looked like a head of curls.  I wanted to cry from excitement she was so close, yet she still seemed so far.  After about a while of pushing more, I could tell she was closer.  This was because, for the first time during the whole labor, I felt true pain – the pain that I was about to rip in two.  During this time, I started letting out my first true screams.  Up til then, I had only felt the need to scream once or twice, and I was trying to be considerate of my next door neighbors.  However, I didn’t give a damn by this point about who could hear me.  At this point, the baby was crowning, and I was experiencing the infamous “ring of fire”.   The expression is certainly befitting, as I’m sure I felt something tear and burning followed; however, the baby’s head was stretching my body to make room to come out.  I reached down and felt her head myself, and, thru my pain, my mind was blown that I would be meeting my child soon.  When the next contraction hit me, I pushed with everything in me, not caring about tearing anything, and, within the blink of an eye, there was a long, wiggly being lying on the bed with me and my husband, who, by then, was sitting behind me.

“Oh my God!” was all I could say when I saw our daughter for the first time.  Covered in the remnants of her womb home, she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen in my life.  She let out a solid cry as the midwives did their work.  After they rubbed her down in prepared towels, she was on my chest.  Hubby and I took that moment to look her over.  Before I knew it, he was cutting the cord, and I was trying to get the baby to nurse and keep her warm.  She cried a bit as I continued to stare at her.  I couldn’t believe that my baby was then in my arms.  I didn’t even notice that my midwife was pulling out my placenta until she had it in a bowl in front of me.  Supposedly, that is a painful part of labor, but I felt nothing.  She showed me something interesting – a knot in the umbilical cord from where the baby had been “active” in the womb (i.e. flipping and turning).  She remarked how blessed we’d been the knot hadn’t actually been tight because it would have cut off my daughter’s food and oxygen supply as well as her excretory function.

Soon, the baby was given to hubby as I was ushered into a prepared warm bath in our bathroom.  They helped me into the water, which was full of chopped garlic, salt and herbs.  I was terrified to sit in it, anticipating burning from whatever tearing I had, but it felt absolutely wonderful.  After soaking for a while, I was given an icepack to sit on and was helped back into bed.  This is where I would spend the rest of the night and weekend (one of the main reasons I so looked forward to having the baby at home was because I didn’t want to have to do a lot of travelling).  For the next hour, I doted over my new daughter, who lay sleeping in my arms after she’d nursed again.  Hubby and I sat there together, taking pictures of her, the one who’d made us a real family.  In my mind, I couldn’t believe our baby had finally decided to come.  I couldn’t believe that I’d gotten through labor and it was nothing like I’d expected; I felt like if I had to do it again, I certainly would because the prize was well worth it.  It is true what they say – that a woman forgets everything before the baby is put into her arms.  Not only had I forgotten about the week of prodromal labor and the last few hours of pushing, I seemed to forget what my entire life had been like before the moment she arrived.  While staring at her in utter awe and gratefulness, the glow through my window blinds nearby indicated the sun was setting on what would be the most memorable day of my entire life – the day Rue Armani emerged from me and made my life better than I’d ever thought it could be.

I took the name “Rue” from the late actress Rue McClanahan, which older generations will know from shows like Maude, Mama’s Family and Golden Girls.  Even when I was younger, I had a fondness for her name and knew I’d like to use it for a daughter of mine.  “Rue” has a number of connotations, but the one I love the most is “repentance”.  Hubby bestowed upon her the middle name “Armani”, which is a widely-known African term meaning “faith”.  It is our prayer that she will follow in the legacy of her names – to know if she is to ever live a meaningful life, she must always be willing to be humble and to move by the spirit of her convictions.

I’m savoring this quiet Sunday night at home with my husband, lounging in bed underneath the fan, watching crappy movies online.  This is the first time I’ve blogged since the end of October, but given I’m in the 2^nd day of my 39^th week of pregnancy, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be have this time and this life all to myself.

So I’m holding fast to it while I can.

It seems my pregnancy has flown by and, all things considered, I have loved being pregnant.  I’ve gained about 35 pounds – all concentrated in my belly – and the weight has made it harder for me to move about, though I still do.  Aside from that one unavoidable side effect of nourishing an embryo to a full-grown fetus, everything else has been just fine.  I’m but mere days away from my due date – June 1^st – though, for some reason, the husband is predicting the baby will arrive on this Friday (May 25^th). The thought scares me because I realize it is a true possibility.  However, I don’t think the little one will arrive prior to June 1^st; I think we can actually expect an arrival date afterwards.  At least, that is what I’m telling myself as we scramble to get last minute things done, such as buying some of the bigger things the baby still needs and finishing the baby’s room.  I’m half afraid to do that because I feel like so long as the baby senses I’m not ready, she won’t be in a hurry to get here.

Though in my last post I mentioned waiting until birth to learn the sex, my reference to “she” there is a clear indication of my failure to do so, lol.  At about 21 weeks pregnant, per my midwife and doula’s recommendation, I went to get the baby’s anatomy ultrasound.  As hubby and I looked on at our “son” at the time on screen, I fought against finding out the baby’s sex.  I’d already told the tech not to tell us, and hubby wasn’t pleased with that.  However, after about 20 minutes of us seeing the baby on screen, I broke down and begged her to tell us…only for her to tell us the baby was sitting in a position in which she couldn’t determine the sex.  I felt half relieved because I figured it would force me to wait until delivery.  However, there was another tech in the room, one who had more experience and the confidence she could tell us the baby’s sex.  As she rolled the sonogram wand around on my belly, I said smugly, “Go ahead and tell us it’s a boy because I know that’s what it is.  I’ve always known.”  Up to that point in the session, I’d been calling the baby “Theodore” (a private joke between hubby and I).  However, she responded, “Umm, that is not a Theodore.  That is a Theodora.” 

I was floored.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.  There is no way this is a boy.”

“Are you telling me we’re having a daughter?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

At this point, my mouth was hanging open, and hubby clearly looked like he was about to cry.  I kept apologizing because I had been reassuring him he was having a son, and I kind of felt guilty that I’d “lied”.  His tears, though, were tears of joy that he was having a little girl.  And once I went into the bathroom a few minutes later to wash the gel off my stomach, I marveled at myself in the mirror, holding my belly and talking to the little girl growing within. While, genuinely, I would have been happy with a son, there was something really special about knowing I was having a little person who would grow up to be a woman…maybe this is what men feel when they find out they are having sons.  Anyhow, we celebrated for the rest of the day with my sister-in-law and shared the news with both our mothers.

That was back in January, and so much has happened since then.  One exciting thing about being pregnant is that my grandmother would finally become a great-grandmother – something she’d been wanting for a long time; not only am I about to have a daughter, but my cousin is also pregnant (expecting exactly one week after me) with a daughter as well.  Thus, our granny would be getting two little girls to play with.  Sadly, though, she passed away on April 10^th after a long stay in the hospital’s ICU ward.  Thinking about the events leading up to her death really anger me, but it really just proves to me how unpredictable life can truly be and you just never know where you could be from day to day.  However, I know she is not in pain anymore and, at the very least, she has been reunited with her daughter (my aunt and my cousin’s mother) who passed away over two years ago.  I expect them to both be “back around” when the babies are born.

In the meantime, I’m walking around in a daze, still not be able to believe I’ll really be someone’s mother soon. Part of me is so scared; it’s like, I can never go back from this point.  No matter what happens from this point, my life will never be the same, you know.  I try not to think about it.  Right now, it feels so good (physical pains excluded) to have her inside of me.  I don’t know if I could ever truly articulate this to someone who has never been pregnant, but it’s an incredible feeling.  The last time I wrote, my daughter was just a little tiny thing in my womb.  However, she has definitely grown over time and made her presence known.  The first time I felt a definitive kick – when I knew it was her and not just something else or all in my head – was the night after Christmas.  I was lying in bed, up late and watching Dynasty (as was the routine in my early pregnancy) when I felt a thump from inside.  I couldn’t believe it.  It was soft but hard enough for me to know it was my little girl.  Then, after pressing on my stomach some more, I got her to do it again.  This was the reassurance I needed to know the baby (who I still thought was a boy then) was actually safe in me and growing, as I hadn’t had an ultrasound since 5 weeks at that point.  Aside from relief, I felt amazement that this little person had gotten big enough to kick me and be felt.

And, so, over the past 6 months, I’ve continued to feel her grow bigger within me and cause the nice swell I currently sport in my tummy.  I’ve gotten a chance to experience her “personality” – she seems to have taken distinguishable qualities from both my hubby and I – from me, she’s taken my aloofness and desire not to be bothered with other people, lol, and from hubby, she’s taken his trickster ways.  I can’t wait to meet her to see just how she is, though.  In the womb, she’s very ,very mellow – not a puncher or a kicker, but she moves slowly and seemingly deliberately (sometimes, that seems to hurt just as much as maybe  just getting kicked or punched).  She’s a bit stubborn, too.  For at least three months, she has lived on the right side of my womb.  When I wake up in the morning and before I go to sleep at night, there is where I look for her – a hard, long bump that extends from right under my ribs down to my pelvis.  And if I wake up and she’s not there (which is very rare), I wonder (truly) where she could be (as if she could be anywhere else).  She sleeps through the night with me and wakes up when I wake up in the morning.  She only moves with “purpose” when 1) I’m very hungry (meaning maybe she’s hungry, too) or 2) when my husband gets home from work and starts talking…she really responds to him, so I’m looking forward to her being a true daddy’s girl (we need more of them in the world, I think).  As she’s grown bigger, I’ve gotten used to her keeping her shoulder in my left hip (hasn’t moved for months now) and hiccupping all the time.  I’ve grown accustomed to her always being there with me, in me…I’m not sure how it will feel not to have her always with me once she’s actually here on the outside.  I’m not a woman who has ever said, “I’m tired of being pregnant” because, honestly, there is just something so calming about knowing where she is and that I can protect her, so long as she is with me.  Just thinking about her being here, in the real world, ignites the killer instinct towards anything or anyone that’d try to do her harm.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself, lol.  I haven’t even gone through labor yet!

Speaking of which, I’m growing more excited about our planned homebirth.  I’m truly excited about the experience of giving birth.  I figure it’s just one thing I have yet to experience in this lifetime and it’s a special one that only a woman can experience, so I want to see what it’s like.  I’ve made my peace with family and friends who still think I’m crazy for my choice and told them I’ll just blog about it all afterwards.  My only concern is getting the baby here safely (and preserving my own life in the process), but I’m sure the final part of the ride to baby (i.e. giving birth) will definitely be an interesting one.  Until it comes, I’m going to sit here and enjoy my last moments of a life that is nearly, totally mine, in which I can be selfish and think only of what I want and care about, can sleep late and come and go as I please, have only myself to worry about…before it all changes in the blink of an eye and this chapter of my life ends to give way to a new one…

Damn, I’m so scared.

After being back in Atlanta for over a year now, my husband and I have decided not to leave for some time. I still think fondly of living overseas and still have plans to see much more of this world before I physically expire, but until then, I have learned I can still soak up some foreign culture (or at pacify myself by at least acting like I am) by resettling on the “international” side of town for a while. Since I can’t get it fresh off the streets of Jakarta or the souqs in Rabat, I get my fill of Indonesian and North African/Mediterranean cuisine at some of the local restaurants around my way; for now, revisiting some of the cuisine I had to eat is enough to help me reconnect to my memories and experiences.

Still, the plan is to move once more and, hopefully, for the last time, to Hawaii to settle. My husband swears by this place, and, honestly, it seems like one of the few places in the US I think I could see myself living indefinitely. The plan is to get there in the next three years. I certainly don’t know how we will do it, but if I have learned anything over the past four years, it is this: once you commit your heart to doing something, especially when it is apparent God is “calling” you that way, opportunities begin to present themselves to make the impossible achievable. Therefore, I don’t worry about how we will get there; I only worry about preparing ourselves to be ready when the time comes.

In the meantime, we’ve got a bigger venture to focus on, one which has proven to be just as exciting as our preparations for leaving the U.S. were four years ago – we are having our first child. Though I’d fought the idea of becoming a mother FOR YEARS, I finally felt ready to go down this new path. It’s funny, earlier this year, I’d been offered a job teaching in a university in Oman. I was very excited about it because my ultimate goal has been to get to the Middle East and teach on the university level. Everything about the job offer was to my liking…yet, there was something missing. I was lacking a true excitement to go. For some reason, the more I thought about encountering what I deemed to be a new challenge of teaching exclusively to university students, the less challenging it seemed. I increasingly became afraid, not of my competence to do the job, but that I was not very interested in doing it. Thus, I knew if I took the job, it was a chance I would grow bored very quickly (and a bored teacher is something students seem to be able to detect). Plus, I’d always told myself I’d never take a teaching job overseas purely for the pay (and the pay was looking sweet). I enjoyed teaching just for the sake of it.

Because of this, I was seriously considering going back to my old job in Indonesia or trying a new place like Turkey. I’d even interviewed for a job waaaay off the beaten path for the US Embassy in Myanmar (which some people might better know as Burma). Alas, the same thing kept happening though: I’d get the interview, impress the recruiting staff, get offered the job, and then suddenly lose interest in going. It was then I started to see something was changing. While I still wanted to go abroad, it seemed I equally wanted to stay. I couldn’t explain it (though I’m sure a lot of it had to do with the fact my husband had no more interest in leaving for a while). While I was prepared to go alone, it just didn’t seem worth it. And, honestly, I felt like maybe that particular chapter of my life was coming to a close.

After all, my husband and I had agreed on going away for three years, and that’s exactly what we’d done. Now that I was trying to go past that, I just kept encountering some kind of block. That’s when I started thinking that perhaps it was time to go totally left field. After coming back home, I knew I couldn’t just resettle back into my old way of life. I’d learned too much and had too many experiences abroad to ever be able to go back to the way things used to be. I just couldn’t bear the thought of slowing back down, per se. And the more I realized I couldn’t move backwards or just stand still, the more I sensed it was time to go ahead and take the plunge into the one thing I’d been avoiding since taking my vows – becoming a mother.

If it had been up to my husband, we’d have the four children we always said we wanted by now. But I was always afraid and, honestly, I never wanted to have a child to get an experience someone told me I was supposed to have. I’d had people telling me married women are supposed to want to have children, to make their lives have a purpose. I resented this notion because it implied my life could not mean anything until I became someone’s mama. Besides, there were so many things I still wanted to do with my own life, or so I thought…and this, too, kept me from taking that step years ago. I knew that when a woman has a child, she must sacrifice for it. While there’s nothing wrong with that, I simply wasn’t ready to do it. I didn’t want to have a baby to give my life purpose, only to begin to resent him/her later on. And I certainly didn’t want my child to have to live with a mother who didn’t really feel ready to have him/her (though I know NO ONE is ever totally ready…but there is still a certain level of willingness a woman must have to give herself over to a child, I think). I thought that would be so unfair to a child who didn’t even ask to be here. So, I waited.

Through 8 years of marriage.

And now, I feel able, willing and ready. And, just as I said before about the power of the universe to provide a path for those who are willing to make a decision to do something, as soon as I said, “I’m ready” to my husband, everything fell into place. We were blessed enough to hit a strike on the first go round (though we didn’t know it), and I experienced my first bout of positive nerves when going to buy two home pregnancy tests two weeks later. I’d read so much about people who have trouble conceiving, and after I came home and began “taking my tests”, I was already preparing myself to not give up when the tests showed a negative result. I took one test, then went back to the dining room and sat for three minutes, yacking it up with my husband to cover up the disappointment I was already beginning to feel due to the negative test I knew was awaiting me. Yet, when I walked back into the bathroom, I could see, from a mile away, two lines going across the test strip – a solid red control one at the top, and an emerging, darkening pink one beneath it in the “results” spot. I stood there for a minute before “What the hell?” came out of my mouth. I snatched the package with the instructions on it and read it twice and stared again at the test in my hand, which, by now, was shaking. I was speechless. I just waltzed into the kitchen and stood in front of my husband, who was making a homemade pizza for us. “Look”, I said, and dangling both the test and box in his face. He checked them both and looked back at me. His face was blank, as was mine, but we both hugged each other. “We’re going to have a baby,” I said quietly. Then it occurred to me the test could be a fluke, so I went to take my backup. We sat in silence for another 3 minutes until that test was done and sported the same red line-pink line duo as the first. He continued to move around quietly in the kitchen while I sat at the table in utter amazement. What I didn’t know what that his heart was pounding inside of his chest, his hand was shaking as he was chopping vegetables, and he was fighting tears from coming to his eyes (he’s just got a helluva poker face). I didn’t know he was excited…or at least not that excited. As for me, I sat there for a minute, marveling that I didn’t have ANY ounce of anxiety in me; I felt the strangest calm. I was just thinking about how amazing everything was, how we’d just learned there was a little life in me (an alien is what I used to say in my anti-baby days, lol). I wanted to pick up the phone and tell everyone, anyone who would listen, but we quickly decided to wait until we were “in the clear” (out of the dangers of the first trimester) before sharing the news.

Well, eventually, I started having some issues which ultimately lead to me being in and out of the hospital during the course of one week. I grew so stressed eventually that the worse was coming that I broke down and called my mother two days shy of going into my sixth week. I was sitting in the lobby of the perinatal unit at Grady, getting ready to get another ultrasound because the doctors were “concerned” about what they were seeing in my tests (though they never directly said this, facial expressions, body language and some doctors’ general inability to give me a straight answer about anything clued me into this immediately). By then, I was mentally and physically exhausted, and I began bawling in the waiting room. Since my husband was at work at the time, I was all alone. I just didn’t think I could face what was about to happen, so I called my mother to tell her both the good and bad news.

“Hi, Mama,” I said. It was so evident I was crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m at the hospital.” The snot was rolling, and I was scouring my purse for a napkin by now.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, I didn’t want to tell you this news under these circumstances, but I’m pregnant…and I’m at the hospital right now…” I continued telling her the events which led up to me being there.

And as much as my mother and I go back and forth with one another, I was so thankful to God that she was there to comfort me in that moment, just to talk to me and reassure me. I was thankful to God that she was alive for me to go to (because I know every woman doesn’t have her mother around anymore), and, just like when I was a little girl, she really did make it all better. In short, she shared some information with me about how her pregnancy with me – her first child – had gone. I was experiencing some of the same “issues” she had, yet, I turned out alright. Had I talked to her from the beginning (instead of waiting to surprise everyone with the news at Christmastime), I could have not only saved myself the stress of expecting the worse from what was happening with me, I would have expected certain things to happen to me during my pregnancy, as they happened to my mother…and I wouldn’t have freaked. I certainly felt better once I told my mother and got the hell out of the hospital. That day, we went ahead and shared the news with all of our family, and everyone was excited to hear about the coming of the first grandchild. It’s funny, I know some couples decide not to share this news because, again, something might happen and they might end up losing the baby prematurely; so, they just wait until the coast is clear. However, I found when I tried to do that, it made me feel worse. Save for a close family friend, I had no one to talk to about what I was going through, and I was scared all the time. As soon as I told my family, though, I felt comforted and strengthened by their supportive energy. Since then, I haven’t had any more problems and am confident in my child’s safety and development in my womb – a serenity I certainly didn’t have every time I set foot inside the hospital and gave myself over to the doctors.

Anyway, despite some of the general pains in the ass which come from being pregnant (I know all the veteran mommies out there already know what I’m talking about), being pregnant is shaping up to be a pretty cool experience. My husband and I talk to the baby already, and I look in the mirror all the time to see how my body is changing. I haven’t gained any weight yet and am not really “showing”, but I know there’s something going on in there, lol. I honestly feel I’m carrying a son, though my mother is telling me it’s a girl (she REALLY wants a granddaughter). I’m wondering, honestly, given the family history of both my husband and I, if I’m not lugging around twins in there, though I think if I were, I’d be showing something by now. Then again….

I’ve decided on having a home birth, too, using a midwife and doula. I’m so excited about it. I’ve got a few naysayers in my circle, but that’s alright. So long as hubby is on board, that’s all the support I need. My mother, who was originally apprehensive about it (because she said she just didn’t really know women still had babies at home), got a little more comfortable with the concept today when she met my midwife and doula for our first session. I was happy to see my mother take such an interest and ask questions; I even learned she’s never actually seen a baby being born, so perhaps this experience will be educational for her as well. I’m handling my entire pregnancy, from start to finish, as holistically as possible. I see now how a lot of people can actually miss that part of pregnancy – the actual spiritual and emotional part of it (and I am not just talking about hormones). Though I won’t wax poetic about this as well, suffice it to say I’m feeling honored to be given a chance to carry, nurture and, eventually, bring forth a life from my body. I’m just 2 months in and, already I know, this is the challenge I was being lead to undertake earlier this year, so now I’m just sitting back and enjoying the ride:-)

A new year will be here as soon as a few hours.  It’s hard for me to believe another year has come and nearly gone, not only in reality but also since I’ve last offered anything to this blog.  What can I say?  For me, the year 2010 has brought with it many surprises, most of which caused me to reflect deeply on my life and it’s true worth (I think contemplating the actual purpose of one’s life is probably a task better accomplished once first determining if the life in question even has any worth to begin with).

To say the least, this year has been one of the most difficult ones I’ve experienced thus far, beginning at the very start of 2010 when I learned I’d lost my one and only aunt to a sudden stroke.  I still remember clear as day where I was when I got the text message on my phone as I was still living in Morocco.  It is not one I wish to rehash, but suffice it to say I certainly was not expecting to call home and find out my Auntie had headache one day, gone to sleep and never awakened.  Dealing with her death was (and still has been) an experience like no other I’ve ever had in my 30 years.  I’m sure anyone who has lost someone s/he truly loves in such a sudden way can empathize.  She was the second person I’ve lost on the paternal side of my family and, unlike when my grandfather passed after fighting a bout of cancer over a long time, she went unexpectedly in the night.  With each passing day, I think of her but still manage to find much more comfort in knowing she is not here anymore to be subject to the impending BS many of us will encounter in the near future.  I digress, though.  I don’t mean to get deep.

Currently, I sit here on American soil, alongside my husband and our cat of 6 years, for whom my mother-in-law has been so gracious enough to care while we were overseas.  As I type this, I am reminded of where I was a year ago on this night – with a sole friend from my school, both of us wandering the cold, rainy streets of Rabat.  We walked for over an hour, looking for some hotel to toast in the New Year.  As we walked the empty streets, we were harassed by drunken male passersby as they drove alongside us on the main street.  I remember snapping on a car full of guys, hurling profanities at them in English, only to find they actually understood me when one of them spit out an, “I’m sorry.”  In the end, we never found a place to party, and we both ended up back at my apartment within one minute of the New Year’s arrival.  In my refrigerator was a bottle of vodka left behind by my old roommate, who had just gone back to the U.S. a few days prior.  We managed a shot apiece from the remnants in the frosted bottle and downed them, more in recognition than celebration of the New Year which had just come in.  Not too long after, she left to back to her apartment, and I was alone again, only accompanied by Habibi and my newly-purchased netbook.  I messed around on the internet until 5:00am, only so I could wait around to call home and tell my family and friends in Atlanta Happy New Year (due to the five-hour time difference).  Once I was done, it truly hit me it was the first New Years in my entire life I had spent alone, oddly enough in another country, a thought I mulled over as I promptly fell asleep.  I am happy this is not the case this time around…but I’m even happier just to be around this time!

 

All in all, it’s been a helluva year.  I can’t say that 2010 was such a great year for me as it began on such a somber note and kind of just proceeded from there.  I certainly spent a good deal of my days this year depressed, frustrated, aggravated and just confused.  In light of things, though, I would say 2010 was definitely a year of enlightenment.  I was certainly enlightened, awakened to many, many things about myself, my family and friends, but most importantly, the world around me.  It’s certainly notable I only started to become aware of so much to which I’d previously been ignorant shortly after my aunt passed away.  Given the path I am on now, I am certain my life will be anything but meaningless.

I went through most of this year in a daze, it seems.  Since being back in the U.S., I can’t say I’ve been entirely motivated to succeed.  Perhaps this is because I have a new perception of what success is and if it is something to which I ought to aspire anyway.  I think more than anything, I am ready to take what I’ve learned during this 365-stint around the sun and use all of it to improving the quality of my life and those I love in a truly relative way.  To all those who are reading, I implore you to do the same with this new year God is about to allow you to enter, even if you only are afforded a few days, weeks or months of it.  Hell, none of us really know when our number is up – I truly believe that now.

With regards to the next step to take, I’ve decided I really like teaching, but I need to challenge myself a little more.  I’m still trying to decide if this means I ought to go back to get another degree.  I can’t say I really want to; it just seems like the right thing to do.  Still, these days, I’m not into doing what seems right anymore…but that’s another story.  I know I’m old enough and wise enough at the point to know better.  I’m currently fighting between what I think I want and going with I truly want, as far as staying in the U.S. or leaving again.  I’ve found that, all things considered, I prefer to live abroad, or at least I would for a little while longer.  The only thing I have to keep me here is family.  I’m wondering how it will all go down.  Within the next week, I’ll know if I got one of two jobs – one working as an ESOL program coordinator at an educational center here in Duluth or one as a teacher at an all-female university in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.  There’d clearly be pros and cons to either, though I think I already know in my heart which I’ll choose.  I just feel like there’s so much to do in such a short amount of time.  It’s been the first time in a long time I felt like I was just floating, and now that I am starting to truly see what is around me, I realize how much time I have wasted.  Actually, I’d venture to say this notion doesn’t apply to me but to the majority of the masses.  Most of us are walking around in a daze, wasting time that isn’t ours to wastes, coveting things which really don’t matter, failing to see through the wool which has been pulled over our eyes.  It is my most sincere prayer though that, in 2011, all of us begin to wake up and not be frightened by what we find but, rather, beseech God for the courage to face the truth and the wisdom to negotiate it.  Only when each person truly awakens will s/he realize how much s/he really doesn’t now and get an idea of how precious our time on this earth really is.  All in all, though, I know more than anything, my desire for my life in the upcoming year is not to fake it as much as I did in 2010.  I haven’t the energy for living under such pretenses any longer.  As a matter of fact, the only thing that scares me about the thought of beginning 2011 is the possibility of living through it like I allowed myself to live this one.

Still, let me end this on a joyful note….Happy New Year, everyone!

 

Since the time I got to Morocco, I haven’t had a TV.  It’s funny as in Jakarta, I had one in both of my apartments, allowing me to watch various American movies on end.  That is not an option for me here, though, and I’ve resigned to listening to music on my MP3 player, day in and out.  I thought it might be interesting to share some of my favorite music, or rather, the music that reminds me of certain places I’ve been.  They are as follows:

Indonesia:  Sherina – Jalan Cinta

My absolute favorite Indonesian song. I used to listen to this song time over and time again while living in Jakarta. It loosely translates to “Street Songs of Love” and comes from the movie Ayat Ayat Cinta (Verses of Love).

Indonesia:  D’Masiv – Cinta Ini Membunuhku with Lyrics ~!

My second favorite Indonesian song. “Cinta Ini Membunuhku” (“This Love Kills Me”) was one of the most popular songs at the time. I listened to each day as I did my writing.

Indonesia:  M.I.A. – Paper Planes

Like so many other folk from Atlanta, I heard this song for the first time as a sample in the rap song “Swagger Like Us”, not knowing it was a real song. After watching Slumdog Millionaire, I heard the original. This definitely conjures up images of my life in Asia.

Indonesia:  Empire Of The Sun – Walking On A Dream w/lyrics

Walking On A Dream by Empire of the Sun was introduced to me one Saturday morning by a fellow coworker (at the time), a cheery lady from Britian. Her musical tastes were very eclectic, and she played this song for me day before we went to teach, hooking me from the first note. I always think of her and my old job when I hear this tune.

Morocco:  Karabiber – BURHAN ÖÇAL

I listen to this song every other day in Morocco. I still haven’t deciphered the language yet, though I’m guessing it might be Indian. I don’t really care; the beat is addictive and the singing is downright enchanting.

 

Morocco:  Jackson 5 – Can You Remember

The world continues to mourn Michael, but his passing hipped me to another collection of his hits – those recorded in his youth. Who knew how talented Michael was even before he hit puberty. I dose of the Jackson 5 gets me through my days here.

My traveling buddy and I are posing at a cafe in Marrakech, having drinks in the famous Djamaa el Fna square.

Since the earlier part of this week, I’ve been vacationing in Marrakech, Morocco’s most popular tourist city and the closest site to a den of sin the country hosts.  It’s even the setting of the upcoming Sex and the City 2 movie coming out next year.  By train, it lies about 5 hours south of Rabat.  It’s been a relative heaven, and the only thing I miss in Rabat is my cat, Habibi, who I’ve been worried about since I got here. 

This is the second city I’ve visited outside of the one in which I live; I’m quite proud of myself to have the courage to keep venturing out to these new places, though I have to credit most of that courage to my friend and coworker who always suggests my joining her.  If it were up to me, I’d probably think to leave the capital but never do it, much like I did in Indonesia.  In my 18 months of living in Jakarta, not ONCE did I leave the city or the island of Java to do ANYTHING…well, I did go to Singapore, but that doesn’t count.  Therefore, I’ve been trying to do as much as I possible can while I am on this break.

Since arriving here in Marrakech, I have had a load of memorable experiences, all of which I’m sure I will have fond memories of when I am old and decrepit, such as:

*being grabbed by a strange man on the street, only hours after arriving here, and having him shout continuously “Michael Jackson” at me…damn, I guess even everyone here must see how much I loved my Mike

*walking through the medina with my coworker and being called “Obama” (when the vendors had pegged me for American), “Rasta woman” (must be the twists), or “African woman” (even though Morocco IS in Africa)

*hearing my coworker getting called “white homey” by a vendor trying to get us to eat at his restaurant.  He even told us that nickname allures customers to his establishment…such crap but funny, nonetheless

*seeing a boy dressed up as a woman and doing a belly dance within a circle of men in the center of the medina (as it is inappropriate for women here to do such a thing…sounds strange to you, doesn’t it)

*getting punched by a kid after he followed me for a while, begging for money, and I never forked any over…I saw the little bastard again the same night near the place where I ate dinner and he had the nerve to smile at me

*encountering Turkish toilets  in the cafes are taking tea breaks (brings back savory memories of the squat toilets in Indonesia)

*trying to practice my Arabic with the vendors (attempting to be respectful of folk in their own country), only to have them insist I talk to them in English…yes, this is happening in Morocco, but then again, everyone here seems to speak at least four different languages

*witnessing the exploitation and abuse of animals such as mules, horses, monkeys, snakes, dog, cats, turtles and even chameleons

*having a million different vendors ask me where I come from and me practicing my ability to lie by telling them I was Canadian or, my favorite, Indonesian

*hearing what looked like a proper, Moroccan muslim man shout after me, once I looked at belly dancer ensemble hanging in his shop, “you like to shake your booty, huh”…sad, disturbing but still laughable

I’ll leave Marrakech with a handful of goodies – some natural perfume, a new pair of silver earrings and bracelet, a painted picture of a Berberman, and three Berber caps, none of which can compare to the mere experience of me being in this place.  It has been real.  Hopefully, next time, I will make it to the Sahara for some camel-riding action!  Here’s hoping.

Ugh!  I’ve definitely been lazy since I got here.  My intentions were surely to keep up this blog, but I have clearly not be doing a good job at that.  Here is my attempt to recap many of my experiences over the past two-and-a-half months in Morocco.

As I said in my first post, Morocco is a beautiful place.  I have only gotten a chance to see a small bit of it.  While I live in the capital city of Rabat, I’ve only ventured as far out as Meknes, a city about 2.5 hours north of here (by train).  I went there with a coworker back in November, and it proved to be fun.  Believe it or not, it was my first time traveling by train (MARTA doesn’t count).  Got there and didn’t encounter too much, nothing that I haven’t already seen here in Rabat.  It’s worth mentioning, though, we did get to a see a famous smaller town by the name of Moulay Idriss, which lay 30 minutes outside of Meknes.  We got there by cab, which was an adventure in itself.  Long story short – this place sits high in the mountains and we had a driver who liked to drive fast.  Oh, and this was a narrow, curvy, two-lane road with no guard rails, and there were seven people crammed into the cab.  There were even shepherds walking their flocks of sheep on the “sidewalk”.  I fought back tears through most of the ride, expecting us to crash.  As much as I tried to just close my eyes and pray, I couldn’t help but watch my potential demise unfold right before my very eyes.  Clearly, I didn’t die as I am writing this blog.  Still, as nice and traditional as the place was (I got to see my first Moroccan mule there), I am in no hurry to do that again (if ever).

The last day of school was this past Thursday, so I am free for the next two weeks.  I’d love to write about my experiences teaching in Morocco, but I really don’t have a lot of positive things to say at this point.  Suffice it to say many of my experiences are almost totally different from what I experienced in Indonesia, in many different respects.  I definitely plan to hang on in there throughout the duration of my contract, but I don’t think I will be itching to stick around after that.  Then again, stranger things have happened; I only expected to stay in Indonesia for one year.  If anything, I have decided to use my experience here to better MYSELF, not just my teaching abilities.  I am taking French and Arabic.  I am equally bad in both, lol.  Having a prior knowledge of Spanish has helped me to learn French, somewhat, while I find Arabic just overall more fun to learn.  Plus, natives seem to respect you more as a foreigner if you try to use Arabic with them, even though nearly everyone does speak French.  Speaking of being a foreigner, most people don’t know I am not African until I open my mouth to speak.  When they discover I can’t speak French, the quickly put it together…maybe not that I am American but that I am definitely not African.  Furthermore, I find it funny that Moroccans draw a distinction between themselves and Africans, Africans usually being the darker-skinned people living here from Nigeria, Ghana, Kenya, Senegal and other countries outside this place.  It is not meant to be disrespectful, I don’t think.  Still, it’s just funny to me that I am in Africa and living in a place where people still call themselves something other than African.

Anyway, I have an adolescent male cat named Habibi (Arabic for “my baby” or “my sweethart”).  He is a jerk and has a bottomless pit for a stomach.  A coworker and I snatched him off the street over two months ago.  He was small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.  Now he’s much bigger and getting worse by the day.  He has some redeeming qualities though.  Just the other day, I discovered he could use the toilet (no lie).  I don’t think he was trying to show off.  It’s just that I’d accidentally locked him out of the room where his litter box is and he went to the next best place.  Don’t know how he knew how to use the toilet but he did.  Now I just need to teach him how to flush and he can make us both rich.

Hmmm…I’ve also gained weight.  While I’m not noticeably bigger (yet), I thought it was worth mentioning, as when I lived in Jakarta, I lost about 15 pounds over that year-and-a-half.  However, I have only been in Rabat for nearly three months and have put on, I think, at least a third of that.  I’m sure there is more to come as well.  It is because Moroccan food is so good.  It is a starch-based culture.  Everything is either made with or served with bread.  There are bakeries on every corner and all the mini-markets sell bread.  Every other morning, I go out and buy a fresh loaf or wheel of bread for 2 dirhams a pop (25-cent USD).  Slap some butter and jelly on it for breakfast or some olive oil at dinnertime, and you are in there!  I find that I haven’t eaten much meat since I got here.  Aside from eating canned tuna, I can count the number of times I have eaten meat (i.e. beef, turkey, chicken) since I got here.  I don’t really miss it that much.  I make myself a meal of sauteed veggies with noodles and olive oil most nights, or I will eat a bowl of harira soup and fries at a local restaurant (which might run me about 1 to 2 USD).  Everyone here drinks tea, really sweet tea (sometimes sickeningly sweet).  It’s a trip, too.  There aren’t bars, only cafes.  You can see grown men having tea parties on the sidewalk, in addition to doing other things that might appear to be strange to us Americans…but then again, what is strange to me anymore.  I certainly don’t know!

To be continued…

Me and the Mighty Atlantic

Today makes exactly 3 weeks that I have been in Rabat, Morocco.  I’d venture to say I have adjusted to my new home for the year, as much as possible.  For example, I have adjusted to the fact I can not effectively communicate with anyone outside of the confines of my job as the local language is French (and I, like countless other Americans, took Spanish as my foreign language all through middle school, high school and university…a lot of good it’s doing me now).  Then again, there is another lingual option – Arabic, of which I have no knowledge…so as you can see, I  haven’t been doing much talking in this new town, lol.

Ironically enough, most Moroccans are, at the minimum, bi-lingual, speaking French and Arabic.  Some, in addition to that, speak Spanish, English, and/or the indigenous language Berber which is another beast in itself.  Despite my inability to really say anything save “bonjour”, “bon soir”, “bon nuit” or anything else with “bon”, I am pretty much screwed.  Thankfully, I am starting French classes this Saturday!  Additionally, I am going to try to learn some Arabic as well.  Having watched Spike Lee’s Malcolm X countless times since adolescence, I can at least manage “assalaam alaikum” to greet someone or “wa alaikum assalaam” to return a greeting.  New to me is “shukran” which I prefer more than the French “merci” for “thank you“.

Okay, so enough about me.  Let me divulge a bit about this place called Morocco.  If you look on a map, you will find Morocco in Northwest Africa, but this is not reminiscent of the Africa that we Americans typically think.  This place puts me in the mind of the setting described in Shakespeare’s Othello, the Moor.  If you can, try to imagine what a Spanish Islamic country might look like…that is Morocco!  If you are having trouble envisioning that, simply think about the scenes in Disney’s Aladdin – visions of toweresque mosques all around; vendors selling fresh bread, fruit, vegetables and spices; rows of shimmering, lush sheets draping the walls of fabric stores in unimaginable hues; and women covered in humble, and sometimes alluring, robes that hide even their ankles but expose their henna-covered hands.  I’ll definitely say that this place picks up and surpasses where Indonesia left off for painting a picture of Islam within a culture.  I walk around most times thinking I am in some sort of dream.  Being in Morocco is like being in Europe but on the African continent.

I’d certainly like to write more, but I tend to be a bit too verbose at times.  Instead, I’ll take the opportunity to post some pictures of some of things I have seen so far.

Sitting atop the Kasbah, Salé in the background

My first Moroccan cemetary. Unlike those I saw in Indonesia, this one wasn't overrun by goats, chickens and children. The dead may truly rest here. If you notice, all graves face east.

This is the fortress right off the Atlantic Ocean. It is cheap to live here and I bet it'd truly be an experience. Unfortunately, the homes here have no rooftops...don't know how that works though. lol.

Yeah, I settled for being "at" Atlanta since I can't be "in" Atlanta. Saw this sign while headed towards the ritzy part of town and had to take a pic!

In lieu of my absent husband, these people are my "family" here in Rabat.

My husband and I’ve been home from Jakarta since June 9, 2009, missing the subsequent bombings there (occuring not far from our old neighborhood) by nearly a month.  Since returning to the US, life has been anything but boring…more like thoroughly frustrating.  The recession situation here is quite real, something we simply observed from afar in our enormous tiled-floor Indonesian bedroom, compliments of many of local news networks there.  Now we are back in the thick of it.  Luckily, I’ve been able to find work, which, ironically enough, just ended yesterday.  Not even a month ago, I commenced round two of teaching for the same local ESL school in Atlanta as I did before moving to Indonesia nearly two years ago, this time at the Chamblee branch.  I had the opportunity to teach a bigger variety of students this time, including those from Ecuador, El Salvador, Mexico, Russia, Turkey, and, the one country I SO want to see and experience, Brazil.  After they finished taking their final exam last night, my students and I said our goodbyes, my Brazilian pupils giving me gifts of cards, money and Brazilian cuisine (if the food is any indication of what the country is like, I KNOW I have to get to this place at least once before I die).  Now that chapter is closed and I’m sitting here waiting…

Two weeks from today, I’ll be departing the US to commence yet another adventure abroad, this time in Africa.  Back in February, I was interviewed for and got a job in Rabat, the capital of Morocco.  Said job officially begins on October 1st, and I can’t believe the time has come to make this new move, so it’s time to say goodbye to Atlanta once more.

Admittedly, I’m nervous, but it’ll be more than interesting to see what this new assignment will bring.  I consider myself very lucky to have gotten this job.  The company for which I’ll be working, according to my research, is one of the most reputable schools in not only Rabat but Morocco as a whole.  I certainly hope it doesn’t disappoint.  More so, I’m wowed by the fact that I’ll be in Africa for nearly a year.  Morocco, I guess, isn’t quite the Africa that most people think of at the mention of the continent.  There are no lions, elephants and impalas there to boast.  It lies just south of Spain, positioned in Northwestern Africa.  The climate is Mediterrean.  Like Indonesia, it is a Muslim country (I seem to have an affinity to these sorts of locations).  While living in Indonesia, I learned some of the language but still managed to get by mostly with English.  Learning Arabic and French will be a must in Morocco as English is not (obviously) the top language.  More unlike Indonesia, Morocco also has more than two seasons; wearing a coat during the “winter” is now a concern once more.  There is so much to consider, in many ways, I’ve blocked everything out and am just waiting to see what happens.

In any event, this new experience will prove to be no less than enthralling.  I just hope I can handle it.

My Workplace Family )

Nearly 18 months ago, I disembarked my China Airlines flight from Taiwan at Soekarno-Hatta Airport and planted my feet on Indonesian soil for the first time and, now, in a matter of days, the experience of me living in Jakarta will be over.  I’ve finally come to the end of my second contract with my school and am preparing to return to the good ol’ US of A very soon.  The closer I get to coming home, I am filled with a sickening mix of feelings for, unlike when I came home for Christmas last year, I know that I won’t be returning to Jakarta this time.  The experiences I’ve had while teaching in Jakarta have surpassed all of my expectations for coming into this venture.  I’ve definitely grown as an individual and truly felt like I actually served some purpose with my work since I’ve been here.  While I’ve been mentally exhausted for the majority of my last months here, it’s spawned from a good source – serving my students.  I am anxious, however, to get a break from teaching for a bit, lol, so some time back home should do me some good.  Still, I definitely contend that my place is within the realm of education. 

Aside from teaching, I will miss Jakarta, itself.  This city is anything but boring, and I can definitely say that since I’ve been here, not ONCE have I EVER wished that I wish I were back in the US.  That’s not to say that I don’t like my home country or to even suggest that I never felt homesick.  It’s just that Jakarta, to me, is anything but uninteresting.  At any given time, I can see or experience something interesting here, even within the confines of the city alone, many things that remind me of home.  Case in point - while on the bus this past Sunday, hubby and I watched a man who was clearly high on something “ask” a random passenger if he could have some of the water he saw her drinking.  She responded with a look of disbelief, fear and disgust but ended up giving the bottle to him.  He drank all but a few drops and tried to give it back to her, while she motioned for him to keep it.  The entire time, there was a man sitting in between them, maybe her beau, who did nothing.  The other passengers on the bus carried on as if no one saw this man who, eventually, stood up and started hanging around in the open doorway, probably having gotten tired from sitting down, I guess.  I laughed to tears at the craziness of it all; this was a scene that I could easily see on MARTA, but it was made funnier as I saw it on an entirely different continent in a country where I can’t understand the language!  In Atlanta, I imagine such a thing could have progressed to a violent climax, but here, in a very non-violent culture, it merely made for a funny episode to a foreigner like me.

Atlanta will seem different, I’m expecting – cleaner, easier to navigate.  My dark skin will no longer afford me neighborhood celebrity status as I’ll be one of many.  I’ll even be able to understand compliments and insults that are thrown my way instead of just having to decipher the looks on people’s faces.  I’ll be able to breathe again without having to cover my face while walking down the street, and there won’t be tired, horny, irritated-looking cats infesting the streets.  No more Blue Bird taxis or Nasi Goreng carts, no more “Ojek” stands, racing Bajajs or 20-cent  Kopaja rides.  No more Happy-To’s and pisang manis for snacking.  No more tasty but deadly Indomie! 

It’s back to the world I knew before coming here, a world which I wonder if I’ll even really recognize or like anymore.  Thankfully, should I decide that I’m not fully ready to commit back to being an Atlantian just yet, I’ll be able to work through my issues while I’m working at my new job in Morocco, starting in October.  Until I venture back onto this side of the world, my adventures in Indonesia (and Asia) are officially done as my adventures in Africa are about to begin…