Glory Ho

Dear Scarlett,

Every day you drink my breastmilk and your such a good eater. I want to look down and say: Augustus! Save some for later! But you keep on sucking and slurping it up. It’s this sweet, warm, magic substance that has everything you need to grow—you’d think the Oompa Loompa’s had a hand in the whole thing.

When I come into the room, you find me. Your eyes track me, your neck cranes to see me. They don’t exactly trace me in a smooth line, but rather, jump and dart like someone who’s had a little too much rum. Daddy says the hierarchy goes like this: Mommy, fan, him.

Sometimes the wise women in my life, the ones who embraced you in my womb, come over to witness your little life taking shape. They inhale the smell of your little baby head and breathe that sweet goodness out into the world as though they’ve been given a whole tank of oxygen.

Every week, we go to Baby and Me with the big kids and you fall asleep on my shoulder, your arms flipped over your head. We sing Mr. Noah Had a Boat to the tune of Old McDonald. Everyone says you are “petite” and just such a pretty baby. Mommy learns new words like “tummy time” and “acid reflux” and realizes that no one has figured out a graceful way to carry the carseat.

And speaking of the car seat, It is clear that you are not yet friends with it yet. So I reach my  arm around and rock the bucket and sing and pump the breaks at the corner of Iowa and Logan and turn on George Strait or Amy Correia. And sometimes its in the Old Navy dressing room where you lose it, just as I’m trying to find a pear of jeans that fit, and other times it is in that stop-light-strewn stretch between City Floral and Compass Bank and then there was that time in the Walgreens parking lot when I was trying desperately to find the correct dosage for infant tylenol as you cried and cried, ripping open the box only to find that they tell you to consult a doctor for anyone under six months.

Panic? Well, yes, there’s been a tiny bit of panic. And projectile vomit.  And oh when the poop slides up your back–that’s a doozy of a day. But there are moments of celebration, too. Like the moment you first grinned at me or the day I found out that Jimmy Johns had a drive-through or the moment Daddy and I realized that the song Baby Girl had a whole new meaning.

And sprinkled like sugar are the sweet secrets just between us. I tell you how much I love you and show you the window at Five Green Boxes and put on your little leg warmers and sing Sweet Child of Mine to you. . .you and your Sponge Bob Square Face and the little bald spot at the back of your head and the way your fingers feel soft like sushi and the relief in your art-pencil-sketched eyes when I lift you into my arms.

Love,
Mommy

In the early days of my pregnancy, I read Loving Frank, historical fiction which details the affair between architect Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick, a feminist at the turn of the century. It was magnificent. Everything I devour. A story with some truth. Real people from the past. Womanhood. Choices. Tragedy. Bits of my local Boulder. But most of all, it was a follow up feminist meets motherhood tale.

Growing up, I always thought I would be a Mom. Wasn’t that what women did? At the time, there were no childless couples in my small world. Kate Chopin’s The Awakening stirred my senses a bit in college. The heroine had children, but she dared to be as interested in her own passions as she was in them, and that was considered a scandal. Her conclusion was important. She said: I would die for my children, but I would not give my life for my children. This seemed to say that it was possible to have kids and maintain your self, too. I ran that by my Mom once as we were driving along I-80. She agreed wholeheartedly. And I was relieved.

As I evolved through my 20s, I always felt that feminism didn’t really work for me–couldn’t I be a good Mom AND my own person (with possibly a career) too? Why did feminism have to bash motherhood and why did motherhood have to bash feminism? Why was everyone so extreme? But this was the 90s, when a career just seemed like a good idea. I had yet to evolve.

From there, I began to settle into life, becoming enthralled with various pursuits–triathlons, non-profit volunteerism, book clubs, local feminism history, my own business and Buddhism.  I became so interested in life, that I realized I would fill it up–even without kids. It was strange to consider, but the notion eventually sounded normal instead of neanderthal. I met people without kids. And I liked them. I hadn’t made any decisions, but I realized that I had a choice. My mother, afraid to pressure me, encouraged me to do what was right for me. “Maybe you guys won’t have kids. That’s fine, too.”

Then we left the country. The idea of kids hovered overhead, sometimes part of the smog we inevitably breathed, other times, the very stars we wished we could see. We talked endlessly about future plans because that’s what you do in the Peace Corps. Would we live in DC and work for the campaigns? Teach English in Korea? Spend time in India? Move back into our house on Emerson?

It was such a paradox. We KNEW we wanted kids, but they were always the leftover screw after you thought you’d successfully put together the $99 entertainment center from Target. Where did they fit? But at that time, any ideas about home were far too surreal for concrete plans and we knew nothing could really happen until we were within a two mile radius of a Walgreens anyway. We’d successfully put it off again.

But Wanderlust or Bust opened portals to worlds we’d never even pondered. And although deep down, I knew the answer, there was a shift in my thought pattern that took me from “generally agreeable” to “ready”.

At first, I thought it was when a sick, sixteen month old Ugandan baby called Innocent fell asleep against my chest when we were living in a thatch-roof hut in West-Central UgandaLake Nkuruba teaching daily Social Studies classes and evening computer classes to orphans. But that’s not right. It was a week or so later, when we visited Sarah Burke, a Peace Corps volunteer. She was young, with naturally curly blonde hair, a subscription to Sun and a very optimistic aura. I was taking in her modest African bedroom–you know, the predictable photo of girlfriends gathered on the beach, demonstrating their loyalty through linked arms and tilted head smiles. And instead of reminding me of my own college memories, I instinctively thought: I hope our daughter one day has a bulletin board filled with the celebration of good friends and good times. I was thinking about a daughter I would one day have. I was instinctively projecting my own hopes onto someone other than myself. And I wasn’t pregnant.

That was the hour I first believed. The hour I first knew for sure, that I wanted to create a new life. Creation, no matter what you’re working with, is what life’s all about anyway. Right Brent?

We’ve been back for over four months now. Before we left, we met with Returned Peace Corps Volunteers and asked them questions about readjustment back in the States. One girl said:

“I don’t see what the big deal is. Everything here is easy and convenient. It’s a life you’ve known for years.”

Overall, she’s right. But there are a few things which surprised me.

Friends Close, Strangers Closer (so this is a long story, but its important)
On the first day of my new contracting gig, a member of my soon-to-be team was assigned to show me around. Let me say that this person is a very, very nice indivdual. I would call her both kind and sensitive. Which is why I can say with such certainty that her actions that morning were driven not from a poor decision or a personality flaw, but directly from American culture.

She asked me if I wanted to go down to the cafeteria in about an hour. I said yes. In the cafeteria, we separated, choosing our meals. When finished, I looked everywhere for her, but no luck. Eventually, I sat at one of the tables and ate by myself, assuming she’d had to run upstairs or perhaps was chatting with a friend. After about 10 minutes, she approached my table, but didn’t sit down.

She said with an apologetic smile: “Oh, I’m so sorry I lost you. You don’t have a badge to get back up.”

At that moment, I realized that she never had any intention of eating lunch with me. Even though it was my first day. Taking half an hour to get to know me or answer my questions just didn’t fit into her schedule.  Even though our office is a fairly laid back place. This just isn’t what Americans do.

Gluttony
One of my primary questions to the universe upon arriving home, which I whispered at random intervals into the no one in particular, was:  “How did I find justification for the purchase of so many scarves/purses/make-up bags/flip-flops/hoodies/?” It seemed that instead of one of everything, I had seven or eight of everything. And as I’ve tipped over boxes, dismantled temporary wardrobes and discovered the importance, a little too late, of airtight garment bags, everything we’d lived without for three years, I found duplicates of so many other things too: hair gel, spoon rests, hot-roller sets, spatulas, throw pillows.

The Spices of Life (Plural)
Do you get it? Do you realize how many choices we have? That there are 29 varieties of rice to choose from in Aisle 9? That milk comes in 18 different styles? That we’re the ONLY place on earth with such options? When Boudreaux and I entered a Jamba Juice on our first day in the United States, we looked at the menu, looked at each other and walked out. It was just too overwhelming. Since then, I have felt similarly about the menu at CPK and just about every other restaurant but Jimmy John’s.

Trampoline Effect
Remember bouncing through the air on that blue-rimmed, silver-banana-curl-spring thing for a few minutes and then jumping onto the backyard grass? At that moment, your physical being is jolted to a stagnant reality, you feel electric currents zigzaging up your shins and inertia keeps your mind in motion.  We’ve been on a trampoline for three years. The whole time, a small voice kept explaining: Oh there’s a ground Monty, you just want me to think there aint no ground. But we just found the ground. It’s called America. Everything is still. Predictable. How else can I explain why it seems odd that when I come home at night, my Arizona Iced Tea bottle is exactly where I left it and my socks are still in the same drawer it was in last week?

Other Random Observations

Priceless: Sitting around chatting with tortilla chips and Coronas and effortless communication.

Annoying: The fact that I cannot buy birth control without a prescription.

Bizarre: The idea that four way stops totally work. I mean people pay attention so they have an idea when to go.

Expensive: Um, healthcare. Sugar snap peas. Almonds. Avocados. Anything at the mall!

Neurotic: All the planning Americans do.

Amazingly Comfortable: Our bed and our comforter.

On the Possibility for Change
I am changed. It’s clearer now than ever. To think I made progress in Bulgaria. Ha! To think I could have gone on in this life without the last three years of self evolution is a what I now term a close call. I might even say it was a near-death experience. I could have stayed here. Continued to find the red suede pumps I’d been looking for. Continued cursing traffic, customer service agents and checkout lines when they did not cater to me, me, me. Continued to hold grudges for lateness and inefficiences. To have been nervous about the salad I brought to the latest in-law gathering. (Shoud have I used ruby reds instead of spinach? Surely i overdid it on the vinegar.  And this inappropriate salad bowl!)

But thank God, thank the universe, thank anyone and anything, that i didn’t.

I noticed something when i was in London this past July.

For years, when traveling, I’d always hoped to find a face I knew. An old advertising professor in the Frankfurt airport. A kindergarten classmate on the Spanish Steps. I’d think of something clever to say, we’d chat briefly and then part, both lost again in the metropolitan common collage of expectations and emotions, backpacks and cobblestones.

But last time I was in London, not so. As we walked the Thames riverfront, fascinated by starving artist’s faces in the sand and perusing the used book market, (where I bought Veronica Decides to Die) I saw bits of everyone I know in others. That woman in the pea coat and paisley scarf-the soft cushion of her chin and nose reminds me a little bit of my Aunt Beth. That man there, he walks just like Dustin–with such urgency. The tanned shoulder of a Swiss tourist–it’s the exact shade of my Mother’s skin. A shade of coffee sprinkled with melting snow.

Instead of wishing it was them, I was simply glad to be reminded of them. I was appreciating what was there, intangibly on my table. A memory. A glimpse. A moment.

The feeling hit me again, from a different angle, in Mexico.

We were wandering the avenue, now overrun with high prices (is that pesos?) suburban mall windchimes, tequila trinkets and beaded belts that would look beautiful hanging in my closet for the next ten years. I was seriously considering some purple earring made of palm fronds when an art gallery caught our eye. My first thought: But we can’t buy anything. It’s just not in our budget right now. So why go in?

Why, to appreciate the art of course.

And so we did.

Months ago, on our way to the “cotton castle”, in Pamukalle, Turkey, we were beckoned inside a home by a squat women, let’s call her Helga, with chapped hands and a ruthless expression of hospitality. It was something we’d seen before.

Come, come, it said. Take off your shoes, it insisted. Have some tea, it offered. Buy something completely useless to weigh down your backpack. It’s Turkish tradition.

And so we did.

“I always thought that as I got older, I would have more people around me,” said Brenda in an old Six Feet Under episode. “But it’s just the opposite. We’re just focused more inward, get more honed into ourselves.

She’s so right.

While I certainly know more people as my rings slide down the banisters of life, peeling away so much paint as I go, I’ve gotten much pickier about who I spend an evening with. I’m more accepting, but less interested. Less judgmental, but more discriminatory.

I’ve spent more time inside my own being and I like it better there all the time.

Perhaps we all get addicted to our own rhythms. Who we really are. What we value. What we don’t. We get to know ourselves best.

Instinctively, I am sad. Like Brenda, I, too, anticipated connecting with others as I aged. But lately, I’ve grown to like it.

I’ve always been one of those annoying people who follow through. I call people back. I complete the course. I finish my taxes on time. In fact, discovering that the world was full of people who tended to flake was incredibly annoying. But as I learned in my business, it also meant I got credit, undeserved in my opinion, for simply doing what I said I was going to do.

When first initiated into the Peace Corps dimension, Boudreaux and I were surprised to learn that on average, 30% of all volunteers did not make it through the twenty-seven months. Peace Corps seemed like a serious commitment. It was a pledge to the United States Government. While it was nothing like the military, I think deep down, I romantically assumed that failing to finish would result in some kind of dishonorable discharge.

But at Pre Service Training, our country director told our class of 50 that 16 of us wouldn’t be here at the end. There was no promotional speech to stay the full term. No warnings against quitting. No threats. This was not a job. It was a volunteer position. If someone didn’t want to be here, they were no longer an asset to the host country or this United States government organization. Also, our pay was pro-rated. While quitting early would jip you of non-competitive status for future government jobs and exclude graduate school Peace Corps program participation, there was no tangible loss. Nothing, that is, except your honor.

Throughout our service, over cheap wine, Indian food and chocolate chip cookies, between illegally downloaded episodes of SouthPark, Lost and Grey’s Anatomy, we would gather with other volunteers to place bets about who we thought would crack. We shared news about who had officially thrown in the Bulgarian towel. But in addition to ET  (Early Termination) discussions, we spent plenty of time complaining about our host country. We knew why people wanted to leave. We even pretended that we considered leaving ourselves. But I think for most of that group, (G, M, T, T and us) it was never truly an option. We were happy enough to stay. Plus, we’d been raised to make the best of our situation, finish what we’d started and keep an eye on our resume.

So when people quit, our respect for them inevitably dropped a notch.

Sometimes it’s a brutal process to pry the lessons of childhood from my head. Too often, I need a crowbar. But at some point, we’re old enough to practice discretion. I used to finish every book I read. Just, you know, to finish it. Now I feel life is too short to read a book I don’t find delicious.

So toward the end, I began to question the value of spending a year of your life somewhere you knew you didn’t want to be.

While Boudreaux and I were fortunate enough to have a credible site placement, a comfortable apartment and each other, not everyone was.

Sometimes the hardest thing in life isn’t doing what you want but deciding what you want. So I guess I’ve changed my mind.

If a year in Peace Corps had helped someone come closer to determining their life’s path, (and they knew Bulgaria had nothing to do with it) then hey, that’s their journey. Good for them.

I am depleted. I don’t know how to address the next room or meal or shower or person or bus or price. I am tired. Of my hairy legs and bug bites and greasy hair. Of dust. Of crazy drivers. Of the children at the window. Of rearranging my backpack. Of conserving toothpaste and treating water and feeling the plastic malaria pill on my tongue. Of all these bug bites—it doesn’t matter what I wear or what I spray or how secure my mosquito net is, my body is a buffet. I am tired of the exhaustive communication. Nobody understands what I want for breakfast. Nobody brings the right thing. I just want to sit down to pee. To wear clean clothes. To have electricity every hour of the day.

When you see a brightly-clad woman with a baby on her back and a bush of plantains on her head walking down the road and it doesn’t fascinate you anymore, you know you’re done.

But our ambition is having a hard time letting go.

I mean, if you’re given your favorite kind of pie (Grandma’s cherry, in my case) and told you can’t have it again for another three years, should you take piece after piece until it makes you sick? Just because you won’t get to have it for a whole ‘nother year?

No. And so you see, it’s time to go home. No matter when we get to have cherry pie again—in two years or twenty—we have had enough.

At the market that morning, there was nothing special for sale. It was Goodwill in the shape of a shoe horn along the lake. Fourth-hand dresses and Old Navy sweatshirts and shiny department store shoes minus the box on blankets. Frowning vendors sold tough-skinned tomatoes. Very occasionally a car would roll by entirely too fast and send dust into everyone’s eyes and nostrils. At the waterside were uneven rows–dozens of faded blue, green and magenta dug out canoes atop Lake Bunyonyi. It was part of everyone’s commute. They sat parked, empty, humming to themselves between the reeds and up against the shore. The rafia once wound tightly around their owner’s goods had now fallen away creating an accidental crow’s nest in each cradled space.

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