Just us

Our atmosphere is always changing; new people and job shifts. Though we've lived in Moscow for three plus years, we have lived in the city for only 15 months. We have friends from our old place, our new place, and friends we just discovered somewhere else. I've always been happy to have a small social network, but it seems to grow every month. With each new arrival, I tend to tell myself, "They can find somebody else. They don't need me and I don't need them. I'm good. One of us will just end up leaving anyway." During this time I tend to reiterate the strong connection I already have within my small circle.

But somewhere along the way, too many great people moved in. As a strong advocate of "just us", I have greatly compromised my stance to pursue this variance of wonderful people. There's the guy who rides bikes with my husband. The ladies with whom I study the Bible. There are friends who play our games from home, and friends who appreciate my baking skills. There are parents of my kids' friends, missionary friends, and home-school friends. Not one of them the same. Not one of them superfluous.

I am still an introvert. I get my energy from being alone, but when it's time to be with friends, I'm having a harder time choosing these days. For example, today is Thanksgiving. We always host our missionary friends on the Saturday after, but this year we celebrated with an intimate group today as well. Then we're celebrating with a huge group of Russian friends another week. I have always said Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday so why not celebrate it three times over? It just gives me opportunity to be three times as thankful.

Some of you reading this, I haven't seen face-to-face in years, but you are my friends too. I've heard that one of the most challenging parts of reverse culture shock (moving back to your passport country) is feeling alone and isolated. I need you all. Near, far, new, old. I'm going to need you to make me laugh, reminisce about the old days, and remind me of the adventures on the horizon. In that moment, in your living room or mine, on the phone or skype, I will make every attempt to make you feel special. Like it's just us. Like it's always been.

5 Things I love about Russia

Please know, this idea is stolen from a fellow blogger, but I figured my favorite things are not the same as their favorite things so it can be a completely original text. Let's just dive right in.

Thing 1. The government can put one recycling bin in one park and tell the media they are now recycling savvy. This is an amazing concept. Today I will do one sit up and tell all my friends and neighbors that I exercise. Boom!

Thing 2. There is no first class on the metro or the bus. I've learned how to shove with the best of them, but at the end of the day, the bum who smells like urine or the CEO who smells like body odor and cologne may get the seat. Having a pregnant belly or an infant may also come in handy for star treatment. But for most people, it's an equalizer. We all paid the same rate, we all have the same opportunity to ride like sardines.

Thing 3. No price is final. In any market or kiosk, the price is a suggestion. I can haggle for my produce, scarves, or trinkets by simply walking away uninterested. This action is usually followed by, "Lady! What do you want to pay?" Now that's more like it.

In the reverse aspect, the prices posted in the supermarket already have the tax included so if it's 100 rubles, the cashier will require exactly 100 rubles from me. That makes things a little easier.

Thing 4. Crosswalks and underground walkways. In most places the pedestrian does have the right-of-way if you keep an eye out. For children, they nearly always stop ahead of the dashed lines. I can walk somewhere and never stop moving if I zig-zag between alleys and parking lots as well.

Thing 5. Dairy products. I know that when I leave Russia, I will be pining for some 42% sour cream. Thinking about sour cream made me lose my focus. I think I'm going to go eat a scoop of sour cream.

Go Tigers!

When I was a kid, growing up in Northern California, my Grandma would send us Detroit Tigers paraphernalia to remind us of home. At the time, I had never lived in Michigan. The Detroit Tigers meant nothing to me. My brothers would wear ball caps with the classic "D" on them, and we always rooted for this team (even though we didn't have a television or listen to the games on the radio).

When I was in third grade we finally moved to the Great Lakes State, back to my mom's stomping ground. Every summer, my parents would load us all up in the family Suburban and take us to a Tigers Game. Keep in mind that the Tigers have been pretty terrible through most of my life, (up until last year when they made it to the World Series and got swept 4-nothing, which in my book is still pretty disgraceful). We tell our friends from all over the US that we are Tigers fans even when it's unpopular. That always gets a laugh.

I bring this up because recently I was doing the kids' laundry. This may sound ordinary, but it's not. At my house when you turn eight years old, Happy Birthday---you get to do your own laundry. Sometimes for one reason or another we get behind and I play catch up on a low activity day. As I neatly folded and piled up the never-ending clothes, I realized that each pile had a Detroit Tigers t-shirt on it. How or when I acquired these, I am unsure. But I know that I am slowly tattooing the image of home on each of my kids' hearts. My littlest one moved here when she was three. Now she's almost seven. More of her childhood memories have been made in Moscow than in West Michigan. As we swam in the Mediterranean Sea this week, my older ones reminisced about jumping the waves in Muskegon.

We have a friend here who is from our hometown. She can play Euchre, talk about apple farmers, and knows all the little places only we would know. When my husband wears his ball cap from his high-school team, she smiles. This week she got a care package from a friend who sent her a t-shirt with an outline of Michigan and the simple word "home". For some reason, the image was painfully acute and I nearly cried right there in the hallway. I suppose because it's the Fall and I know there is no more beautiful place in the whole world than Michigan. Honestly, there's nowhere I'd rather be from. Even though I may not end up there, and the likelihood of living there again is pretty slim, it's a special place. My kids often remind me that if I hadn't moved there, I wouldn't have met my husband and they wouldn't exist.

It makes me wonder what token of pride I will take from Moscow. Maybe I will insist that we eat beet and fish salad on New Years. Or maybe I will drive on the shoulder of the road or ride a city bus just for old times' sake. Maybe I will always crowd people in line at McDonalds. Either way, I will always cheer for the Tigers.

Recalculating

It's imperative that I write today. As the wonder of Moscow, and Russia in general, has worn off, my updates have been fewer and further between. Things that impressed me at first just don't seem that spectacular anymore. I always get frowns from cashiers when I don't have the proper change. I always get in trouble with babushkas who think my kids aren't dressed heavily enough. I am used to being pushed around, smelling urine on the train, and carrying several pounds of groceries each week.

We relinquished our car back in August, but on many occasions, my husband would ignore the GPS and tell her he didn't want to go that way. Her official reply was, "recalculating...recalculating." I decided that having a GPS was worthless when the driver had in mind a better route. Which brings me to my newest topic.

We thought we were moving to Virginia. We thought it would be soon. I felt like I could see the flag at the end and hear the GPS happily announcing, "Arriving at destination!" But instead all I can think is that we are recalculating. I'm not prone to lying so I'll tell you outright that I am sad, a little depressed, and deeply disappointed. I am touched by the reaction of my friends here in Moscow who are secretly happy we're staying longer, but empathizing with our frustration. The only thing running through my mind is a fourth winter in Russia.

It doesn't help that we just returned from a trip to the Mediterranean where the sun, beach, and beer were the to-do list each day. In Moscow there isn't any sun from now until February (and only when it's painfully cold) and we didn't have an adequate summer. I do have some fun things coming up like the Marine Ball, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. After that, it looks bleak. Hopefully I'll be surprised by some bends in the road and rediscover the charm of Moscow. Until then, I'll keep driving until the map is back up on the screen.

It looks familiar...

Metro tour; complete! Today the rain made going anywhere fun nearly impossible so we popped 60, one ruble coins into the ticket machine and had an afternoon out. This caused a revelation. If you travel far enough on any one metro line, especially on the less traveled ones outside of the city center, you will start to see duplicates. For example, at the Northwest corner of the city, there is a station almost identical to the one at the Southeast corner. I'm sure most Muscovites don't go outside of their vicinity very often as it's really quite unnecessary. We are, however, shameless foreigners who saw fit to explore the extremities of the outer rim where no man has gone before. Well, nobody we know anyway.

I'm still unsure what I have gained from the experience of seeing and photographing all 180something stations, but the novelty and pride of saying it to newcomers is certainly worth impressed looks. Name me a metro station, any station and I'll tell you the color of the line. It's something like "pick a card, any card."

This sparks the thought of another recent revelation. Perhaps people are made in duplicates as well. At various times and locations I have spotted people who look like somebody I know in the US. I've seen my brother, my sister-in-law, classmates from high-school, celebrities (was that Matt Damon on the metro?), and an RN from my doctor's office. Is there somebody who looks like me running around Europe? If so, does she wear her jeans better?

Also food for thought, we Americans are a melting pot of nationalities, but how is it that I see Russians who look so similar to someone who is an ethnic mutt? Please feel free to comment any scientific or psychological explanations you may have. No matter what, I'm sure the other me hasn't seen all the metro stations in Moscow and that gives me a little bit of satisfaction.

Escort a Pony

For the summer months, we are doing our very best to get off the Embassy compound as much as possible to see friends and this amazing city. But some days we stay put. A good friend of mine arranged a co-op for the summer where we plan group activities and take turns organizing. Each Friday is designed to be an in-Embassy field trip. These tours include the Diplomatic Post Office, the Medical Unit, and other regular offices that seem interesting to the kids. The tours last about thirty minutes and help us all to better appreciate this complex living/working situation.

First up was the groundskeeper. The day of the event, my friend was surprised to receive a phone call from this man requesting access for a pony. Now keep in mind this tour involved naming varieties of trees, explaining the significance of the floral arrangements, and other interesting facts. Who would think of a pony? Pavel would. Here is how the conversation played out.

"I wonder could we get in a pony?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. Can we even get access for a pony?" She replied.

"You can escort person, yes? Maybe one person can escort pony?"

At this point she was trying to stifle the laughter of such an hilarious request. Hilarious or not, a pony would be a good diversion for our hot, bored kids.

Because we knew about the details, the day lingered on endlessly. We passed the groundskeeper in the hallway and he grabbed the kids by the shoulders and encouraged them to come to the tour later. "It will be very fun," he promised. By noon, there was an email announcement sent to the general population so everyone would come out to see his special surprise.

It was nearly 90 degrees that day and at 3:30 in the afternoon, the kids were not entirely impressed with his olive branch design in the flowers, or that the trees in front of our house were half the size ten years ago.

They wanted to get to the good stuff.

Just as we were about to retreat for a water break, up walked a pony, saddled and ready for some fun. The kids quickly lined up to experience this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Watching the kids smiling and giggling was entertaining, but watching Pavel was even better. He leaned up against a trash can with a satisfied look on his face and smiled. Who would out-do a pony?

For the rest of the summer, when we hype the tours inside our Embassy, our kids will ask, "Will there be a pony?" We will disappoint them by responding, "No pony at the Post Office today."

"What about at the Med Unit? Will there be a pony there?"

"No. No pony at the Med Unit."

Well done, Pavel. Well done.

The Circus

Last month my hubby's boss (whose children are all grown) volunteered to take us all to the circus just so he could witness the delight on the kids' faces. In Moscow there is the 'Old Circus' and the 'New Circus'. I'm not sure about the differences, but he suggested we attend 'Old Circus'. In the memories of my childhood, the circus is really no different than the carnival. It comes to town, does a few overpriced shows, and then tears down just as fast as it set up.

This place was different. The permanent building was circular with tiered seating all the way. You could see everything from everywhere. It felt like the show was just for you and you were practically close enough to touch the action. Before the show, they had some animals on display for photo ops. Our host indulged us with a photo with the tiger. The kids were thrilled! There were also dalmatians, elephants, birds, and other circus-y animals. Strangely enough, none of these animals were featured in that evening's show.

Anyway, my personal favorite was the very first act. The lady was an aerialist with a long, curtain-like rope. It was graceful, beautiful and I couldn't help but enjoy looking down the row at my kids' open mouths. The clown show was re-occurring and very funny! I'm pretty sure somewhere in the show they announced that he was from the US. That wasn't surprising since he counted using, one, two, and three, instead of adeen, dva, tree.

When the high-wire act began, I felt ready to be underwhelmed. One guy would walk across the line, then another. When the drummer began a drum-roll, the real action happened. The strongest man had one woman standing atop his head and another standing on his shoulders. Very slowly, they tiptoed across the line. The girls had safety lines, but the enormous man walked simply with his long pole. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I am sure I would never like to watch that live again!

There were horses, hoop-jumping dogs, a pirate clown and some dancing birds, and a live orchestra. I fully expected to simply tolerate the night, but I left thoroughly impressed and pleased.

Easier for Tourists

A few weeks back my hubby and I read a newspaper article that claimed Moscow was trying to improve itself so that it would be easier for tourists. We literally laughed out loud. We have been here long enough to know how to negotiate, navigate, and avoid, but we have not been here long enough to forget how confusing it is at first, especially for a non-Russian speaking foreigner. We read this in April after a long, snowy winter spent mostly indoors.

But Spring has emerged and so have we. It's true. The claims are true. Everywhere I go lately, I feel like shouting "AHA!" when I see something new. For example; the metro system is pretty simple, but with 12 lines of different colors and numbers, it can be confusing at transfer stations. The city has installed brightly colored decals on the floors of the platforms so that as you are walking, you can know which way to head and it's in English.

Also, they have marked the floors where the metro car doors will open so people can line up appropriately. When I say line up, what I mean is shove in.

Secondly, more signs are posted in both Russian and English. One we found at a nearby park with directions to the children's playground, bathrooms, and information.

And bathrooms! What a change. In English we say, "Where is the restroom/bathroom?" In Russian you ask, "Где туалет?" Literally "Where toilet?" More recently, the bathrooms are well labeled in the British manner "WC" for Water-closet, and there are even signs directing you where to find them. And not just squatty potties, but actual toilets. But wait...there's more! Some of these new bathrooms are free! Can you imagine? I said FREE BATHROOMS!

Now I am going to address the metro/bus passes. I may have mentioned previously that the metro fare was 26 rubles. It behooves you to pay exactly 26 rubles or in the case of two rides, 52 rubles. Or in the case of 20 rides, 520 rubles. On the bus it was 28 rubles for one, 56 for two. You get the point. Now, in one EASY pass, you can get 60 rides for metro and/or bus for only 1200 rubles! What? A discount for multiple rides? That's right! One ticket makes each ride only 20 rubles. I can't tell you how enormous this is. I feel like a wealthy oligarch walking around with my 60 ride ticket. Well, actually the wealthy oligarchs are in the fast lane of traffic. Nevermind.

Lastly, I want to add this brief note about wi-fi. What if you're out one day by Catherine the Great's Summer Palace and you're picnicking in the park. What's that? You want free wi-fi? No problem. Here it is. Some metro cars advertise wi-fi, but I don't know about the accuracy of their claims.

I feel like I've got it mastered. Maybe it's time for a new challenge...

Hello Mother, hello Father

If you have been alive long enough, you will remember these catchy commercial lyrics from the 80s. It featured a little girl writing home to tell her parents about camp. More and more lately, I feel like my life is like camp and I will tell you why.

When I was a girl, each summer I saved money, sold consumable food items, and begged so I could go to camp. I went several years in a row and when weekly camp wasn't possible, I went to day camp. I learned the buddy system for the swimming pool, became proficient in the leather-works shop, and saved my quarters to use at the canteen. When I wasn't at camp alone, each summer for one week we went to family camp. We had our own grade appropriate counselors, mom and dad went to hear speakers about improving your family, and the afternoons were filled with beaches and sunshine. We were never rich but I've come to realize that the camp experience tops the charts in my memory bank.

When my husband and I were engaged, we were camp counselors. I became that iconic college student who got little sleep, was always up for a round of four-square, and held kids' hands on the way to the beach. One particular little boy wrote to me years later telling me how special I was to him.

So now we live on the compound in the eternal twilight zone of camp. I'm making relationships that will seal in my heart forever. I can visit the commissary (canteen) and get good ole' American candy any time I want and still use my quarters. If I don't feel like cooking, we walk down to the cafeteria or restaurant and we go swimming as much as possible. There are activities in which to get involved and everything is just a walk away. As my kids and I march to the gate, we often hold hands, swing arms, and sing a camp song.

Obviously I still have my regular duties here, but most of the time it feels like organized fun. The downside to all this fun is that camp usually only lasted a week. I have endured several months of these pumped up activities and family togetherness. I like family togetherness, but lately I really prefer my family. This doesn't mean I don't like yours, it's just that sooner or later, you're going to leave anyway. I'm ready to exchange addresses and pretend like we'll keep in touch. The truth is, it rarely happens. Everyone is well meaning when they say, "We'll see each other again," but we probably won't.

So camp is fun. But somewhere deep in my heart I'm ready to come home, when I figure out exactly where that is.

Moves like Jagger

Last weekend we attended a birthday party for a Russian friend of ours at a restaurant. We casually walked into one of the hippest restaurants in one of the biggest cities in the world. Just past the chic outdoor seating complete with fur blankets, the smell of Georgian food welcomed us inside the door. Once we arrived at our table, our hostess, the guest of honor, greeted us with three kisses on the cheeks and introduced us to her friends. We saw a few of our American colleagues there as well and greeted them. Everyone brought flowers. There was another girl across the room with the same name celebrating her birthday also. The waitress pointed out that the other girl didn't get beautiful or many flowers.

Throughout the evening we shared good conversation, excellent Beluga Vodka, and the iconic khachapuri cheese bread. Hubby ordered his with an over-easy egg in the center. Yum...or not. I stuck with the lamb shish-kebab. Throughout the evening, slightly louder than the sound of joy and friendship was the ever present accordion. I asked for the Russian word for accordion. It is a "akordeon". Anyway, I found myself bobbing my head to the tune and realized the man near the piano was playing "Moves Like Jagger." The only reason I know this song is because I watched an episode of Glee by mistake once and it featured the wheel-chair kid singing this song. I can't get that time back...

Seriously though, where else could you hear a rousing rendition of "Moves Like Jagger" on the accordion? Shortly after that, the waitress brought out complimentary shots. I typically don't care for things of unnatural colors, but those who did taste them determined it was cheap vodka mixed with some sort of peppers or hot sauce. No thank you. One of the Russian guests put her hand up to me and said, "High-Five!" So I obliged. For the next few minutes we taught them all how to high-five. We also taught them not to leave somebody hangin'.

Our hostess ordered cake and a song so somebody asked the accordion player to pipe down for a few minutes. Like most independent musicians, he was sorely disappointed and huffed his way through the maze of tables. We did not hear from him again that evening. Many toasts were offered in both English and Russian, but my favorite was when a female gave a long, long, long explanation in Russian to her friend. She summed it up in English as, "I told her she is a good friend." As the night went on, the restaurant cleared out and we were asked to leave or they would call the police. That was an easy choice.

Outside of the restaurant, we stumbled across two foreigners looking for a pub. One was from France and one from Argentina but since they spoke such excellent English, we invited them along to join our party. We shared some beers, talked about Versailles, and then walked home in heels and moonlight. I'm not sure yet, but I think I like living in the city.

Therapy

MRIs have been analyzed, diagnosis is in, and physical therapy is three days a week. Sometimes when I'm in a group of people I don't know, I purposely throw out the idea that I have to go to "therapy" weekly. I always wonder, are they gutsy enough to ask me what kind of therapy or will they ask my neighbor? Probably the latter. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is I am always excited for a new adventure in Moscow.

Spring is the worst. I know you think I would say winter is the worst, but winter is exactly what it should be. Cold, dark, icy, terrible. It's the long part that never seems to agree with me. I know that spring will arrive after April 15, but the last few weeks of partly cloudy, mushy, whatever have left me completely depressed. That, and the fact that I know it begins the season of people leaving. This will be my third year saying goodbye. It's like being a fifth year senior. All of our class is moving on, yet here we are. Pity party over.

So....therapy. I am so thrilled at the idea of living in the city where I can walk anywhere that I often choose walking over any other form of transportation. The first time I walked to the medical center, it took me 25 minutes. Not bad. However, my brilliant girlfriend mentioned to me, "What about the bus?" Duh! The bus! For two years we lived where a bus wasn't always an option. Now that it is, I often forget about it. Now when I go to the doctor, I walk for five minutes, ride a bus for five minutes, then walk five more. Way less exhausting and much more simple.

The bus costs 28 rubles. Russians prefer exact change. Each day when I go I make sure I have exactly 56 rubles for bus fare. After doing this for a week, the big-wigs of public transit decided to change the rules. Now it's 50 rubles for two rides. It's actually cheaper but I wasn't aware of this change when I handed the driver my carefully counted 28 rubles. He was not impressed.

Once I arrived at the medical center. I made sure to check my coat, put on the blue booties, and check-in with the clerk. The doctor spoke only Russian so her assistant arrived to interpret and walked me down to the physical therapy department. Follow me in your mind: walk down a steep stairway, turn a sharp corner. Watch your head for the low-lying bulkhead marked with a red plastic lid stapled onto it. Turn a sharp right again. Step over a ridiculously high threshold that looks something like a door on a submarine. Now weave and wind through hallways that are littered with full-size locker cabinets sometimes walking sideways to avoid the chairs in front of the doors. And finally, here we are.

Once inside, physical therapy happens. I've successfully mastered the Russian words for pain, discomfort, and feeling better. Other than that, there isn't much to tell you about except that if you haven't had electro-therapy, you should try it.

Once I leave, I head back to the bus to go home. Yesterday the bus was hailed by a traffic cop. We stopped behind him and sat there for longer than usual. After he was finished with citing another car, he hopped on the bus. So I guess public servants ride the bus for free. No squabbles about 28 rubles for him.

Please remove your pants....while I watch.

I'm not feeling well. It stinks. Usually I am the caretaker. I don't get days off. I don't get sick leave. But I always get a good story out of hospitals.

Yesterday a car picked me up to take me to the European Medical center. They call it European because it bills you in Euros. Other than that, I'm not so sure.

When I arrived, the receptionist took my passport, insurance card, and asked me fill out forms. Of course I had to bring my coat to the coat check and put blue, protective booties over my shoes. Seemed pretty typical. Then she walked me to the appropriate wing and asked me to be seated.

A few minutes later, a doctor came out and called, "Mrs. Gawdy?" I responded. For the rest of the day, my last name was Gawdy. It's not worth the trouble of correcting her. I've learned that lesson a time or two. At Starbucks I tell them my name is Tanya. Once we were in the room, the doctor asked about my medical history and my current symptoms.

She then asked me to remove my pants. She motioned to a privacy screen where I could modestly undress. I was then instructed to lay on the table in the room, pantsless. What was the point of the privacy screen if I had to walk out in the open without pants anyway? After a thorough exam of my lower extremities, I was told to return to the "privacy" screen, put my pants back on, and remove all tops.

I removed all of my upper layers and proceeded to lay on the table in the center of the room topless. No blanket, no gown, but booties on my shoes. I laid on my back. That was not sufficient. Have you ever seen someone prep a model for a photo shoot? They fix the hair, the makeup, adjust the breasts if necessary, and strike a pose. That was me. With one arm under my head and the other on my hip, I tried to imagine myself as a centerfold for some great magazine instead of in this terrible, sterile, cold building with a cardiologist and a privacy screen.

During the exam, someone knocked on the door. The doctor invited her colleague in, he declined. Instead, the two doctors stood in the doorway, door wide open, while people (other patients) walked past us in the hallway. Did I mention I was topless?

The doctor finished the exam and asked to me to redress. As I did so, she flung open the privacy shade and talked to me, face to face, about my perceived conditions and future course of action. I tried to be attentive to her and the buttons on my sweater.

She referred me to a neurologist where I went today. During the consult he was completely professional, however, there was no privacy screen in this room. I was instructed to remove my pants again. It's always easier the second time. He sat patiently in his chair and waited...watching. How weird is that? I guess I wasn't thinking about my choice of panties when I got dressed this morning.

Best part about all of this: I have to pay them.

Unpacking to Pack

I wrote this post earlier, but I thought I should finally publish it. Sorry for the delay.

We moved. It's new and different in the city. It's new and different living within the confines of American soil in Moscow. I will give you some comparisons to give you an idea of the changes.

Old house: 3 bedrooms, 2.5 baths, fireplace, classroom in the dining room, make-shift storage shelving in every nook and cranny, 2 stall garage, main floor, single entrance, long commute. Number 3 wrote this note in chalk on our front step.

New house: 5 bedrooms, 4.5 baths, classroom upstairs, closet space we still haven't managed to fill, no garage, upper floor (16 steps per level: 32 total to go to my room), quad-style entrance, no commute

The view from our old house was trees, a lake, and a wide yard. Our view here is the Russian White house and Hotel Ukraine. For two whole years, we didn't have neighbors in the unit next to us. Now we share a quad with three other families. We can hear the kids next door running down the stairs and their mothers shouting at them to close the door.

Number 2 already made friends with nearly every kid on compound. I have barely seen his face inside our door since we arrived. Number 1 is blissfully enjoying the freedom and privacy of her own room for the very first time. She stays up too late each night reading. I can't complain.

Since we unpacked our house, I have been back to the US twice and we will all be there again in March. But it's okay. We've got a place to come back to with no boxes.

Back-up, back-up, back-up!

Number 1 had a birthday this week. Like every good parent, we took pictures of the face before the cake, blowing out the candles, and the smiles when she took a bite of her favorite homemade French Silk Pie. She is eleven. She borrows my shoes, earrings, and asks me why all the boys in this area like her so much. I wonder to myself, "when did this happen?" (stay with me...this post is actually about data recovery.)

Back-up.

Eleven years ago I was a twenty year-old with a newborn. We still took pictures with film cameras and got them developed at the local pharmacy. If you lost the photos, no biggie. Just take the negatives back to the store and have them re-developed. Data is a little more tricky.

Recently my husband and I had a miscommunication. Shocking, I know, but it sometimes happens. We have been the owners of a very nice digital camera for a few years now. I thought he said he did back up the photos but he actually said he intended to. It wasn't until the drive crashed that we realized there was not a second copy. To my friends, especially you, I know you are shaking your head at me. It wasn't me. For heaven's sakes, I am homeschooling, cooking, and successfully keeping six people alive and going. Photos are not my department.

I was kind of sad when I realized that our trips to Hawaii, Paris, New York, Washington DC, and our lives in Moscow were on that drive as well as important mile markers in our kids' lives.

We brought the external hard-drive to many of our intelligent, high-tech friends who make nerdy jokes that I didn't really understand. Anyway, one of the local geeks we know recommended a company he read about in Wired magazine. Who even reads that?

So we called up Drive Savers and they gave us the protocol involved for sending our drive. We didn't have to pay any fees or commit to anything. They would wait to see if they could fix it before charging us a dime. Who does that? They called every couple of weeks to update us on the recovery process.

Good news! Today we received our drive via FedEx. It contained 12,943 photos beginning in 2006. As I copied them onto our PC, I literally watched six years of my life flash before my eyes. I had forgotten about my trip to Florida with my best friend in 2008, Hubby's trip to New York to see Old Yankees Stadium, how beautiful Sacre Coeur gleamed in the sunset, and how much my kids have actually grown. Thank you Drive Savers. Thank you Wired.

So friends, this is a commercial. Back-up your stuff. Make CDs. Load them to an online archive, because believe me, it would have been a lot easier than paying $891. And trust me, those little people in your house won't be small forever.