Emotion unsheathed

I have a fight to pick with Mr. Webster.

"Goodbye" is the biggest misnomer I've ever heard. Because when are "byes" ever good? (Okay, I can think of a few instances ... a birthday party with fourteen three-year-olds, for example. Or dinner guests with hyena laughs and a tendency to enumerate their gall bladder operations - but I digress.)

I've known for five years that we would leave Brazil. I tried not to think about it, instead dwelling on the happy-here-and-now. It worked for me. Now, with less than two weeks to go, all that emotion I've been putting off for years is coming to a head.

I'm one of those people who tries to laugh instead of cry; once I start, it's like Niagra Falls on steroids. (Confession - I've giggled my way through funerals. Somehow it's so much easier to be irreverant than deal with the pain.)

For the last few months, whenever a friend starts to get doe-eyed and frowny, I turn on my brightest smile and change the subject with a wave of my hand and a, "let's not think about it right now." That distant moving date circled on the calendar isn't real - just an ethereal shape representing the fact that Little Prince no longer has to go to school.

I've been focused on my bulleted, responsible, stoic to-do list. No feelings involved.

But "Saying Goodbye" is my most important to-do.

And it's time.

I realize now that in my attempts to smooth away the wrinkles of despondency, I became too smooth, too un-feeling, too optimistic.

My friends thought I didn't care.

So it's time to open the floodgates and allow myself to really feel the pain of leaving this beloved country. It is a cleansing pain. It feels good, somehow, to sob on the shoulders of my dear friends and let myself bawl over how much I love them - just how much I will ache to not see them every day.

How often do we tell our loved ones, face to face, how much they mean to us? It is a vulnerable feeling, confession. Even Catholics do it behind a curtain. To admit how much we need each other, right into the other's eyes - it's hard. Hallmark makes billions of dollars per year so that we can acknowledge our feelings behind the safety of a postage stamp. In front of someone -we have nowhere to hide.

It's going to be a long, long two weeks.

(Apologies for "boo-hoo, I'm leaving" themes almost every day ... but my head is full of it. And this is my Pensieve.)

Happy Mother's Day - and I'm not just saying that

I've been a mother for almost five years, which hardly makes me an expert.

However, I did major in Family Life Education - studying what makes a marriage work and the best way to teach responsibility to a three-year-old. I read the whole What to Expect series - as well as everything from Dr. Spock to Bill Cosby. Forty-some books grace my shelves on child-rearing; countless more have crossed my desk.

I read about the pros and cons of pacifiers, flourinated water and breastfeeding. I can recite the 'thou shalt nots' of teaching a child to sleep through the night. Time-outs are not a stranger; Withdrawing Privleges, I know thy name.

But nothing - NOTHING - could have prepared me for this.

No one told me about having 'my heart permanently walking around outside my body.' No one could exactly explain the pride in my children's accomplishments; the feeling of a soft, little hand in mine. The way that my baby fits under my chin, our breath in sync and my skin just melting into his. Words fail to describe the joy of teaching, playing, and just being mother-and-child.

Nope, no one has been able to express that love that I feel when I look into those deep blue eyes.

Except, of course, my own mother.

I

Love

You

Real Time

This is my house RIGHT. NOW.

I feel kinda weird. My hands feel very empty and my feet very itchy. Da Boyz are at a friend's house (safer on sooooooo many levels), and in the meantime My Man and I are kinda putzin' around. We've done everything we need to do, and now we're just staring at each other. (Wonderful on sooooooo many levels, as well - but there are a lot of people around.)

I have a very small inkling of what it must be like to be an ObGyn. You're neccessary, but for the most part you just sit there and let others do the work.

I have this thing wrong with me where I can't watch others be busy by themselves. (I have the same rule for crying.) If you invite me over for dinner, I will help set the table and probably do the dishes afterwards. And right now there are a pack of people who are constantly shooing me out of the room so they can work.

So hey! Blogging! That way I LOOK busy. Yeah.

HI.

We're moving. MOVING. It's really, really happening.

Which makes me feel both:

and

My head hurts.

The truck's a comin' on Thursday

And they're takin' all our stuff.

(They do all the packing and wrapping and boxing - which is why I can still afford to blog every day. I just have to make sure it's all clean and organized. "Just" - ha!)

We're shipping almost all of our things by boat. Our container will sail the not-so-friendly seas for two weeks, and then chill out in the even-less-friendly customs port for who-knows-how-long. (Best case: two months. Worst case: six. We don't talk about that.)

Everything's pretty much ready. I have boxes stacked up in the laundry room ready to go. The couch is clean. (And I don't let anyone near it.) Dressers are emptied and clothes stacked up neatly on the floor. (Ahem.)

All that's really left to do are these:



We have hundreds. And hundreds. And I love them all.

How can I possibly choose which books to send by ship (and therefore NOT READ for who-knows-how-long) and which to take later on the plane? I can't pick too many ... not only do we have a suitcase limit, but a weight limit. And we should give preference to things like CLOTHES. (Not all THAT important, right Kristina?)

But I feel like I could no sooner choose a favorite child.

I LOVE to read. Anyone who knows me even marginally knows this. More often than not, I have a book in my hand.

And because libraries in Brazil are a joke, I've been reading the same books over and over again for five years. They have become a part of me - some a continuing appendage to my body, some an integral component of my soul.

A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins. ~Charles Lamb, Last Essays of Elia, 1833

These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice... by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart. ~Gilbert Highet

"Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are" is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you reread. ~François Mauriac

SO.

What books would YOU keep with you?

Lost in Translation

Portuguese has these amazing words like "lembrancinha" and "saudades" that just don't translate into English.

A lembrancinha is a little gift 'that you will remember me by,' derived from the verb "lembrar" or "to remember." Literally, it would be "little remembrance." They are given out to people who visit new babies, go to birthday parties, and celebrate weddings. They are for the guests; when they look at the lembrancinha, they remember the event.

It is also customary when a loved one is leaving. (My mother receives countless lembrancinhas every time she comes to visit. These people are that loving.)

So I've been thinking for some time on what I'm going to give everyone when we leave. I settled on a family picture with all of our contact information as a "general" lembrancinha. We're going to hand them out like candy at our goodbye party. (Which we are throwing ourselves, because that's what you do here. You even throw your own baby shower -a social taboo in the States. It's not right or wrong. Just different.)

(And if anyone has PhotoShop to help me turn Mr. Squishy's head in the photo, I would appreciate it sooooooooo much! Please? Anyone? Anyone?)

But I needed another lembrancinha for my closer friends. Something more personal, and preferrably hand made. Effort = value. I came up with this:

(I've tried three times now and it JUST WANTS TO POST SIDEWAYS, SO DEAL WITH IT.) The translation is basically "God be with you til we meet again." Guaranteed tear jerker. I hope they like it. (I'm making one for each of my nine closest friends.)

The other word, "saudade," is harder to translate. Online dictionaries will spit back, "no matches found."

It is a feeling we get when we miss someone - something we have and hold in our heart. It is that emptiness that accompanies us when our companions don't. Eu estou com saudades de voce - I am with saudades of you ... That ache. That need. That hurt just to the right of our hearts when we need to hear someone's voice.

It's interesting to me that this word "saudade" looks a lot like the word for 'health' - "saude." As in - we are not completely healthy when we're missing someone.

Which means that I haven't been healthy in a long, long time. And probably never will be again.

Hunting of the House: Day 3

Ever notice how house hunting is like speed dating?

I've never really done either, but they seem essentially the same. Trying to make a long-term commitment decision based on a 3 to 8 minute physical assesment.

You've got your pre-reqs, of course. Must be at least four bedrooms. (At least 5'10".) Prefer an office and dining room. (Have a steady job and good manners.) Basement would be ideal, allowing room for family growth. (Good with kids, Mom must like him.)

But seriously? The house can meet every bullet on your list, and still be wrong. But you won't know it til you move in. (No one ever tells you on the first date that they are incapable of putting dirty laundry in the hamper.)

Maybe there's a bully across the street. Or a meanie teacher at the elementary school. Perhaps there's scorpions burrowing in the backyard (eek!) or the local ward needs a new bishop (ahem.)

They just don't put the REALLY neccessary information on the MLS listing sheet.

Because buying a house isn't just about where you're going to sleep at night. This decision will determine your social circle, your children's friends and education, and can even affect your health.

All crammed into a week of frantic in-and-out-of-the-car, taking pictures of everything and reading between the lines on the listing sheets.

No pressure or anything.

(And incredibly, amazingly, miraculously - I really did marry the right guy. I didn't even really know it at the time. Not like I do now. And I do. Know. He was custom made for me. And I get him for much longer than a 30 year mortgage.)

So let's talk gadgets.

Almost every blogger I know has one of those follower thinga-majiggies. And almost every blogger I know has complained about them.

"I'm thoroughly depressed today; I lost three followers. Oh me oh my."

Don't get me wrong - I totally get it. Really. Nobody likes it when you publicly become less popular. We immediately wonder why. Was it something I said? Someone I offended? Do I smell bad? Am I fat?

Which is precisely why I don't have a followers gadet. As IF I needed another reason to be self-conscious. I really - REALLY - don't want to know how many people like me.

Really.

So why is it that Blogger insists on telling me? Every time I sign in, there is a big fat "35 Followers" next to my name. Cool that it's growing.

Not cool that they tell me.

Because I know a secret. Statcounter.com tells me that I get over 200 visitors a day - with as many as 400 page views. So what does Low Self Esteem Becky think, instead of rejoicing over my fan club?

Only ten percent of my audience is willing to publicly admit that they read me. I must suck.

And people, PLEASE don't follow me just because of this post. Like, seriously. I would die of mortification. This is not a campaign for more fans. This is a desperate plea for IGNORANCE. (It really is bliss.)

The other gadget I want to pick on today is YOU, Mr. Live Traffic Feed.

Whenever I visit a blog with this gadget, I get nervous. It's like discovering a hidden video camera in the house of the people you baby-sit. You're not doing anything wrong, but you suddenly become paranoid. ("Sorry I took so long reading your archives! I swear I'm not a freaky stalker or anything ... I'll just scoot on out then ....")

Also, it becomes problematic when I want to check out the blogs of boys I used to date to see if their wives are prettier than me. (Hi! How are ya?!)

Lurking thoroughly and completely loses its advantages with this gadget. And I can't hide behind some generic city in Utah. When your gadget says you've had a visitor from Jundiai, Brazil, I might as well give you a sticker with "BECKY WAS HERE!" on it. Anonyminity can be a fabulous word.

Of course, there's always the "Michael Jordan's photo of the day" gadget - now THAT might tempt me.

(*And I would like to publicly scorn blogger.com for not understanding the "enter" key. How hard is it to double space?!)

Go time. Almost.

We're moving. Soonish.

I hate moving.

Don't ask where, because we have no official answer. Don't ask when, either. We don't know. But we're moving.

My Man's contract ends the 30th of June - and with it, our visas. We have to leave the country within the next few months. THAT much we know.

How do you wrap up almost five years?

I want to move back home. I miss the States. I miss ... so much. I miss Americans. I miss convenience. I miss fall. I miss the food. I miss English. I miss quality. I miss not-needy church members. (Though they have plenty of those in the States, too, of course.) I miss an 8-5 work day. I miss my husband.

But as much as I want to move back, I don't want to leave.

I will miss my friends desperately. They have been my family in every way possible. They have seen me at my most vulnerable. Seen me through floods of tears and countless trials and difficulties - and joy, too. I have grown up here. Literally.

How can I leave?

There are so many things to do. My throat gets tight and my heart and belly go cold when I think about it. The back of my neck gets all tense and I turn into this fluttery, panicky mess.

My friends feel it. They are just as desperate as I am. Which means that there is always some get-together, party or visit happening. At my house, of course. (More stress.)

My young women feel it, too. They are over all the time - Tuesday we had a huge youth party - trying to savor every minute we have.

And then there are THINGS. I have to get going on our Brazilian scrapbook - remembrances of our time here. I don't want to forget anything. And then our regular scrapbooks. I'm four months behind on Da Boyz' "picture books," and I NEED to catch up before we move. After the move ... I just know it won't happen. It's a fact.

And so, so much more.

I figured it out. It's not that I need more hours in the day - I just need more hours BY MYSELF. My kids just need to take longer naps. Eureka! Or sleep in later in the morning.

And then there's my MAJOR personality flaw. When I get super stressed and there's too much to do, I get tied up in knots and can't do ANYthing. Which is extremely effective. Because procrastination is a great time management tool.

*sigh* I just want to fast forward like four months until it's all over. That okay?

Metamorphoses

We like bugs in our house.

(We have three boys.)

Many times I'll be blogging dutifully cleaning the house when I hear, "Mom, Mom, come quick!"

(I try very hard to always answer such summons no matter what I'm doing. I'm never disappointed.)

Last week it was a bit fat caterpillar. Our camera was out of batteries when said caterpillar arrived on our doorstep, but the above picture from BugGuide.net is pretty darn close. The same cute little black butthead, the same fuzzy fur. Ours was perhaps a little more vibrant yellow - but you get the idea.

We named our caterpillar Hungry. Because Hungry he obviously was. He never wandered far from our front door and we always said goodbye to him on our way to the car. He let us watch him for half-hours at a time. We had a pet. (And best of all, no cleanup!)

Then last Sunday we noticed Hungry had left his comfort zone and was exploring the garage wall. We watched him find a spot he liked, hang upside down, and do a funky thing with his butt to secure himself there.

It was pretty cool.

Three hours later we came home to find THIS:

It is beautiful. And I can't get over how quickly Hungry cocooned himself.

Now every day Da Boyz and I check on him. We have endless talks about caterpillars-turning-into-butterflies and high hopes of seeing it in action. (We'll see.)

Hungry is part of our daily prayers. Little Prince, especially, blesses him to become "a beautiful butterfly like on Bug's Life." Now that's faith.

And I can't help but think about our own metamorphoses. How each of is constantly growing, changing, and evolving into something beyond our imagination. I don't know if Hungry realizes what will happen. I know he felt compelled to shut himself up for a few weeks. I'm bettin' his transformation is uncomfortable - maybe even painful.

Was he scared when he sewed himself up into darkness? Will he be surprised when he comes out? Will he be confused? Will he still know himself?

I'm guessing yes to all of the above.

But I know he won't be disappointed, either.

The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the
Master calls the butterfly. Richard Bach

May we each murmur a little less about the cocoon, and be a little more grateful for the butterfly.

And God looked upon the light and pronounced it good. And a litmus test.

I remember well the first fight that interrupted our marital bliss.

My Man claims that it was about broccoli - I love it, he hates it - but it wasn't.

It was about the very deep and profound subject of LIGHTBULBS.

But before we get into that, an introduction: This is my dad.

My dad is the all-knowing god of the computer realm. (Translation: I really can't tell you what he does for a living.) He also happens to be Mr. Fixit Extraordinaire.

Dad installs carpet and wood flooring, tiles kitchens, knows how to rework the plumbing on the bathroom sink or dishwasher and redid our roof to boot. He's knocked down walls and rebuilt them, and knoweth the 'thou shalt nots' of electrical wiring.

I took it for granted that all dads do that sort of stuff.

So when the first lightbulb burnt out in the first hallway of our first homestead, I patiently waited for my own personal Mr. Fixit to replace it.

And a week of darkness went by.

I got more and more frustrated that he was neglecting such an obvious part of husbandship. Truly, didn't he NOTICE the gloomy globe of outer darkness hanging above our heads? Finally, in exasperation, I berated him for not fulfilling his duty as resident All Things Maintenance Man.

And that's when I learned that my mother-in-law was the MRS. Fixit in the My Man household.

He'd been waiting for ME to change the lightbulb!

Thus ensued many years of re-defining our roles of who-does-whats in our abode. 'Cuz household duties aren't outlined in The Family: A Proclamation to the World. So many of us naturally think that the way our parents did it is THE WAY IT IS.

And it isn't. It's whatever we WANT it to be.

So we each have our own 'deveres de casa' now (or 'musts of the house') -

And at this very moment there are about eight lightbulbs that need changing.

Recipe for a good day

Start the night before by having an awesome Sunday and staying up late er, TALKING, to your husband.

Wake up before the kids do. (This is the secret to happiness. Though not neccessarily the penguin.)

Read your scriptures FIRST. (Even if the chapter was abnormally long and you didn't have time to wash your hair because of it. Spirit before beauty!)

Love them boys.
After breakfast, go blackberry picking. Fresh. Eat them all.

Once you're all hot and sticky, jump in the pool. Try to decide which is the more brilliant blue: the sky, the pool, or your son's eyes.

Have a special picnic lunch - grilled cheese-tomato-and-basil sandwiches and cinnamon sprinkled apple slices. Accept the fact that you're the best mommy. Ever.

Take eldest to school. Memorize his sweet just-bathed smell and count the freckles on his nose one more time. Kiss each one.

Go home - snuggle with baby and wrestle with two-year-old. Then put both down for a nap.

Switch the laundry and sweep the house. (You should do SOMETHING productive today ....)

Lick the last of the chocolate frosting from last week's cupcakes.

Blog.

Life tastes good.

A neighborly visit

Kids were asleep. House was clean. I sat sewing at our kitchen table, feeling decidedly domestic and wishing I had on red lipstick.

And a little fellow that looks like this hopped through our back sliding glass door.

It tilted its head to the side and looked at me. I looked at it. It's liquid eyes seemed to size me up and finally pronounced me safe.

It hopped around the room for a while, each hop a little closer to me. I sat frozen, barely daring to breathe. I felt the compliment it deigned to give me with its prescence. I slowly reached to turn off my sewing machine -

but not slowly enough. It exploded into the air, escaping in a flurry of buttery feathers.

Five minutes later the bird came back with a friend.

It must have been a girl bird.

They paused at the door, trying to nonchalantly saunter in - no doubt embarrassed by the discourteous exit from before. I recognized my previous acquaintance; she was bolder, having been here already.

The pair inspected my plants, the artwork, the furniture. All met with their approval. I realized I'd forgotten my manners, and went to fetch them some refreshment. My original friend fluttered back to wait by the door, but her companion turned tail back home. Rude.

My friend waited for me. She pecked at the crumbs I offered, keeping one eye on me all the while. She seemed to say thank you with the way she turned her head.

After the repast, she politely preened and powdered her nose. I excused myself and continued sewing. She watched for a while, then flew over to the shelf covered in pictures of my loves. Examining each one, she tweeted and twittered her questions about my children. No doubt she had observed their play and was wondering where they were. We talked like old friends. I told her the strengths of one child, the triumphs of another. My hopes for them and the things that kept me up at night worrying. She listened. Occasionally she'd turn around and gaze at me intently. Maybe she was trying to tell me she had children she worried about, too.

We both felt the visit had come to an end. She circled the room once, then landed a few feet from me, pecking at a few more crumbs she had previously overlooked. I offered her my warm thanks for the visit, and welcomed her back any time.

Then she crapped on my floor and left.

And I slammed the door shut.

Two Faces Have I

I just realized I have a double standard. And I can't explain it, even to myself.

I have no problem with cosmetic dental surgery. I'm all over "potions and lotions" to improve skin elasticity, erase wrinkles, and treat blemishes. Microderm abrasion and facial peels sound pretty cool, too.

But I can't reconcile myself to plastic surgery. That includes face lifts, tummy tucks, Botex and boob jobs. I'm not morally opposed to it - I'm Beckally opposed to it. It's like I'm okay with external renovations - it's once needles and knives are involved that I get all question mark-y.

What do you think?

I won the Principal's award in middle school

I can totally brag about this because it's the only thing that this coveted prize ever afforded me. Oh, and a piece of paper that is sitting in a box somewhere in my mother's basement.

Yet I recognize this award for what it is: a consolation prize. I did a lot of extracurricular activities in both middle and high school, but I never excelled in any of them. I think the principal was trying to tell me that he felt sorry for me. I deserved to get SOMETHING for my "never give up" attitude, right?

I participated in show choir and drama club - always in the background, a no-name character with a few lines. I did forensics - and never won anything. Cheerleading (to the everlasting ridicule of my brothers) - but I quit after one semester because I soooooo did not fit the profile. I did yearbook, NHS, tutoring, SADD, art, peer mediation and I don't know what else. Mostly because I didn't have much of a social life.

So I was thinking about my revered Principal's Award today and a repressed memory resurfaced: I ran for class secretary, too.

I truly do not what I was thinking. I was the quintessential nerd in middle school. Side ponytail. Coke bottle glasses. Braces with bands that coordinated with the upcoming holiday. I still played with My Little Ponies til freshman year of high school. Yup.

But encouraged by my loving mother (who is forbidden to comment on this post), I made dozens of posters with my name and slogan. The dreaded Voting Day arrived. I was required to give some kind of speech, and I swear before the Blogging Gods that Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite gave the same speech I did when I was thirteen years old. (But I didn't have dancing moon boots to back me up.)

I lost. I lost to a girl named Jenny Butts who I met the day of the vote. And you know what? I LIKED her. A really really lot. She was pretty and engaging and cool. And kind enough to make friends with me, her "rival" (though there was really no competition.)

I actually ended up voting for her.

This memory recently surfaced because I suddenly find myself in the same situation.

The other day I got an email from a truly awesome blogger at Real Mom, Real Life. (Check her out if you haven't already!) She informed me that she had nominated me for the Mormon Mommy Blogs' March Spotlight. (That really was a lot of capital letters, bytheway.)

Well! Of course I immediately felt extremely fond of the whole world and hopped on over to the MMBMS post. I had a grand total of THREE votes - enough for the lead! WHOO-HOO!

I skipped around the house most of this morning. It really is a beautiful day, isn't it?

But this afternoon, when I started to think about thinking about dinner, I checked again - cuz I'm cumpulsive like that. And I'm losing. To a blog called The Chocolate Chip Waffle. Of course I had to check out my competition, so I hopped on over.

And dang. She's good. Like, I-would-be-ashamed-to-show-my-bloggy-face-if-I-actually-beat-her-out good.

So yeah, vote for me, vote for her, whatever. I won the Principal's award in middle school, so I'm good either way.

Teetering, tottering - the act of balancing. That doesn't rhyme but it's close. Okay, not really.

I am a stay at home mom.

I devote every waking hour (and very often my sleeping hours) to my children - raising them, worrying about them, trying to mold them into somewhat normal people. House responsibilities are chiefly mine - I usually don't take out the garbage on purpose mostly so I feel like My Man is doing something. He does his share of dishes and putting away laundry (the bane of my existence), but it's usually just ME.

And sometimes I struggle.

Because I know that I CAN'T do it alone, nor SHOULD I. Nurturing our children is my primary responsibility - but it is not my sole purpose in life. Nor is working, his. I am just as much a parent as My Man is; we share the job of raising our three boys. And while household chores are usually mine, that is just because I'm the one who is home all day - not because I am a woman.

But I can't do it all. I CAN'T.

So here's the thing. Every time I ask for more help with the kids or around the house, I feel guilty. My Man has no time to call his own. He works 24/7. He's bishop of a very very (very very very very very) needy ward. The guy doesn't have two minutes put together. Whenever he's fulfilling one obligation, he's ignoring three others. Because he just can't be everywhere at once.

He does an excellent job of making me feel like I'm his #1 priority (and I am), and we work very hard to make sure we still get alone time at least once a week. We communicate. We talk. We share our deepest darkest feelings. Our relationship is just ... too pure and perfect to talk about here.



But it's never, ever enough.

Does this mean I'm needy? Does this mean I'm weak? Because every time he kills himself to spend more time with me, I'm reminded of all the other responsibilities he's ignoring. All the people who need or want him. And oh, I hear about it too. Members whining that they needed him to give a blessing, pay a bill, counsel until all hours of the night, etc., etc. And instead he was home watching a movie with me. I'm a sinner. A selfish, selfish sinner.

I can't help thinking of all the wives whose husbands travel for work. Or are in the army. Or divorced mothers or widows. They have it a thousand times worse off - I should just be happy, right? Just shut up and be happy ....

So why can't I shut up?

Where do you draw the line? How do you balance? When do you say "enough is enough" as opposed to "I can be stronger"?

Sometimes I feel like maybe I'm not SUPPOSED to do it by myself, but I SHOULD be able to. Because whenever I break down and ask for help, I just feel like a weakling. Especially since I know My Man is already giving me everything he has.

.... what do you do?

Small talk, smack talk

I've never been a very good small talker. I'm usually task-oriented, focused on whatever I'm doing at the time, and can't work up the proper amount of enthusiasm to shoot the breeze with a perfect stranger at the grocery store or post office.

At parties, I usually just stick by My Man. I prefer intimate get-togethers, without the hassle of guests I don't know and the inevitable, "so, crazy weather we're having, eh?" Weddings are an absolute nightmare.

But Brazilians are Kings of the Small Talk realm, and I've gotten quite good at it. I can now talk anything from religion to politics for at least five minutes without offending anyone. Quite a talent, if I do say so myself.

Yet despite my newly found gift, my loathing of all things chit chat as only grown. Because it's the SAME FREAKING CONVERSATION EVERY TIME:

• Oh, wow, you're AMERICAN?
• Do you speak English?
• Was it hard to learn Portuguese?
• English is harder to learn, huh?
• Do your kids speak?
• You like Brazil better than the State, huh?
• Are you glad Bush is gone?

If you've been around a while, you know that I've complained written about this before. But I can't help it. I cannot go out in public without answering the same questions.

Yes, yes, yes, no, yes, can't-answer-that-question, surewhatever.

It's gotten to the point that I avoid going to public places. As soon as the question of my nationality comes up, all feelings of good will toward my fellow man dry up instantaneously. I become a clam, determined to get the heck out of there as soon as possible. Or I convienently forget Portuguese.

So I was particularly impressed with my little brother this past week. (He left yesterday.) He grinned and nodded with the best of them, introducing himself and being introduced to people who hadn't a clue what he was saying. He even agreed to host a Priest/Laurel party at our house last Friday night (girls and boys ages 16 and 17 from our church.) Despite being unable to communicate, he was the life of the party - teaching us THE most hilarious games and even doing an unforgettable Michael Jackson impression. He will go down in history as The Coolest American Ever.

And it occurs to me that small talk and first impressions are almost entirely non-verbal. It is all in how the person holds his mouth, his hands ... body language, people.

And that's not a language I'm very fluent in, I guess.

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The kids are in bed. The house is clean. My Man is gone to interview forty youth and I have the house to myself.

Perfect opportunity to blog, I tell myself. And yet -

is all I got.

Today was one of Those Days - completely deserving of capitilization, bold, italics, and LARGEST font. I tried everything - we went down to the indoor soccer arena and rode bikes. We played in the pool. I made a real lunch instead of serving leftovers. I put on Sesame Street. We even called Grandma. And it was still -

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

times three all day.

All. Freaking. Day.

My Mommy Superpower Tank is empty. My mind is blank. I feel like a gump. My face probably resembles a Willow Tree figurine:

Except without the wings and graceful dress.

I'm off to fill the tank. Pride and Prejudice, anyone?

Consistency

I am the world's most committed on-and-off exerciser.

I don't think I've ever exercised every day for more than two months in a row; I've also never gone more than two months in a row WITHOUT exercising.


Is that a check box on the doctor's questionaire?


Mr. Squishy is now eight months old. This came as quite a shock to me. That means he's almost NINE months old. NINE, people. It took me nine months for my body to blow up like a balloon, and I gave myself nine months to deflate. But I'm decidedly more squishy than he is.


Actually, I have lost all my baby weight. But my BODY ain't back. My legs are okay - I actually have the much-coveted space between my thighs. I like it. But my thunder thighs seem to have migrated upwards to my previously hourglass shape. I am now rectangular. My waist has DISAPPEARED. Is it possible to defy gravity? Cuz I just have. I used to be quite bottom heavy, but I've turned apple. I'm very conscious of my Santa belly, and my arms are very biceptuous as well. But not in a good way.


I'm a runner in general. Running is free and the most time-effective. No equipment. No driving anywhere. I do like the occasional Pilates, but I get sick of the same videos very easily.


The alarm goes off at 6AM and I debate with myself for a good twenty minutes whether or not I'm going to hit the pavement. (Or the cobblestone, to be exact.) I have to convince myself that it would be better for my body to exercise as opposed to sleeping another hour. Sometimes the pillow puts up an excellent argument.


But let's assume for today's illustration that my running shoes won. I slip on the contacts (running in glasses is ZERO FUN) and my bee-u-tiful running pants that are two inches above my ankle. My favorite sports bra is bright blue and was a present from a friend at Girls Camp with "Who dat? Becky J!" written in puffy paint. I pray that it doesn't rain.


The first third of my run is spent wishing the pillow won the fight. Every muscle in my body is protesting, and I'm breathing embarrasingly loud for the pace that I'm going. Who do you think you're kidding? You can't RUN. You run like a duck.


My hands are permanently forming the "thumbs up" position and my right arm punches the air in time to my feet, which splay out. I'm extremely bouncy. I run like Seinfeld's Elaine.


But the second third of the run is awesome. I'm warmed up. I realize that, not only CAN I run, I run AWESOME. I might even enter a 5K. Or a marathon. Or something. Visions of Skinny Me keep me going - graciously giving advice to wannabes and perhaps accepting the award for Hottest Mom on the Block. Maybe a TV appearance.


The last third of the way, I'm trying to figure out a shortcut home.


The trouble with exercising in the morning, though, is that you feel at liberty to eat what you want throughout the day. Sure, I'll have another cookie. I mean, I DID go running today.


Now, THAT'S worth all the trouble.

This would never happen in Detroit

I grew up in the suburbs of the Motor City - very suburbish suburbs. Kids riding up and down the sidewalks, every blade of grass beautifully groomed and trees growing only where we wanted them to. There was the occasional glade that we referred to as "woods" or even "forest;" to my young eyes any grouping of trees was home to wild animals.

In truth, my contact with animals was limited to the standard dog, cat, and birds aplenty. Very rarely we saw a deer wandering around (okay, like three times in eighteen years) and it was enough that I remember each incident with clarity.

Then I move here. First of all, the winged species here aren't limited to your household robin. Macaws and parrots frequently fly past my window. (And they're freakin' loud.) One time I saw a monkey hanging from a tree just a couple blocks from my house. And don't get me started about the insects.

So I shouldn't have been too surprised when Little Prince came running in the other day, yelling about a "big dead rat" in the backyard.

Turns out it wasn't a rat. Or dead. Yet.

It was a dying possum - a little longer than my forearm, gray with white streaks. Quite cute, actually. She had obviously been attacked by a dog of some sort, and her breathing was shallow and raspy.

I guess I can say I can now see thestrals, since she passed away before we could do anything for her.

But what really caught our attention was the tiny little legs struggling underneath her. We figured the poor thing had just given birth, and the baby was still nursing when his mommy died.
We tried to pull the little thing out from under her (wearing gloves, I might add), but he just wouldn't let go. So we very carefully flipped the momma over.

And he wasn't nursing. He was BEING BORN.

After recovering from the initial shock, we commenced emergency surgery. We eased the baby possum out of her onto the grass - and another followed right behind. And another. And another. And another.

That would be SIX baby possums.

I knew full well that their chances of survival were slim to nil. A part of me realized that perhaps it would be kinder to just drown them, rather than let them die slowly of starvation. But my very being shunned away from the idea of murdering these tiny infants, deprived of their mother before they even got started on life. I'm a mom too. I'm sure she died thinking of her kids, possum though she was.

And even though humans might let a little baby die - deprived of their mother simply because she didn't want it - I couldn't do it. Because those little infants have feelings. They're still real possums - every bit as possum-ish as their mother. They can feel pain and loneliness, hunger and love. Just like a newborn baby.

So I had six little foster babies in the house until we found a loving home for them. (Or, at least, a forest animal hospital.)

Shouldn't we extend the same courtesy to our fellow human beings?

Who I am

I have been composing this post for days now and it's still not the way I want it.

Great way to start, eh? Are you INTRIGUED?

But I can't wait because even though I'm a perfectionist I'm also IMPATIENT. So there we are.

First things first. Do you know what I am? An EXPAT. That's right. An EXPAT. It is the nickname - short for "expatriot" - given to all people living outside of their native country. I believe it dates back to Jeffersonian times. They say they gave Franklin the nickname when he decided to take up his revelry in France on a more permanent basis. ("They" are very smart people, don't you think? They know EVERYTHING. And aren't required to prove it.)

But I have never liked this name. EXPAT. It sounds ... negative. Like someone got fed up with their country and jumped on the next plane. They are NO LONGER a patriot. Used-to-be-but-not-anymore.

Ahem.

pa -tri-ot. noun. a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion.

Friends and comrades - I am still a patriot.

Right now, sitting next to me, is "A Patriot's Handbook," a collection of songs, poems, stories, and speeches that represent America. It is 647 pages and I have read it many times. (To be frank, it sits on the computer desk for a reason. When my internet is slow it keeps me from frantically pushing the escape button - because that helps, you know.)

And here's the facts.

I cannot read the Declaration of Independence without getting chills.

I cannot sing the "Star Spangled Banner" without crying.

I cannot speak of our country without pride.

Old Glory is flying high in our yard right now - through the Brazilian sunshine or monsoon rain she flies -

I believe in America.

I believe in the idea of America.

I must have been asked exactly three thousand times if I like it better in Brazil or America. I look them in the eye and tell them I bleed stars and stripes.

I must have been asked exactly five thousand times if I still like Bush. Yes, I do.

I must have been asked exactly ten thousand times if I like our President Barack Obama.

Yes, I do.

Today I read his speeches. I looked at every picture, and

too.

Because I believe in America.

I love that in America everyone on your street is eating something different for dinner. I love that every American has the right to vote - or not to. I love that Americans believe in justice, respect the law and villify those who don't. I love that in America we may have opposite opinions, heritages and educational opportunities - but we still live side by side.

Anna Quindlen: America is an improbable idea. A mongrel nation built of ever changing disparate parts, it is held together by a notion, the notion that all men are created equal, though everyone knows that most men consider themselves better than someone.... It was built of bits and pieces that seem discordant, like the crazy quilts that have been one of its great folk art forms, velvet and calico and checks and brocades. Out of many, one. That is the ideal.

Brazilians ask me what Americans eat. What we watch. What we're like.

I have no answer.

We are all different, but the same. All cut from varying fabrics but still part of a whole. Blacks whites gay straight left right. We may still fight. We may still judge. But we're still Americans.

And today, thousands of miles away from the National Mall, I am still a PATRIOT.