Re-entry: Surprises

For the last few months, I haven't really allowed myself to think about life in Oregon.  I never started mentally preparing myself to be home, because "just around the corner" stretched on forever.  Then suddenly we had the visa appointment and I was packing like crazy, and still not thinking and feeling about the change.

There are so many surprises.  Some of them made me feel almost angry, like "why have I had to live so many months without this, when it is right in my own home!"  Some of the things that are normal in America suddenly seem strange or silly.  Some of them make me miss Uganda.  Some of them I just don't know where I fit.  Some of it seems so familiar, and yet so distant.  This is just a long list of things that suddenly jump out at me as I float through the days.


The toilet paper is so thick and soft, and works so well.  And the toilets are different, of course; they seem to be different everywhere!  When we went to the bathroom in the Seattle airport, Hibiscus went in her stall and popped right back out, complaining "Mama, my potty is already full!" I was disappointed that she would find yuck in her very first American toilet, when in general the toilets here are so much cleaner than in Kampala.  But there was no excrement, just water.  The bowl was full of water.  Ugandan toilets only have a little water at the very bottom.  Now that she pointed it out, it looks strange to me, too.  But the Ugandan toilets seem to have a giant, powerful flush, and the American ones are much more subtle.

My mattress is so nice and soft and supportive and comfortable.  Why have I spent so long sleeping on awful mattresses?  Most of them were foam, which was too hard new, and as it got used you could feel the boards underneath.  The last apartment had a luxurious spring mattress... which was so hard and pokey that I could only stand it if I slept on TOP of the bedspread.


"Where are all the people?" Hibiscus asked.  I don't know.  It seems like there is no one here, even in the middle of our city.  All the space is taken up by huge, smooth roads, and sprawling parking lots, and vacant lots that don't have any corn growing in the middle of them.  It feels lonely.

Everything is so big.  All the buildings are so big.  On our drive from Seattle back to Oregon, we had to stop to get something, and the first place we found was a WalMart in some tiny town.  Africa to Wal-Mart: I don't recommend it.  I practically had a panic attack.  Minus the top three largest cities, probably just about any Ugandan town or city could have fit inside that store, and with every single citizen and nearby farmer milling about, they still wouldn't have figured out what to do with all the STUFF.  That is an insane, crazy amount of stuff.

Our house is big.  The school is big.  The yards are big.  Why do we need all this space?  I'm not ready to jump into being a poor Ugandan, and fit my 12 family members into a house the size of my bedroom.  But 600 square feet per person is not a "need," it just isn't.  (Unless you're a family of one, in which case 600 square feet seems fairly reasonable.)  Although I do like my big, open yard, probably mostly because it has lots of garden in it.  I freely acknowledge that it probably takes about three times as much land to grow the same amount of food, just in the same season, so the gardens and farms are reasonably allowed to be bigger.  And I support playgrounds and public space.  But grassy yards that no one plays in?  That's a little confusing right now.

And the people are so big!  I had forgotten Americans are so big.  There are plenty of tall people in Uganda, so I hadn't felt the lack of tall-ness.  But maybe the proportion of tall people is higher here.  Or maybe the "tall" genes in Uganda go along with "lithe and somewhat boney."  (That is not a joke; they are much less ethnically blended than we are, so the ethnic group that is tall is also a group that tends to be very lithe; also blacker than the Muganda.)  I am a fairly petite person, and I suddenly feel like I am looking up all the time, and that feels different somehow.



Speaking of looks, it's an amazing experience not to stand out dramatically everywhere I go.  In fact, there are so many different types of people I don't think anyone stands out as dramatically as I did in Africa.

Although I still caught people trying not to stare at us when I was out with Buttercup.  People actually make an effort to not stare, which is different, but actually, when you are used to just being stared at, it seems kind of weird to work so hard to pretend you're not looking.  Why do we Americans make such a big deal about not looking at each other?  I remember this when I came back from Italy, too.  Just calmly looking at someone when you want to see what they look like seems to make more sense.

Anyway, they are looking at us.  I haven't figured out yet if it's because I am carrying a baby whose skin doesn't match mine, or because I have her tied to me with a giant piece of cloth.  I suppose I could do an experiment, and carry her some other way and see if we got fewer stares, but that doesn't seem worth the trouble.  In Africa, I knew exactly why people were staring at us.  It was because I was carrying a baby whose skin didn't match mine, and I had her tied to me with a giant piece of cloth in THE WRONG WAY.

It seems so odd to pay for everything with a credit card, and not be carrying around a wallet full of cash.  The first couple times, I forgot that I had the capability of buying something, since I didn't have cash in the appropriate currency yet.  And spending half my going-out energy thinking about how and when to procure that cash.  But if I do pay with cash, that seems pretty confusing as well, because it's all the same size and color.  America has a lot of green bills.

That, and the cash is so valuable.  Mark gave me a $50 bill to take into Wal-Mart, and part of my impending panic attack was thinking about how many shillings I had in that one little piece of paper.  I didn't dare take my hand off the bill in my pocket the entire time!  The largest value bill in Uganda is about $20, but those are kind of hard to use because most people don't have change, so most transactions are done with the $8-ish bills or smaller.

The computer that I used to use all the time seemed so overwhelming and I couldn't figure out how to do things.  And the screen is gigantic!  You make whatever you're doing so big, and you can still see a bunch of other things at the same time.  That screen just by itself seems to be lead directly to ADD.  Mark says they don't make computer screens that are any smaller any more.  Luckily, I can avoid getting ADD myself by going right back to doing everything on my iPad Mini, like I have for the last many months, but I think it's bad news for everyone else who is normalizing looking at that many pixels at once!


I hope I remember how to drive, because I'm driving.  I think I usually manage to turn into the correct lane, because I think about the driver being towards the middle of the road and try to ignore the left-right-ness, which gets confusing fast.  I think I might have forgotten a few of the policies about ceding the right of way.  In Uganda, whoever is moving has the right of way, and they "hoot" to remind people that they are coming through and to get out of the way, but they are often cede the right of way to turning cars.  I am quite sure that I have managed to not hoot at any bicyclists or pedestrians as I drive by!  But it's possible that I have not ceded at the right moment.  I do remember that I am actually supposed to pay attention to the red and green lights.

And I have forgotten how to drive around my city.  I just kind of head out on auto-pilot, and have a vague muscle-type memory of making certain turns or going in certain directions, but I can't think of the streets ahead of me and how they lead to where I'm going.


I don't remember where things are in my own kitchen.  How strange is that?  It's a very strange feeling.  I found a mini-dustpan in the garage (which I remembered is supposed to live in the bathroom) and used it for two days because I didn't remember that I keep the dustpan and whisk broom under the sink.  How convenient!  And I keep finding myself opening two or three cupboards to figure out where some ingredient lives.


I had forgotten about all the different American accents.  I'm used to hearing so many sounds of English around me, and being able to pick the American one out of a crowd.  If it's another ex-pat, we just kind of smile at each other and don't have to ask where we've come from, unless it's by state; if it's a traveler, they probably think American English is normal.  But now I suddenly remember that there are all sorts of different ways of speaking American.  And it is so mumbly.  Overhearing the general rumble of child-speech at my children's school sounds like what morse code or heart monitors look like.

I had not thought about American music.  Some of it I recognize and some of it I don't.  Just all the different kinds of sounds you hear in stores and on phones and out in the world.  Not to mention, hearing music in all the stores. I had forgotten that was part of the shopping experience.


I have not re-mastered the greeting ritual.  Some people cut right to the chase and say something like "this register's open," and I can handle that.  But some people say "how are you?" and my heart feels all friendly, and I reply "I am fine, thank you, and how are you today?" and they say "fine" and then there is an awkward pause.  I am not sure why the pause is awkward.  I think they are confused why saying "how ya doin'" is taking so long.  I was still feeling friendly.


And that's my random thought train list of things I'm still trying to figure out about America.

Trying to Leave Uganda

We are on the plane.  And when the plane lands, it will be in America.  That is the only thing that is actually important, and it almost didn't happen.


We were supposed to leave the apartment at ten o'clock, for a 3:50 flight an hour's drive away.  Now, I admit that we probably wouldn't have actually driven out the gate at exactly ten, but I had built natural tardiness (even Ugandan-style tardiness) into my calculations.  I was putting the last things that we needed to take into the carry-on by ten, so after a few goodbyes and a few last last trips around the house we would have been ready by 10:30, and someone needing to change their shirt and someone else needing to poop, we probably would have actually been driving away by 10:45.

Instead, as I was putting the last things in my bag, the apartment manager showed up and announced that she wasn't letting me leave.  This manager has shown minimal actual management, and responded to about one of my texts, ever, so she had kind of slipped my mind.  I had emailed with the owner of the apartment a few days before, told him the exact date of my departure, agreed to pay through the 31st because that is what I had guessed earlier, that I would have a friend clear out for me, and discussed utility bills and my husband wiring the money.  The last I heard from him was "okay, that sounds good too," so I assumed that was taken care of.  It turns out that the manager hadn't gotten the message that we were moving and she was all in a tizzy.  I tried to explain the email conversation, but she "wasn't listening" to that.  It took a long time to get the owner on the phone, and turned out that the money hadn't been wired yet, and he was no longer "okay" and said we couldn't leave until he had the money in hand.  The manager had driven her car in so it blocked our car, and kept following me around declaring shrilly that she wouldn't let me drive out, she wouldn't open the gate for me, her boss would kill her, and why on earth had I not told her I was leaving, and she had to check for damages and had I broken this and where were all the cups, she had to check that everything was here.  Repeat.

All this, starting five minutes after we were supposed to drive away.  To begin our trip home.  Which we have been waiting all these months for.  At first I thought she was just being a little unreasonable, but it soon became apparent that she was convinced I was trying to sneak out without paying and was going to go to all possible lengths to keep us blocked in the compound until she held the cash in her hot little hand.

It hadn't even occurred to me that my husband hadn't paid.  I had given them the other's email address, and assumed they had communicated directly.  I guess my husband was busy with a million little details to get us ready to come home, and didn't realize how very, very important this one was.

Before this, the owner had seemed very reasonable.  I will give him this much credit; I had forgotten how absolutely distrustful everyone is in Uganda, for the very good reason that almost everyone else is out to cheat, sneak, and steal as much as they can get away with.  I come from a land where signing a contract is a promise, and when you have someone's bank information and passport numbers, you figure that you have some leverage over them.  I have learned how to be distrustful: to smile but not say yes; to keep my hands on my documents.  I guess I haven't finished learning how to be distrusted.

The problem was, there was no way to solve this cash-in-hand issue.  Absolutely none.  I called my husband immediately, but he is on a business trip so he's not home, and his cell phone went straight to voicemail.  You can't even wake someone up by calling voicemail over and over!  Even if he was aware of what was happening, he couldn't have wired money in the middle of the night.  Although I do think that the owner might have taken him more seriously than he did for me, and he might have been able to make some other kind of assurance.  I can only take a limited amount out of my bank account per day, so if I took it all out it wouldn't be enough to pay the two weeks' rent, and I couldn't get more for 24 hours.  Which is after our plane left, obviously.  Not to mention, I needed money to get to the plane!  (A lot of money, it turned out.  The airport was a hotbed for sneaking your money away.)

Our amazing friend Derrick once again saved the day.  He had showed up to get my keys, because he was going to clean out the house for me.  This was already a mutual blessing that I appreciate; that would be way too much to ask a friend in America to do for you.  But I had offered his family and his school everything we had left over, and from his perspective THAT was an amazing blessing, so it was a symbiotic relationship!  He immediately managed to calm down the shrill and repetitive manager and at least figure out what was going on.  Eventually, he agreed to write them a post-dated check.  We would wire the money to him, and then the manager could cash the check and have the money.  If we were as untrustworthy as they supposed, then he would be responsible for the amount -- which he surely didn't have, so he said with a wry smile that he would go to jail instead.

They accepted the offer, but the whole process took negotiating and time.  Derrick had to go back to his house and bring his checkbook.  The landlord in Kenya needed to be consulted, and the cell reception kept going out.  (That house must be just on the wrong side of a hill, because it the cell phone reception goes in and out constantly.)

We left at noon.  Two full hours after I had planned, and still more than an hour after the things-always-go-slowly departure time.  I had scheduled in lots of extra time, in case we needed to do something on the way to the airport, and then extra time in the airport.  All of it was gone.

Thank heavens, the traffic to Entebbe was not too bad.  And I realized we did have to stop.  My husband had emailed me an official power of attorney or permission form to travel with all three children.  I had a general power of attorney for conducting the girls' adoption, which mentioned traveling with them in passing, but it wasn't as clear as it could be, and it didn't mention Emerson.  Apparently it's easy to assume that one parent is taking a child away from official custody when they are crossing borders with the child without official permission.... especially when the parent is also doing something highly suspicious like trying to travel with children who are a different color from themselves.

I tried to stop and print it out.  It didn't work.  I couldn't get into my email, which is the problem with having a computer that remembers all your passwords all the time.  I keep having this problem, and then keep having to change the password.  It's actually worked the last few times, but I guess with all the stress and panic I just couldn't get it right, so yahoo shut my email down.

We drove on without the permission form.

Then there was the security check outside the airport, which is always kind of incomprehensible and takes too long.  Then there was getting our bags from the car to the departure area.  There is a nice road to the departures on the upper airport level, just like every other normal airport.  However, the road is closed.  You have to just push the luggage carts up the road.  Our driver and a porter were each pushing a cart, and the luggage kept slipping off and falling on the ground.

Then there was getting inside the airport, which of course is complicated in an incomprehensible way that is nothing like other airports.  It was also an excellent example of people enjoying the power of their petty positions, and using it to make up all kinds of new rules which they could enforce in a draconian manner.  (Which has kind of been our problem with the adoption process all along!)

First of all, there was paying the porters.  The porter who pushed our luggage up the hill wasn't allowed to go in the airport.  The guy who showed up wanted "only 20 thousand shilling."  The sum I had in mind was a generous 5 thousand.  To give some context, if a maid or a houseboy or a driver works for you most or all of the day, they can expect to earn about 10 thousand shilling.  Five thousand for half an hour of work truly is generous for Uganda.  The 20-thousand guy wasn't even interesting in bargaining at my starting point.  He probably guessed by my facial expression and the definitive way that I pronounced my sum that I wasn't actually on vacation, but knew what I was talking about, and slipped off to find a more guillable muzungo.  Another lady showed up who would work for ten.  Twice a reasonable rate, in a closed market, I was willing to accept.  (In general, I am willing to accept paying a little more than Ugandans for the same service.  I do understand that I -- and every other American who could ever end up in Uganda -- have a lot more resources than they do.  However, they need to keep their up-pricing in a reasonable range.)

She brought our luggage over to have it weighed.  The luggage-weigh-er told me that I would have to have some of the bags "wrapped" in plastic, like super-saran-wrap.  At a cost of 25 thousand per bag.  Then we went through the x-ray machine and dealt with the power-monger at the other end.  He went through my backpack in great detail, carefully examining every article that was not obviously food.  Yes, we had twelve pieces of luggage, not included small backpacks or purses for everyone, and he opened one of them so we could have twelve conversations about the items inside.  So it could have been worse -- he could have gone through all twelve bags like that, I supposed.  Except then I think someone would come and fire him, because no one could ever enter the airport.

I had brought a pair of small kids' scissors for projects on the plane.  The kind with two-inch blades and rounded tips.  Oh no, I could not possibly bring those on; put them in the other luggage.  In the extra two hours of pacing around the house, I realized that I could bring a knife to spread butter and cheese and things on our bread and muffins.  I had brought the most delicate and unserrated butter knife.  That knife could possibly do some damage to, say, a baby rat, if you whacked it just right.  Or an adult.... um, mosquito, if you found a mosquito who wanted to wait around for you to to poke it with a small butter knife.  The security guard gave me the most condescending look to tell me what an idiot I was for thinking I could bring anything that was related, linguistically at least, to a tool of danger and destruction.  I must have seemed improperly awed and repentant, because at this point his colleague piped up about how lucky I was that they warned me about these transgressions now, or later I would have just had to throw the offending items away.

Then he got to my water purifier.  In case you don't regularly use one -- which you should because they are very handy -- this is an object slightly wider than a pen, half of which is a plastic handle, and half of which is a long lightbulb that emits the right kind of UV rays to kill the bacteria and stuff in your water bottle.  All of which apparently makes it look like a weapon of mass destruction to busy-body security staff.

He spent a long time examining it, apparently looking for the part he could point to in order to make fun of me for trying to bring it on board.  Eventually he asked what it was.  I told him a water purifier and flashlight, because it is also a flashlight, and I figured that was a little more understandable.  He immediately started saying "oh, no, no."  It took a while to figure out what was so awful about a flashlight, and he eventually explained that starting fires is very bad.  Starting fires.  Luckily, it took me only a moment to realize that he didn't know the word "purifier," so was extracting the dangerous syllables.  I explained purification in a little more detail, but not a great deal of patience. He either realized what I meant, thought that his fire explanation wouldn't hold water (haha), or started to realize that it was pretty hard to argue that a glass pen was particularly dangerous, because he moved onto a new tack.

"Does it have batteries?" he demanded.  "It is electronic, it has batteries, and batteries are not allowed on the plane.  No batteries.  See, look here, it must be a battery here, to make go.  No batteries allowed.  Put in the checked bag."

See what I mean about making up your own rules?  The last thing I read was that battery items are not allowed in CHECKED luggage, which was part of why I was bothering to argue about it, because I didn't want it thrown away in the checked bag.  (Also, because it is useful.  Also, because the whole thing was just so stupid that he was making me stubborn.)  Think about what you bring on a plane: laptops, cameras, i-things.  Things with batteries.

So that argument was pretty fruitless for the guy, and besides, there was another bag with interesting things beckoning him from the other side.  He pulled out a black stick with buttons on it, and asked the (young, hip, jewellry-laden, black t-shirt, Ugandan) owner suspiciously "now what is THIS?" and the man replied with obvious frustration in his voice "it's just a (something) and a flashlight."  The two security checkers cut their eyes and me and said "this one is a brother to that mama there."

We moved our procession on.  Past the plastic-wrap machine, which actually cost 18 thousand (ridiculously high, but mysteriously 7 thousand less than what I had been told), because you have to check your bags before you can wrap them.  Then checking in, which was slow but relatively normal.  Then back to the plastic wrap machine.

And then the argument about the carseats.  I had carseats for both Emerson and Buttercup, and was told that I could not possibly take them on a plane, which was the entire point.  I have read this airline's car seat policy, admittedly not the last few days, but nothing jumped out at me that I couldn't bring a seat for a child.  I always have small children ride in a car seat on a plane, just like the FAA recommends.  Almost no one actually does it, though, and the airline personnel always seem a little annoyed that I actually follow through with their official recommendations.  Emerson arrived in Entebbe in a car sea, via the same airline.  I admit, I hadn't thought about how although he was the same exact size, he is technically a year older, and maybe 5-year-olds aren't allowed to ride in car seats.  So I would have given in gracefully for Emerson's seat, but the thought of trying to manage OVER TWENTY HOURS of airplane time with an illogical toddler who officially believes that it is her job to bounce all over unless she physically can't manage it, made me stick to my guns.

Of course, if they had told me, "stand here for 15 minutes or half an hour or so, while we wander away and find someone else who won't help you," I might have worried about getting through the rest of the airport.  But they kept acting like help was right around the corner.  And then "help" would arrive, with again such ridiculous arguments about made-up-on-the-spot policies, that I just couldn't go along with them.  That, and the 22 airplane hours ahead of me.  For instance, that only babies under two were allowed to use car seats on the plane; that is what carseats are for.  Dude.  Hello.  Babies under two DO NOT BUY seats on a plane; they sit on laps.  That is the distinction for babies under two.

After way too many ridiculous conversations, they let me take Buttercup's seat, but we had to go plastic wrap Emerson's.  I told them that they had better not charge me for checking it, and they agreed as a special favor since I was traveling with children to not charge me.  I am almost positive they were planning on charging me money up until that moment.  I promise, I used to have a very mild and friendly personality, but in Africa I have learned my "don't mess with me" voice.

Speaking of carseats, I had to use that voice to get it on this plane, too.  In the middle of the long and confusing boarding process, some flight attendants offered to take the seat for me.  Since they checked my boarding pass, I assumed they were putting it on the plane for me.  Several minutes later, an attendant returned and cheerfully told me I could get it in Seattle.  I told him that I had brought that seat in order to USE it, and he had sure as heck better get it back to me RIGHT NOW.      (Okay, I didn't use those words, but I did use that tone!)  He brought the car seat back.

However, I did not use that tone with the customs officer.  We finally managed to get all our luggage going in the correct direction and our hand items loaded on a cart, and went around the corner to customs.  Let me clarify, there is not the slightest reason for customs to be difficult for us.  We all have all the visas and documents that we need for our departure and destination countries, and aren't carrying anything we shouldn't, which I believe is more or less the job of the customs officials.  It would make sense that they would question why I have the girls with me, since our names don't match and our documents don't mention each other, so I wouldn't be at all insulted to be asked to produce the paperwork showing that I am their legal guardian.

But Ugandan customs officials seem to think that their job is to re-adjudicate our entire legal case.  I handed him out guardianship order (which states clearly that we are their only legal guardians), the judge's ruling (which explains the entire case in detail), and he read over both of them.  Very.  Carefully.  I also gave him a copy of Mark's passport and his power of attorney allowing me to travel with the girls.  Then he called someone else, and then asked me for more paperwork.  He needed copies of our passports, and visa photos of the girls, and half a dozen other things, mostly about my husband and I.  I had wondered if I needed anything else from our dossier -- which had just disappeared into the luggage hold a few minutes before -- but it hadn't ever occurred to anyone whom I had talked with that we would need visa photos.  I told him respectfully but firmly that we had not been told to bring those things.  He read a few more pages of our documents, and finally said that I just had to bring copies of our passports.  Despite holding the actual passport in his hand, of course.  So we went back into the luggage area, found someone from our airline, and asked her to make a copy.  She disappeared  cheerfully, and to my relief she actually did it.

By then there was a line at the customs counter.  When we saw our official again, this time he asked for the girls' birth certificates.  (Which are not relevant, because they had passports, which proves they had birth certificates that were already approved.)  But I had them, and handed a copy over.  He read them carefully, and asked some questions about their birth family situation.  Then he asked for releases from the birth parents.  (Which are not his business, since the judge has already rescinded their rights and given them to us.  Not to mention, she has looked for releases from the birth parents.  Which were also needed to get the visa, which was also right in front of him.)  But I handed him copies of those, too.  He read for a while longer.  Then he said that he needed to take a picture of me with Buttercup, so to take her out of the wrap.  After a long time more, I held up Hibiscus so he could take a picture of our faces together -- and of course at that moment, someone else came by with a question, which he answered with way too much back-and-forth for holding my big girl up at face level the whole time!

I am glad that he didn't give us any more of a hard time about leaving the country, since I know some families have problems with these self-appointed judge-and-juries.  But I really longed for that missing hour or two we had spent arguing with the apartment manager.  While we were standing there, we heard the warning for boarding for our flight, and then the boarding announcement.  Then we heard the final call.

And what were the children doing this whole time?  They could have been worse, but they could have been better.  There was a little too much wandering around an looking at things while I waited and argued in the luggage area, and then everyone got hungry.  By the time we got to customs, the older two were mostly quibbling with each other and complaining at me to make the other one stop doing things.  Buttercup watched quietly from the wrap for a while, but by customs she was ready to lean her way out and run away, but she knows that she can't actually escape the wrap and stays pretty calm.  Thank heavens for toddler-wearing!  I doubt my ability to hold a sane conversation with an arrogant and illogical customs official, while also trying to hold on to a toddler who is bent on running somewhere.  And I am not sure that the customs official would think that I had the best interests of the children in mind if I was clutching a child who was screaming to get away from me!

Luckily, the Entebbe airport only has about four gates, so we were able to speed-walk through it quickly.  Also, the children found speed-walking much more interesting than anything else so far, so they walked right along with me (except for Buttercup, who was wrapped up tight).  And also luckily, no one desperately had to pee.  When we got to our gate, the flight attendent said that actually boarding was closed, but it's okay, we can get on.  So we went through security and x-rays at the gate, and kept on going to our plane.  I hadn't even had a chance to tell the children about the seating arrangements, which was that we were sitting in two pairs, one behind the other, and I would be sitting with Buttercup.  So both of the older children had to throw a small fit about not getting to sit next to me, although the fit would have been much bigger if either of them had to deal with Buttercup's incessant demands and fussiness!

Once we were seated, we heard an announcement about a technical issue, that probably had delayed the plane long enough for us to get on, and then a little longer.  And then the plane started to move, and the children were all very excited.  And then we taxied faster and faster, until the plane took off.

And I looked my last looks, as Buttercup blithely chirped "bye-bye, Uganda! bye-bye, Uganda!"  We will be back, but it will never be the same.  The girls won't be Ugandan any more.  We will be travelers, not residents.  It will all be so different.

And frankly, on days like this, that sounds pretty good!

Religious Education

Seven months ago, I would have been charmed by this conversation and how it illustrates how open people are around here, and how religious the country is.  (I also would have been proud of myself for figuring out the egg situation, but actually, I hadn't figured out eggs at that point.) Four months ago, I would have taken the conversation in stride, maybe with a little internal shake of my head and roll of my eyes.  Two months ago, I would have sighed and gotten on with my day.  Now I am seven-and-a-half months into living in Africa, and either my inner introvert or my inner mean-ness has asserted itself, and it absolutely drove me crazy.

Africa.  Where conversations with the grocery-store egg-boy go like this:

(We were in the grocery store.  I had picked up a tray of eggs, which then get moved into a plastic bag so I don't have to pay for the tray.  A young store employee came over and offered to pack the eggs for me, which is the way it worked, so I assented.  Being a friendly and open people, of course "we" dived right into conversation."

Clerk: What is your name?  (nothing like subtlety, right?)
Me: Christy.
Clerk: Oh, that is a Christian name.  Are you a Christian?  (what are the topics that are officially disallowed in American polite society?  how about opening a conversation with "are you a Christian?")
Me: Yes.
Clerk: Oh, are you born-again?
Me: No.  (Note: if I were born AGAIN, how would my parents have given me a Christian name?)
Clerk: Oh, you should be born again.  Let me tell you about my church --
Me: I already go to church, it is just a different church, not born-again.
Clerk (firmly): Going to church is not enough.  In order to be saved, you must take Jesus Christ into your heart as your personal savior.  You are not a Christian just by going to church.  (Because, if it's acceptable to ask if someone is Christian, it must be just as good to tell them that they are NOT actually Christian, right?)
Me (even more firmly): I'm fine, thank you.
Clerk: Let me tell you about---
Me: No.  (Eggs are finished, so I walk away.  Obviously, this is not clearly enough a close to the conversation, because he follows.)
Clerk: Are you on Facebook?  (Because we're best friends after this very fruitful conversation.)
Me: Yes.
Clerk: Here, will you write your name, so I can follow you?
Me: NO.

I manage to get far enough, fast enough, to make continuing the conversation illogical even by Ugandan standards.  And that is the story of the day of my Religious Education By Grocery Store Clerk.

To Kenya!

I am writing this fro the National Museum of Nairobi.  That's right, Nairobi.  We had to do something about the problem that, for those of us who are America, our Ugandan visas are running out.  So we left the girls with their teacher's family, and Mark got us tickets for Nairobi.  So I spent most of Christmas Day packing and making calls, and we took off on the morning of the 26th.  Because this is Uganda, nothing can go smoothly, and in this case Uganda Air lost or didn't notice our tickets until right before we were supposed to leave.  I tried to contact them all day on the 25th to no avail, and I had figured that they weren't working on Christmas (although you would think that the airport would have someone in it!).  Then, of all things, I got an email at MIDNIGHT apologizing for the inconvienance, and that they would have the ticket resolved by our flight in the morning.  When we went to check in at 10 they still didn't have our reservation, but with a little bit of searching they found it.  Whew!

So Emerson and I flew to Kenya, and here we are!  When I was a child traveling with my father in the summers, I kept a running tally and I had visited the same number of countries as I was years old, for quite a while.  Then I got behind in my late teens, but a year in Europe in college solved that.  This trip has gone on for a while but hasn't added many new countries, so I'm sure I'm behind now, but Emerson has turned 5 and entered his 5th country!

As we drove out of the airport, my little third-culture boy was silent for a while, watching the scenery pass by.  Finally he commented, with amazement, "this reminds me of driving to Portland!"    Now, what little American boy would drive past an acacia-filled savanna, then Massai with their huge herds of Brahman cattle in the median, then Asian-looking modern manufacturing building and bulk stores, and comment on how much it looked like Oregon?!  But I knew what he meant: it was because we were driving on this thing that was flat, and paved, and went on straight in both directions, with no cows or pushcarts in the middle of it, allowing the cars to use their accelerators without engaging the steering wheel in dramatic maneuvers.  We haven't seen a highway in a long time.

We got to our hotel, which is fairly nice in a middle-of-the-road kind of way.  I was looking forward to taking advantage of what was left of the afternoon to walk around and see a little bit of Nairobi from the street, but the girl at the desk told us flatly that it was not safe to walk out because it was a holiday and there were not many people on the street.  She conceeded that we could walk right in front of the hotel, on this street, very near here.  So we went out walking, and it seemed to be a little bit of a market area, with small shops open and vendors selling clothes and shoes on tarps and on tables under umbrellas on the sidewalk.  All of which is familiar to us, but the vendors are much more agressive here than what we are used to in Uganda, and they kept bothering us to come in and buy.  We took a longer walk than what the hotel lady probably advised, but I kept within the loose market-ish area, and made sure that there were plenty of people (including well-dressed ones) around us, even though there were still some pedestrians beyond the shops.  I was thinking, that if this is "no one is out," then Nairobi must be a very crowded city indeed!

This morning the holiday is over, but the desk clerk still did not approve of us going out.  I asked for directions on how to walk to the city center, which I knew we were near, thinking that we could walk around and see what it was like when we were there.  She said where would we like to go, and she could call a taxi.  I said we wanted to walk around, and which direction to start out.  She laughed and said I could not walk with the baby, we could take a taxi.  I said the baby could walk just fine, and took out the map in my guidebook to show her some landmarks that we could aim for.  She called another bellboy over to give me directions to a cinema, and I said I didn't want to go to a cinema, and he offered to call a taxi so I could get to the cinema.  I didn't want to go to the cinema.  By then he was looking at my map, and pointed out a cinema on it, which I STILL didn't want to go to.  (Maybe they teach map-reading in Kenyan schools; most Ugandans don't even know what they are.)  I said I wanted to walk, and he said I couldn't walk with the baby, and we should take a taxi.  I asked which direction was downtown, and they told me not to walk, they would call a taxi.  I said that we were just plain going to go out of the building and start walking if they didn't tell me which direction to go in, and finally yet another bellhop came over and took me to a window, and pointed which direction to go.  It took all of ten minutes to walk downtown, even at five-year-old pace!



When I go on a trip I usually bring teabags, but this time when I was packing I glanced at them and remembered that on all the previous trips so far, there has been no way to get hot water or mugs, so they don't do me any good.  So I didn't bring them.  And there is an electric kettle an accessories right in our hotel room!  We had a similarly effective conversation with that bellhop, who was pointing out the amenities, including the kettle.
"...and you can have your coffee," he concluded, indicating instant coffee packets.
"Do you have tea?" I asked.
"Yes, it is right there," he answered, pointing to the coffee.
"But are there also tea bags?" I asked.
"You want coffee?  Very nice, it is coffee right here," he replied.
"No, I don't want coffee, I want tea."
"Yes, we have very nice coffee, any time you want, it is right here."
"But I don't want coffee!"
"Yes, is okay, you like coffee, is here."
"No, I don't like coffee, I like tea."
"Whenever you want, here it is, you can drink."
"Tea bags!!!  Do you have tea bags!!!  I do NOT WANT COFFEE, I am asking if you have tea!"
"Oh, for tea you call the restaurant, number 256, they bring you right away nice tea."  (For a price, of course.)
I think this is an excellent example of the African representation of Yes Is Better Than No.  It doesn't matter so much if you answer the actual question, it is important that you are very agreeable.  I think the Asian variant is to just say "yes" whether or not you have any intention of following up; the one around here seems to keep answering a slightly different question.  Some solution to the not-saying-no problem seems to be in existence in many places around the world, but however you find it, it tends to be highly unpopular with Americans.



I am used to looking like I stand out, but being able to act like I fit in, but now in Kenya I look out of place and I actually am.  I don't mind needing to ask questions to get around, or taking pictures of tourist-y things, but I don't need to be treated like an idiot.  Or a baby.  Or like I just got off the plane from the civilized West.

For instance, I know how to bargain and not pay twice as much for a taxi ride.  Although the expression of deep and abiding grief (upon arriving at a fair price) was a charming touch.

I would prefer not being told about how to walk down the street.  I know to keep my hand on my purse, and how to avoid getting run over by random vehicles not following traffic rules.

I really have very little interest in charming outdoor markets with the tomatoes piled in cute towers.  You can tell me where the nice, shiny Western-style establishments are.

I don't need to "take my little boy to see animals, very good price."

We know what chapatis are.  Oh, do we ever know what chapatis are!!

And the absolute clincher: today we were walking around the museum and I was taking some pictures of Emerson, as most people were doing with their children.  At one point he was looking at an exhibit with a couple of little Kenyan children.  As I came closer, their father said something about a picture, which I didn't quite catch, but I apologized for taking a picture of his children, and explained that I had just meant to photo my son.  But that wasn't what he meant.  He lined the kids up and offered them to my camera again, so I could take a picture of Emerson together with his children.

What, so I can have a photo of my little boy along with some black children?  For local flavor?  Um, thanks; I think we have that one covered!!!

Moving Day, #3

We are in a new apartment.  All five of us, including the kitten, who says he (she?) can help me type, since the children are in bed and not much of any kind of help.  It really is a very purr-y kind of thing.

It is one of those days that I just hate Uganda, and hate being stranded here with three children.  So, to focus on the positive: we now have a living room.  And a kitchen, with counters space.  That's about all the positive I can come up with.

We didn't end up moving into the place I had reserved last week.  I spent more time with my erstwhile neighbor, who is an American who has living in Kampala off and on for many years.  She had seen that apartment and a bunch of others in the area, and thought I could get a nicer place for less money.  Which was true.  So we've been looking at apartments for the last three days, in all the random corners of the days not filled with other things.

We called the new landlady to confirm that we wanted this place yesterday morning.  I met with her yesterday evening at her laundromat in Kabalagala.  We were going to meet again this morning to exchange payment and keys and so forth.

I packed in the morning, and waited until a friend could show up to stay with the kids.  But for some reason the lady thought I was coming at 8:30 am (I never would have promised to show up at 8:30 am!), so when I didn't arrive, she went into Kampala instead.  I called and texted her when I was able to leave the house, and she texted that she would call when she got back to Kabalagala, and didn't answer any more of my calls.

So a trip down to get money, copy my ID, pick up the keys, and double-check the house turned into about a five hour errand!  I waited and waited and waited for this lady, and finally she answered a text and said to deal with someone or other else who was at the laundromat.  I am not quite sure why she didn't just say that three hours earlier!  So I dealt with him, who seems to be one of her many sons.  He brought me back to the apartment, and we looked it over together.  This took approximately forever and a day.  Then there was the issue of payment: I said that I wouldn't pay the whole amount unless he gave me an official receipt.  He explained that the receipt book was still being made, and I would get my receipt in a few days.  I said that then he would get his full payment in a few days.  He said they needed the full payment up front.  I said that I was paying upfront, and what I was paying was enough to get them started, but I needed to see something official to make the full payment.  We went around in circles like this, including the mother on the phone, for another forever and a day.  She was a much more insistent argue-er.  Finally she called up HER boss, who apparently owns the place, and he suggested right off the bat that I pay the rest in full when he came to town next week and could write me a receipt.

So anyhow, that is how one starts off thinking that one will pack for a bit, pop down and get the keys around 10 or 11, and yet actually doesn't return home until 5:30 in the afternoon.

Meanwhile, the neighbor had also worked out with her friend with a pickup that he would help me move my stuff over, and they were stuck waiting for me while I didn't have the keys.  ALSO, the landlord of the original place came over the morning and hovered around for a while, and finally started begging and scolding me to move out so he could clean the place and get it ready for the next tenants.  As though I had any choice in the matter!  While I was waiting for the landlady to show up, he texted me several times.  After a couple of hours, he said that if the landlady wasn't showing up, we should just get a new place, which kind of flabbergasted me.  As though making a whole new agreement with some other person could possibly be any faster at that point!

So anyways, I finally got the kids all over here before dark, and they ran around a little bit.  But then it got dark.  And they were hungry.  And the "cooker" is both gas and electric, but the electric didn't have a plug and the gas didn't have a tank.  And there is supposed to be a microwave, which could also make food, but it hasn't arrived yet.  And there is supposed to be an electric kettle, with which I can at least boil water for oatmeal and tea, but that also hasn't arrived yet.  (They are trying to say that they aren't going to provide one, or that I should pay for it, which is ridiculous because EVERY place has an electric kettle.  People live in tiny guard huts barely big enough for their mattress and an electric kettle.)  Meanwhile, we've been trying to eat up our perishable food so we don't have to move it, so we were almost out of bread and yogurt and everything else.  So I kept shuffling through all the random bags, trying to find something that could be eaten without being cooked, and doling out things little bits at a time.  I don't need to tell you what the kids were up to, which is everything, and nothing productive, and involved lots of crying.  Mostly because Hibiscus was hurting people, including herself; she had a spectacularly banging-into-things evening.  Along with the kitchen not having anything in it that actually cooks, there was also the problem of the lights: not much of them.  Half the bulbs haven't been installed yet, the one in the dining room keeps randomly turning itself off and someone has to climb on the table and re-screw it in (someone taller than anyone in our family!), and I couldn't find the switch for the light in the kitchen.  I did finally dig some candles out of our kitchen bags, although I'm sure the children would have much preferred some nice crackers or a rotisserie chicken or something.

We finally got upstairs and towards bed.  Buttercup suddenly came tottering towards me, clutching her privates and wailing "my vu-va is coming! my vu-va is coming!"  I am amused that a child who can't come up with any wider variety of verbs than everything is "coming" knows the correct anatomical name for her private parts!  So she needed to get in the bath, which involved finding bath-ish things, and the older children were going crazy and I ended up screaming at them.  Which I think was not the first time.  AND the landlady's sons showed up to fix the lightbulbs, because apparently 9:30 at night is a perfectly normal time to do business in Uganda.  The one who had brought me up to the house earlier made a vague mention about contracts, but said "I think I will come back in the morning because you are very tired now, you just have a peaceful night."  That was an acute observation.

It was almost ten when I left the children in bed, so it is getting very late now.  I also happen to have a little thing in the corner of my lap, who has tucked in his or her legs so he or she is just a ball of fluff and purr.  I was all out of nice motherly, open-home-ing love, but somehow it's kind of nice to have a little fur-ball around after all.

Progress, the Next Day

Very Early Morning: There was a huge thunderclap in the night, and when the girls woke up it was still so dim out I told them to go back to sleep. Then I looked at the clock and it was well after 7 and time to get up. This morning, it is just plain raining -- usually it drizzles or it pours cats and dogs and then stops, but it has been raining for hours. At least I brought most of my laundry inside last night!  And at some point the kitten must have decided he missed his mother and gone back through the fence.  This will slow down our morning plans. Even if I am ambitious and get out in the rain, the people I need to find probably won't be.

Unfortunately, the only person who was NOT late this morning was the bus driver.  He is late whenever anything happens, such as a leaf dropping off a tree as he passes by, and has never yet been on time when it has been raining.  (Which provides a significant body of evidence.)  So for what I think is the very first time, me and my kids were not actually ready for the bus.  Hibiscus didn't get her juice, and for various reasons was crying.  She is frequently crying about something, so the exact reasoning escapes my mind by now.  Emerson was crying because he left his shoes out in the rain, and didn't want to wear wet shoes.  In this household, when you leave your shoes out in the rain, you wear them and hopefully remember to put them in the next time.  Besides, in this household, each person only has one pair of shoes that can possibly fit each purpose.  Emerson said I ought to buy him a second pair.  So Hibiscus stopped crying, because Emerson was throwing an even bigger fit and I was threatening to carry him down to the bus if he didn't put his shoes on (which I would, so he did).  And it always feels good to be the virtuous one who is doing what Mama asks. Personally, I would be willing to have two virtuous children at the same time...



Household chores, mid-morning: I have a very large pile of laundry that has made it in off the line and needs to be folded, and another very large pile of laundry that has made it through the washer but needs to go on the line, if and when it stops raining.

And I realized why laundry suddenly seems so much more difficult: at the previous apartment, we rigged a clothesline on the covered porch for rainy days. At this place, the porch is much nicer, but not at all clothesline shaped.



Lunchtime: Today I needed to start finding a new apartment and getting ID cards, which I have been diligently doing by sitting around responding to American correspondence and writing blog posts all morning. The apartment manager just dropped by, as I requested by text, thought about it, and realized he knew of a place around the corner we could move to.  He's meeting his cousin later, will speak to the other apartment manager, and drive us over this afternoon or tomorrow, and if that doesn't work out he'll speak to someone else.  Also, he will send the LC official to drop by, who would love to make us all ID cards, and he was obviously very pleased with me for wanting to register properly in the district.

The secret to getting things done in Uganda isn't industriousness, it's knowing the right people and waiting patiently.



Mid-afternoon:  I called the lawyer.  She reports that she had just contacted someone in the judge's office, and the judge was proofreading our guardianship order.  As in, it has already been written.  Hopefully the lawyer will be able to pick it up tomorrow, and with that in hand we can start the next thing!  However, the lawyer doesn't think that the LC officials will make ID cards for children.

Also, I put Buttercup up for a wrap-nap.  She managed to stay lively for a while, but then she faded on my back.  It has been cool all day, even though the rain has faded.  We wore our snuggly kapok wrap and put it in a snuggly carry, and it felt like a lovely snuggle in a lovely blanket with a lovely person.  While making phone calls and folding laundry.  Just one of those moments that is both quotidian, and then you realize how special the quotidian is.


Later in the mid-afternoon: The kids got home, and immediately opened negotiations with the children through the fence, which sounded something like "give us our cat back!"  They did.

The kids are chasing the kitten around, wanting it to climb in boxes, eat something, play with a ball, play with a clothespin, play with a string, come over to them, run behind, and on and on and one. Whenever the kitten does something (or doesn't do something) they jump and squeal and yell. I feel like all this energy would be much better suited to a canine companion.

We happen to have some canine companions with way too much energy, in fact, but they are not available to absorb the kid energy.  Which is really too bad, because they are getting into all kinds of trouble at home.  As in, the home back in Oregon.  Someone at the meeting yesterday asked, half-jokingly, if I was about ready to claim Uganda when people ask where I live.  I think it's about getting to that point, and I'm starting to think of it as "Oregon home" and not just plain old "home."


Dinner time: I am cooking tuna noodle casserole for six; another adopting father and his brother-in-law are coming to join us for dinner.  The children are practically upsidedown with excitement, except for Hibiscus, who actually is upsidedown.

Then our landlord comes back with the LC1 Chairman, who is very pleased to meet me and know that I want to register in the village.  I fill out paperwork for our family, and he shows me the ID cards that he will official-ize for us.  For all of us?  Yes, indeed, for everyone.  I write and occupations on the cards, and the older children hover around and then sign theirs.  I debated what to put for the girls' names, since I know everything has to match and have their Ugandan names.  But neither of them want to be called by their Ugandan names, and Hibiscus hates hers with a passion that would threaten to combust the ID card with the force of her gaze.  I put their American names in front of the Ugandan ones, and that is what Hibiscus signs.  She has completely forgotten how to write her Ugandan name, which I feel like is not a coincidence or a sign of not being able to hold things in her mind.  Now we just have to have ID photos taken, and bring some to the council official tomorrow, along with a fee for the paperwork filing.  I have a feeling that he loves putting the seal on and laminating the cards so they will not get spoiled by the rain, as he carefully describes every step, and how quickly he will get them to me.  That's okay; I'm pretty excited about ID cards too.  Especially with a nice official seal on them.

And the landlord will drive me over to the other place in the morning.



We eat dinner.  It is yummy.  I manage to keep Hibiscus from talking the entire time, and confidentially advise her that when adults are around, the children don't get to talk as much as usual.  Because "usual" means just one of me, and I am not nearly as garrulous as my children.  Either that, or I am more tired.  Anyway, tonight we have an actual conversation.

Also, my husband has worried whether I am sharing too much about the girls' life in these blogs, and that one day they would not want this information bandied about.  I am very cautious about what I write, but apparently I'm the only one.  Hibiscus says something about her birth family, notices that people are listening to her, and barrels like a freight train into all the most dramatic stories she can think of.  Luckily, the conversation moved on before she got too far, but I sense that if her future self wants any information withheld, it had better commune with her present self pretty much immediately.


After dinner Emerson and Hibiscus demonstrated for us the song, poem, and dances that they are practicing at school for their performance on Sunday.  As a performing arts teacher, I thoroughly condone having lots of mini-performances, so I allowed their little dramatic hearts to take center stage.  I am really impressed by how much they know, and that they are clearly being coached very carefully and specifically.  However, I think I will encourage Hibiscus to practice her poem every night from now on!

Then there was some general chaos, and I could speak quietly with the other dad for a few minutes.  Dinner with the rabble had not made him faint of heart, and he still is willing to stay with the girls while Emerson and I leave the country to get new visas.  So we solidified that into something a little bit closer to a plan, although we are both still waiting on all this nebulous paperwork, so the plan will stay vague until we know more.  The only clear plan I have at this point is the kids' school performance on Sunday.  It seems to me that they have been working a lot harder on that, than anything else has been working at all!


And I think the kitten went back home again.

Betrayal

Someone has been stealing from me.  The house has not been broken into, so it is someone that I have trusted.  I don't know who it is, and I have hesitated to write about this lest I cast suspicion on someone who is not the thief.  So, I will clarify that there are a lot of possibilities, and I am not going to add any more details.  I have been doing a lot of work to figure out how it is happening, and I can't figure anything out, so I am left with a vague feeling of distrusting everyone.

Someone is stealing money.  A lot of money.  This is a cash-only society, and the nearest ATM is still a long way away, so I get out a bunch of cash about once a week, although I sometimes go more often and store it when I know a certain expense is coming up.  It has happened several times, and the first couple incidents I wasn't sure if it was my own mis-remembering, but then a couple more incidents have involved a very large amount of money.  Very large even by American standards, let along Ugandan ones.  I thought I had figured out what was going on and accounted for it, but then it just happened again.

As I said, I'm not going to go into any more details about what is happening, but I am going to try and talk about how I personally have been doing.  I feel like I need to write about this, because it has colored so much of my feelings and actions over the last few weeks.  A little while ago, I wrote about how owning the strengths of my personality helped me get through the rough times, but part of exploring ourselves is also owning the dark sides.  I admit that a tragedy like this has brought out my dark sides.

(And for the word "tragedy," I don't think that simply having money taken is a tragedy; we can still eat at the end of the day.  But I do think that having my trust shaken in just about everyone around me, in a country which I am trying to adapt to and at a time when I am already struggling to focus on the positive, is not an exaggeration of "tragedy".)

I'm going to talk about this in terms of my Enneagram type, because that's what I've been thinking about lately, but not to imply that other types would not mind being robbed!

I think part of the problem is that we 9's are unsuspicious.  Someone else might have been paranoid about money from the beginning, and other more worried personalities would probably have figured it out earlier than I did.  I know I'm bad a worrying about logical things, so at home I make rules for myself like "always lock the car door when I get out," even if I'm in the middle of an empty field and not going out of sight of the car.  I'm afraid that if I start to decide that I don't need to lock the car, I'll decide that too often. And 9's like to float through life, and we tend to be detail-oriented about things we care about and let go of details we don't care about, so I kept my money out of sight but didn't make a big deal about securing it or keeping track of exactly how much there was.

9's seek internal and external peace, and we tend to want to find that at least partially by creating a peaceful oasis in our home.  In this chaotic and extroverted African society, my own calm home has been a vital element of maintaining my sanity.  To have the sanctity of my home violated is a really big deal.  Just a really really big deal.

And I've probably dealt with it in the negative 9 way.  I've started getting worried, and going around and around the same thoughts helplessly.  So to escape that cycle, I just bury myself in something else, anything else... except it's pretty much bound to be something unproductive!  It's already been hard for me to be productive around here, with all the practical limitations on me, so with some internal blocks as well I really do make it all the way over to "lazy."  But I just don't have enough energy to get up and do anything else!  My house is an absolute mess right now, for several different reasons (which include but are not actually limited to three small being who inhabit it), and I have just let it be messy around me all day long -- actually, it's probably been several days now.  I know that the messy house is making things worse, but that is somehow not helping me actually do anything about it.

And I also don't have any energy left to to deal with the kids with their internal and external kid-chaos getting home at the end of the day.  I find myself getting frustrated way too quickly when Buttercup pees herself and doesn't tell me, or Emerson starts screaming possessively about his precious stuff, and Hibiscus -- oh my goodness, Hibiscus is just a giant bundle of chaos.  Swinging heavy objects violently and randomly, strange precarious acts on stairs, putting bizarre and delicate objects on her head, and everything at high speed and high volume.  Ideally, my peaceful 9-ness would help balance her out, and she would naturally gravitate a little more towards the middle.  Instead, it has been feeling like she just shatters through whatever was left of my internal peace, leaving behind great gaping holes of non-mother-li-ness.

Why don't I have any energy left?

We read a new little book the other night, about a girl who is excused from doing all the family chores but no one does work for her, either.  I had a strong suspicion from just the first page that it would contain a useful moral for my children!  (We have a Little Miss "Dat not my mess, I no for clean dat one!" at family chore time.)  But not only did the girl in the book decide that it was no fun to have to do all her own jobs, and it makes a family to do chores together, but she also got bored with nothing to do.  Her mother told her that "doing nothing makes you feel like doing nothing."  That could be part of my problem.

But it feels like it's more than that.  This morning, I didn't clean the house, but I did count money and decide where to put my lockbox and my keys and so on and so forth.  I really think that felt like several hours of hard labor, except I didn't have anything to show for it at the end.  On the days when I spent time with my parents, or even our American visitor "Mr Slinky," I didn't feel this leaden exhaustion at night; even on the long days I went to bed more calm instead of drained.  If having conversation and friendly human interaction is in some way fulfilling and energizing, it's just absolutely the opposite to have to look at the people around me and feel defensive and boxed in.  I don't have "best friends" here, but I have people around me with whom I have pleasant interactions and smiles; now everyone in my compound is a potential sneak and thief.

I don't have natural internal walls.  I don't dislike people; I don't distrust people.  Unlike many other types, 9's don't define themselves as strongly by the company they keep; they keep all sorts of company, and see the value in all sorts of people.

But I am one step past being able to forgive, forget, and move on.  I did that once, and then I got robbed again.  (And possibly one more time, although I'm hoping that was just an accounting error... although how I could possibly miscount my money is a little beyond me at this point; la la la la la.....)  Or maybe I'm one step before being able to forgive, forget and move on... I need to be out of here.  The vague feelings of un-safety that have been hovering at the edges of my mental vision have come swooping into center ground: I am not safe.  Someone I thought I knew has been betraying me, repeatedly.  Stealing money is far from the worst thing that could happen to me, I know very well.  But if someone can do that, what else bad could happen?  All the warnings I have gotten from so many directions -- other travelers, locals, friends, random people on the street, ex-pats living here, gossips and worrywarts -- suddenly loom large and real.

Very large.  I am a woman alone in a faraway country where I don't know the language, the customs; where I am spectacularly conspicuous.  I constantly have children with me who are not biologically my own, in a culture which doesn't understand adoption but is full of stories about stealing children for witchcraft.  Ugh.  I just can't write any more about it.

And I don't even have my dogs.  Beloved and territory-defending dogs are a good talisman against feeling afraid in your home!  Or, lacking that, an off-kiilter 9 can curl up with them at night, and feel their silky ears and hear their soft sighs of sleepy contentment, and feel a little bit of centered-ness returning to her.  Those happy-dog sighs!  I forgot how rejuvinating it was to feel like I am making another being so happy.  Even when I'm a terrible mother, my dogs are quick to forgive any sin for a nice good cuddle.

So, that is my emotional story of the last couple of weeks.  I can see the problem, but I don't see a solution that can restore my lost sense of safety.  I can see my own weakness, but I can't figure out the way back on to the road to strength.

Student Led Parent Conferences

Friday was the special day for conferences at The American Montessori School.  I was supposed to put them on the bus as usual, and show up around 11... and I was kind of confused about what that meant.  Apparently it meant it was Student Led Parent-Student Conferences -- how's that for a mouthful?

A little background: the school is very small, with only about 22 students from around 3 years old through first grade, in four classes.  Two of the teachers are a married couple who founded the school, and it is run in their house.  The school is only a few years old, and they are trying to expand to a much larger facility, but right now the small size is a major bonus for me as a parent.  I appreciate getting to interact with the teachers, fewer kids is much less overwhelming for my children, and they get lots of individual attention.  However, it's a striking example of Ugandan use of space vs. what American's would "need."  The whole school is run in one small front room, with bookcases that slightly divide it into two spaces that are each maybe 10 or 12 feet square, the larger front porch, a toilet room, bath-and-sink room, and kitchen.  They also use the yard, which has a natural divide of a small hill, and around the size of a typical suburban backyard.  The equipment comprises a handbuilt play structure with two swings and a climbing rope net, a sandbox, some painted tires half-sunk in the dirt, and a rusty old mini trampoline with three of its legs missing.

I didn't manage to get there until 11:30, and I was still almost the first parent to arrive... and the lead teacher wasn't even back with the materials!  He rented tables to make different stations, but the shop decided not to open very promptly on Friday morning, so he wasn't able to pick up the tables until the event was supposedly underway.  We're on Africa-time!  So Buttercup and I sat on the couches in the covered patio area, and watched the children line up and be a train around the grounds, and then play Mr. Lion, Mr. Lion on the lawn.  Buttercup was eager to join in, but I kept her near me, and we enjoyed watching how the children did.  They enjoyed playing the game, but I could see why Emerson is not excited about going to school by watching his tired face.  The teacher probably spent 10 or 15 minutes getting the children properly organized in a line to move, and then once they finally got going she allowed someone to change their mind about wearing shoes, which meant that half the kids suddenly had to run around and throw their shoes in a pile or move the pile.  The children who had lined up in the "train" properly from the beginning (including both of mine) just stood there looking bored, or started to get poked by their neighbors, which of course meant they had to get in arguments.

After Mr Lion, the children came back and all sat around the sandbox with their feet inside, where they sang songs and eventually the teacher passed out water.  Again, there was a lot of time spent scolding the children and reminding them how to sit and whether to spread out or squash together, while half the children sat there vacantly.  Perhaps they do better in smaller groups when all four teachers are working with the children, but this also had the air of a regular routine that everyone expected.

By that time, the tables were finally set up, and Hibiscus was called over to start my conference.  There were only about three parents there, and a couple more drifted in over the course of the day.  As far as I could tell, most students never had a parent come by to listen to their accomplishments.  It is a huge and striking difference from participating in American schools, where parents will miss work to attend special school events, and at the very worst send a grandparent or babysitter.  This is a special and expensive school attended only by the (upper) middle class, and yet it still seems like a steep uphill battle to get parents to actually be involved in any way!  The conference notes for the parents described the different stations, and had lots of scaffolding help for the parents, such as "use words like 'good try!' and 'nice work!'." I will note that one of the parents there was a father, and all of the parents who attended did seem to be trying hard to be positive and support their children, and genuinely proud of them.

There were three stations for each class: literacy, numeracy, and science.  You can see what is important in Ugandan schooling -- parents want to know their kids are mastering the basics!  There was no information whatsoever about how they were doing socially, or if they could follow directions or be creative.  I think the school does care about those things, and I often talk with the teacher at pick-up time about these issues, but it seemed like they didn't expect parents to be interested.  Since they couldn't even get most of the parents to show up, I can understand why!

Each station had a table set up, with some different activities.  For kindergarten literacy, Hibiscus was supposed to write her first and last name for me, then move on and write small and capital letters when I requested them in different orders, then sound out and read short words that were in cards in a box.  She wrote her American first name beautifully, and then started thinking about our family name, which she has only written a few times.  But my children are not really "sit still and do the activity as directed" kind of kids; they have to keep thinking of something more!  In this case, Hibiscus decided she needed to write "Hibiscus." As the next activity will prove, her spelling skills are way way below the level of a strange word like that, which she still pronounces "Kah-biscuits"!  She didn't want me to tell her, and we spent a few minutes stalling while I tried to convince her how beautiful she had already written the words, and maybe we didn't need to spend all day writing a nickname.  Finally we managed to move on.  When I selected words from the box, she proudly and successfully managed to sound out "at" but could not manage "hat."  She made all the sounds correctly, but struggled to blend them together.  When I compared it to the "at" she had just finished, that confused her; apparently they don't do much rhyming.  Eventually we moved on to writing letters.  At this activity she shone, and her handwriting has become very neat and nicely small.  I do not fail to forget that she has only had this name for a couple of months, and that he is only learning to speak English, let alone write it.

We moved on to numeracy.  She was supposed to point to numbers on a chart when I said a number, between 1 and 100.  She could manage 1-20 fine, but she still hasn't figured out that there is a system to the rest of them, and just counted from "1" to find whatever I named.  Then she was supposed to put marbles (called "glass balls") in my hand to demonstrate her understanding of number values, and she did a great job at this, although sometimes she rushed and slipped an extra ball in!  Then the children are working at addition by going backwards, when they solve a sentence like "6= __+___."  I think this is a great idea for really learning about how numbers fits together, and Hibiscus did a good job when we used the marbles.  She enjoyed making one column full of 4's, by always having a 4 be the second half of her number sentence.

The science table was simply a pile of their drawings, and Hibiscus was supposed to explain her drawing to me.  It sounds like they do a good job of exploratory, hands-on science, although I never would have deduced it by simply listening to Hibiscus's wandering explanation about zebras and apple trees!

And that was Hibiscus's conference!  I gave her praise and kisses, and she glowed.

I had tried to let Buttercup run around, but "around" became the operative word, as she tried to get into everything and pull all the displays down.  Writing with pencils kept her happy for a little while, but then she was needing too much supervision, and I decided to wrap her on my back again.  The older children get very little focused one-on-one parental attention at this point, and I really wanted to treat this like their own special day. So Buttercup went up, and bounced up and down and sang and grabbed everything within reach, and hit me in the head with books, and when I sat on the couch she got her legs under her and jumped around, which totally ruined the wrap job, but still kept herphysically  contained.  There was plenty for her to watch, and I could pretend to almost ignore her, enough at least for the conference-giver to feel listened to!

Then Hibiscus went back into the kitchen, where I guess they were singing songs, and Emerson came out for his conference.  Emerson notes seriously that he is "in two classes," since he goes to first grade for reading.  So we started with reading, and the first activity was to take full sentences of dictation.  The Montessorians maybe have eliminated most of the "copy work" that defines most Ugandan schools, but they still can't seem to get their minds off the stilted learning-to-read vocabulary, and the sentences were full of boys and girls with boxes and balls and trees -- none of which are very logical early phonics words!  However, I was amazed how excited Emerson was to be taking dictation, and how neatly and competently he wrote.  Fine motor and writing skills have always been his great weakness, and his whole life his writing/drawing skills have lagged far behind his comprehension -- until now, apparently!

He was also supposed to read three pages of a book for me.  Emerson is always worried about failure, and would rather not try than attempt something he doesn't feel confident about, so he sorted through the pile of books anxiously, looking for something he already "knew."  Then he read me a whole story.  Emerson has become an amazing reader in the last few weeks!  He reads through many of the children's books we have around, and starts in reading when he wants to know something.  Yesterday he read the entire "Madeline" compilation to Hibiscus -- all six books in a row!  So I was not surprised to hear him read, but it was nice to be able to sit next to him and really concentrate on what he was doing.  Poor kids, we don't get much concentration lately!

At the math table, Emerson breezed through the first activities, so for the addition sentences I added a digit and made the 7 into a 17.  He was fascinated figuring out how to create the bigger numbers, using our mutual fingers.  Then he told me to change the other numbers, too, to make the game more fun.  I saw the teacher giving us some weird looks; I don't know if he disapproved of me changing the activity or had no idea that Emerson could mentally play with double-digit numbers!  I just see no reason for kids to repeat doing things that are not an interesting challenge for them.

After science, Emerson wanted to keep going, so we went back and did more dictation, and then read a new books.  This time, a younger child was interested in one particular book, so Emerson decided to read that one although he didn't "know" it yet.  I was proud of how he allowed his desire to hear the story triumph over his fear of making a mistake!


After that, I was told that I could go home and pick the kids up at the regular time, but I didn't much care for the idea of walking home and then turning around to pick them up again!  So I was invited to eat lunch with the children, and that lunch was almost ready.... which probably involved sitting around very hungrily for half an hour or so!  But the children were obviously very excited and honored to have me eat with them.

Emerson became very distressed, because some of the parents were carrying bags with presents to congratulate their children, and I had not brought any presents.  Something later at home was not acceptable!  So on the way out, we stopped at a nearby little grocery stand, and I got each child a little treat.  They were talking about lollipops, but then Hibiscus wanted a chocolate coin instead, and I was on the verge of getting Buttercup a lollipop before I realized what a terrible idea a lollipop on my back would be! So she got some smartie-like things that needed to be eaten all at once and had no smearing potential whatsoever!  Of course, Emerson's lollipop was going strong long after the girls had finished their treats, and I could see the wheels turning in Hibiscus's head as she contemplated short-term vs long-term treat value!

Contemplating long-term (or rather, something besides immediate) value is really one of the skills I want Hibiscus to be working on, and I am not really that worried about math and blending letters and things.  I want her to learn to not leave her sweater out on the grass and scuff up her shoes, so they are not ruined for later.  So I'm glad that the teachers say things like "she still needs some more positive support in this area, " which is more pleasant than what *I* can manage when she ruins her things!  And I am pleased to arrive after school and see Hibiscus very focused on learning to ride a bike, and Emerson in the sandbox busily making plans with a couple of other boys, making positive friendships.

But I am proud of the skills that they are learning too, and I was proud of how happy they were to show them off to me!

Deal Breakers

Deal Breakers

I have always wanted to move my family to a foreign country for a while and imagined how that might happen.  Now it's turned out that we've kind of accidentally been in Uganda for a long time; long enough that it might be considered a temporary move, and I've thought about figuring out a way to move back again one day, perhaps when the kids are a little older and will be able to understand more and commit more to their long-term memories.  I think that's it's natural to romanticize being in a new place for the first few months, and then to become frustrated with it in the next few months, and eventually reach a greater acceptance of the true strengths and weaknesses.  So I recognize that I was idealistic about things this summer, and I'm currently in a grumpy funk that is probably more about me than about Uganda.

But emotional colors aside, I no longer have any ideals about moving back to Uganda while my children are young.

With better planning and a good project -- and children in a more stable stage of life -- I wouldn't need to be trapped in this feeling of isolation and being stuck that has made the last few months so difficult.  If I knew I were going to be here, and especially if I were involved in an organization, I could make connections and friendships that would be more fulfilling.  I've pretty much gotten over my frustration with cooking, between finding certain stores with certain ingredients and getting accustomed to the local fare.  (Although I would have to run a cheese-importing business!)  I've also gotten used to the transportation and how to get where I need to go, and if I didn't have a toddler who needs to nap, I would feel pretty flexible.  I'm getting used to the local manners and customs, and communicating and being friendly isn't nearly as stressful or tiring as it used to be. Some things are difficult, but I can make a decision to not let them bother me, or compensate in other areas of life -- being an introvert in a social society, lots of noise, different habits of friendship and expectations -- and life is never perfect anyways.

But the bottom line is, I wouldn't want to move back here because of my children.  There are too many expectations in this culture that I don't want my children to learn and internalize, and because the norm is so highly social, it is much harder to to present individual family values than it is in America.  As I see my primary goal at this point in life is giving my children a strong emotional, intellectual, and self-defining foundation, my perspective about living in a different culture is different than it would be for myself.

There's a lot that is positive about how children are treated here.  Children are very beloved, and we are praised (never censured) for being a "big family."   People don't mind kids acting like kids -- waitresses smile about the mess and other patrons laugh off my apologies for the noise.  I appreciate how babies are carried and nursed, and I like seeing daddies involved in caring for their kids, from babies in their arms to older children being lovingly taught the family jobs.  I appreciate the attitude of everyone helping out with the kids, and knowing when I am in my familiar environs, if my kids slip away from me, someone will step up and keep my kids from running out the door or wrecking disaster.  I appreciate that other adults will remind my children to listen to me, and to do their family duty -- often children listen better when hearing a new voice.  I like how easy it is for my children to make friends, and how many adults can engage children thoughtfully and lovingly; every National Forest guide has immediately directed their information at child-level, and even the dance shows have a focus for children.

On the other hand: the shaming, the lying, the threats, and the absolute expectation of conformity.  These negatives are so overwhelming that they are deal-breakers in terms of the foundation I want to give my children.

(I could also add in the beatings and physical punishment, which is highly prevalent here.  I don't include it as a top problem only because it is possible to avoid, as people seem to respect that a white woman doesn't want other people to beat her children.  We have also found a school which generally avoids physical punishment, which is rare.)

I work very hard to teach my children honesty, problem solving, personal responsibility, and kindness.  They receive dozens of examples every day of how to NOT do all these things, and I can't shield them from it.  They ask me questions that I have to answer my telling them that I think their teacher or anther respected adult is just plain wrong, which I hate doing. There is much to respect about these people, and I don't want to undermine their authority; I want my children to have role models.  But when they say "but Teacher said this; why did she lie to me?" what else can I do?  It gets to a point where the only true answer is "that is a lie, and I wish she hadn't said that."

To me, the worst is probably the shaming, because it is so prevalent.  Any kind of undesired behavior is quickly shamed, from jokingly to very publicly.  My children are probably each made fun of at least half a dozen times a day.  When Emerson wants to hold my hand and is afraid of leaving me to get on the bus in the morning, even if he is actually getting on the bus properly, if he shows any emotion about it, the bus driver says things like "you promised me you would be a good boy today," "why are you being so naughty this morning again," "big boys don't cry, are you a little baby?", while the children on the bus eagerly look out to see if they have a victim for their favorite taunts: "is Emerson crying again?", "look at little baby Emerson," "Emerson is being like a girl!" and so forth.  Meanwhile, little Buttercup gets told by the helpful cleaning lady, "you are a bad girl" when she drops something or makes a mess, or if she tries to climb up something and slips down, she is warned to not do it again.  At school, most of the formal discipline strategy is shaming: sitting on a high stool or having to eat with your back to the rest of the class, or otherwise being isolated in a very public way.  In this way, the children are naturally taught to shame each other and make this isolation painful.  It fits in very well with the natural meanness, selfishness, and fearfulness of childhood, and in every case I have seen, the children gleefully take the punishment several steps farther than the adults would have, which is silently condoned by the adult authority.

To my older children, the lying is the worst, probably because they are in a very literal phase of life.    The constant little betrayals and infinitely painful to them, and I see how they work back to make the shamings (and the beatings) more powerful.  Some lies are small and seem insignificant; for instance, for a while we happened to be leaving the school at the same time as the two junior teachers, and we followed the same route for part of the way.  The children were delighted at this special time with their teachers, and the teachers indulged them by holding their hands and admiring their little stories (see above, where I appreciate the natural attention that adults bestow on children).  The children invited their teachers home with them and the teachers agreed, but when our paths diverged they went their own way, to my children's shock and disappointment.  On succeeding days, they still insisted they would come home with us, and even when Hibiscus asked "for real? are you lying me?" they replied "I am not lying you! I visit you today!"  Why, why, why bother?  Why make such a big deal out of saying things that aren't true?

Adults also lie to children to get them to stop crying or calm down.  Apparently there is no cultural tolerance for crying here.  I guess that many Americans don't like to hear a child cry either, and maybe I have an unusual attitude towards it; I find that in most cases, a child whose tantrum is ignored will get over it more quickly than a child who gets a lot of fuss.  After I take normal measures to comfort the child, I leave them alone... but if anyone else is around, they will take over for my "lazy" parenting.  When Emerson was upset about not getting something that he couldn't have, our neighbor offered to take him out for ice cream, or go on a special ice cream outing the next day, and would go into details about the outing until he started to pay attention to her instead of his fuss.  When I took her aside and mentioned quietly that we had plans for the next day or something, she waved me off and said she hadn't the slightest intention of actually taking him to get ice cream.  The first day that the older children went to school, Buttercup became very distressed and wanted to put on her shoes and find them, and started to cry when I let her put on her shoes but said we weren't going to get them, and offered alternate activities.  She wasn't ready to think about doing something else, but as soon as I left her alone, the cleaning lady offered to take her for a walk to go get her baabas.  Buttercup quickly stopped crying and allowed Miss S to pick her up and carry her around.  Miss S took her around for a few minutes, distracting her with looking at pretty flowers and fruit, and then brought her back inside.  The distracting walk was a good idea, but in my opinion it didn't need to start with the several-times repeated promise to go to her baabas' school.

But lying takes a much more sinister turn, as well: lying threats are often used for punishment.  When Hibiscus was acting up around a family friend, he turned on her and said very seriously, "your mama may not beat you, but I will.  Stop that, or I will beat you."  I am quite sure he was bluffing and never would have beaten my child.  One day at school, Emerson had gotten seriously dirty in the sand box -- which I don't mind at all, but I sent him to wash hands at the tap before going home.  One of the teachers saw him, and told him if he got that dirty again, she would take off all his clothes and give him a shower in front of all the other children.  He told me after school the next day that he hadn't played in the sand, because he didn't want to be naked in front of the other children.  When children misbehave at school, they are told that they won't be allowed to come back, or that they will be sent home immediately, by themselves.  Once Emerson was taken outside of the school gates and they closed the gates and locked it on him, telling him that he had to go home by himself.  After he screamed and cried, they "forgave" him and let him back in.  It is apparently a common threat that a bogeyman is going to come get a naughty child and take her away, and parents will put a child outside and call the bogeyman.


All this is made worse, because absolute conformity is expected.  There are not alternate ways to do things; individual expression is not appreciated; emotional expression is not allowed.  Any deviation from the norm is immediately rewarding with shaming and threats.  Because the "rules" are so clear, even little children learn them and are quick to pounce on their peers -- even for behavior that they can't manage properly themselves.  Because everyone is unsuccessful at being perfect, they all have been shamed, and they are all quick to jump on the bandwagon to shame and punish someone else.  Little children might be able to reflect the face of God, but they also have an awful lot of intrinsic selfishness!  In my American society, we are generally of a consensus that children shouldn't hit each other, and we teach them this value very strongly in their first toddler playdates, so by school age it is only very out-of-control children who use violence.  But children naturally want to use their bodies to get what they want, so around here middle-sized children are constantly slapping and kicking the younger ones, and physical altercations are common in play.  They also use all kinds of insults, rude noises, and whatever they instinctively feel will get the biggest reaction.

Thus, crying is unacceptable.  Being clumsy is unacceptable.  Being loud is unacceptable.  Getting dirty is inappropriate.  Feeling shy is inappropriate.  Getting hurt and being upset about it is not allowed.  Disobedience is not allowed, nor is getting out of line or talking in class or dozens of other things.  I don't disagree with all these values -- I don't appreciate disobedience or talking in class, either.  But all the ways of being an object of shame also add up to not wanting to be different in any other way, and I can see that is difficult to be more-than-average smart or more-than-average creative, even those are actually values that are strongly appreciated in this society.



In America, pundits say we have "the mommy wars," with parents diverging strongly and sometimes negatively about issues such as stay-at-home-mothers, homeschooling, cry-it-out, co-sleeping, organic food... the list goes on and on.  Whatever you choose, you can find books and bloggers who argue that it's a terrible choice, and a community of mothers who thinks your way is the only reasonable option.  Here, there are no Mommy Wars.  It's more like Mommy Annihilation.  There is exactly one right way to parent, and if you are trying something else, you are either met with stone-cold silence... or of course the old tactics still work well, and the divergent mommy can be publicly shamed.

The school our children attend is trying to incorporate some more modern methods of teaching and ideas about child development into their curriculum and philosophy.  (I think defining "modern" as somewhere in the last hundred years or so... but when was Maria Montessori? it might be 150.)  So they have some elements of child-directed learning and exploration, the idea of children working at their own pace on what they need to know, and some, um, less painfully out-dated methods of discipline.  And they are trying to involve middle-class parents in their children's education, instead of the parents just turning the children over to nannies and television for the whole day.  I am constantly amazed at how most of the parents, who are paying a high price to send their children to this specialized school, and obviously dote on their children, totally ignore all their advice and outreach.  For instance, the teachers are hoping that the children will have some kind of educational toys as home, such as blocks or coloring books.  They were selling toys like this at the Family Day, to make it easier for parents to get them.  I overheard a teacher warmly and gently trying to convince a parent to get a coloring book along with a toy car she had selected, talking about how it is good for their future writing skills, and fine motor, and so forth.  The parents just shrugged and said their child didn't want to hold a crayon, so why have one in the house, and walked away.  Despite all the special activities and personal calls to become more involved, at the special Student-Led Parent Student Conferences yesterday, probably only a quarter of the children actually had a parent show up over the course of the day.

No one has gone to the trouble of paying me for my advice, so instead of just getting ignored, I am told how to behave properly -- told with varying degrees of overbearingness.  I need to put Buttercup in school.  I shouldn't carry Buttercup, she is old enough to walk.  I should beat Emerson when he runs too far, and I should beat Hibiscus when she throws a fit.  I should do everything for Buttercup if she finds it too hard on the first try.  I should feed them this and not that.  They don't need to go to bed that early.  There is no reason to make them nap or do chores if they don't want to.  Buttercup isn't uncomfortable because black children don't mind being squashed like that.

Sometimes I receive this unending stream of instruction in a polite undertone, such as "if it were mine, I would give that child a good beating" or "here in Uganda, we don't carry our children when they are that age."  These are usually delivered with the head respectfully turned away to avoid potentially negative eye contact, but with clear censure and no possibility of an alternate acceptable opinion.  Sometimes the active public shaming is called into play, such as the woman who followed me around the grocery store.  She declared that if a child could request an apple she was too old to walk, and I didn't immediately unwrap Buttercup; so she followed us around, loudly telling me to "put that child down" repeatedly, so even if I didn't obey, she brought an appropriate amount of attention to my poor parenting practices.  With smaller issues, other adults just "fix" the problems I am not addressing properly; they carry Buttercup over stairs I think she can learn to walk, they give the children the things they are fussing for, they threaten or bribe the children into better behavior, they shame them for getting dirty, they tell them what they can eat for dinner or a treat, they give them candy to silence them, they clean up their messes, they carry their backpacks or fix their shoes or give them extras.  The neighbors, strangers on the street, vendors and storekeepers, the children's teachers, the cleaning lady, family friends... unless we stayed in our house and locked the door, there is no way to avoid all the people who are eager and willing to do the "right" thing for my children, and hopefully teach me how to behave as well.

My practice of helping children to learn to be responsible for themselves in an age-appropriate manner, and take consequences for their actions, is totally unimaginable.  One morning I was sitting across the room from Buttercup, who was trying to put a "blanket" over her dolly because she had chosen a large wrap.  She was getting frustrated, so I showed her how to hold the wrap from the edge, but then gave it back to her and sat back down.  She started yelling at me to come do it, and I calmly told her that she could do it herself and reminded her how.  So she told Miss S to come do it for her, and Miss S promptly obliged.  I stopped her, and told her specifically how I thought Buttercup could learn to do this skill on her own, and I wanted her to be able to figure it out.  Miss S seemed to kind of understand, and she obeyed my direct instruction to not do it for Buttercup.  I would have to repeat this a hundred times a day to be allowed to make my own parenting choices -- except most adults anticipate the confrontation, and work behind my back.


With young children, it matters very little what you say, it matters what you do.  Children learn by imitation, and they are always watching.  So I can talk myself blue about being honest, but they see adults lying over and over again.  I can make an inarguable family policy of "no hurting," but as soon as they leave the house they see people hurting each other and getting their way.  I can read them books and tell stories about children being true to themselves and standing up for each other, but they come home and tell me definitely that boys don't get sad, everyone likes the same things, only babies get scared, and their friends deserved getting punished.  I can set it up so my children figure out what the consequences for their own choices are, but someone will come along and save them from getting cold or having to carry a heavy backpack.  Even the choices I am allowed to make -- like not putting Buttercup in school yet -- my children get to see me ridiculed and scolded for.


Every culture, including our own, has positives and negatives.  I wanted Emerson to get to learn about another culture and go to school with local children; I'm not going to put up a fuss that he is picking up values I don't condone as well as becoming less stuck in his American-thinking.  I wanted to know more about my adopted children's birth culture; I'm not going to be aghast that it's different from mine.  I didn't expect my parenting style to be mirrored or even respected while in a foreign country.  Nor do I think that everything about America is perfect -- far from it!  But Mommy Wars or not, at home I have a lot more freedom to parent my children in the way I think best.

And I think it's about time to be getting home.  And when we come back, it will be for a visit, not another stay of months and months... until my children are old enough to discern their own right from wrong, and stand strong in the face of criticism.

Or at least, not scream "you look like a mon-key!!" when they see a little boy crying.