Arriving in Suburbia

It's nearly Christmas. We've been back in the US for a year. We've passed another round of birthdays and made new friends. But big things are still happening.

Number 1 got braces. After years of recommendations and months of consults, we paid the fees, got the x-rays, and took the jump. For my almost 13 year-old it means monthly visits, no more popcorn, and a common bond among middle-schoolers.

Number 2 is turning 12 on Christmas. Our small-ish apartment is in boxes so having several of his robust buddies over to celebrate isn't really appealing. Which leads me to another first; Laser Tag birthday party. I don't throw my kids parties. It's just a thing. That's something "other" moms do. With one kid born near Thanksgiving, one on Christmas, and one after the New Year, the timing never seemed appropriate. But, for goodness sake, he's 12...in America. Laser Tag it is. Pizza, soda, games, the works. I just show up and pay.

Number 3 is the first kid in our family to be involved with the Christmas Eve Service at church. The whole month of December has been filled with rehearsals, costume preparation, and reminder emails. She is an innkeeper. She sweeps, shakes her head at the Holy Family, then points and directs them to another inn. My total commitment; 10 hours. Total payout; 2 minutes on stage and the knowledge that for just a moment, she was doing something really special all by herself.

Number 4 has been frolicking in tutus her whole life. In a flurry of events, she is finally in a proper ballet class. Each week she tip-toes away to class while I sit in the waiting room with other moms. It's all new for me.

When we move in a couple of weeks, we will live in a neighborhood, a distance away from the fourth floor of an apartment complex with a parking garage. We will utilize the backyard, the sidewalks, and the super-close commute to church and activities. For years when I was overseas, my state-side friends would groan about their duties as chauffeurs. I'm not doing too much of that, but I'm starting to realize why life in America is good. We can do anything.

Or equally...not do anything, which is sometimes good for me as well.

Moving in the Right Direction

We are on the move again. In April we will celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary. We will also move for the 8th time. As Granny puts it, "At least you won't become hoarders!" I know some of you may be asking, "Why do they do this to themselves?" Allow me to explain.

As parents, we are constantly analyzing whether we are the reason for future therapy for our kids. We wonder if we're wrecking them or if we are ever doing enough to help them succeed. Every time I sell a bed, discard an old toy, or repaint a wall back to builder beige, I wonder if I am causing my kids irreparable damage. I think not. Through our nomad lifestyle, our kids are always allowed to save their own special belongings, but they truly aren't that attached to their stuff.

We've tried to impress upon our family that household goods are just things. Memories with loved ones, vacations to exotic places, and enriching experiences can't be wrapped in paper and saved in a box anyway. The truth is, nothing REALLY belongs to us anyway --- except underwear. Underwear is definitely yours.

I've asked myself many times what lies in the future for our gypsy family. I've asked my kids about their future goals. Their top answers; mission work, the Marines, a flight attendant, a teacher, and any number of other professions that aren't limited by a specific location. Was this all part of the plan? Are these moves about my ambitions, career goals, or desires...or is it something bigger?

So why do we keep moving?

The honest answer? The truest thing I can tell you...God only knows. No, really, I'm sure he does. When I'm looking back at my life, I'm confident I'll have a better answer, but for now, I just wait patiently for the itinerary. When he lets me in on the next location, I'll be sure to let you know.

The Rebound

Last year at this time, my husband and I were planning the biggest Thanksgiving we would ever host. It wasn't for extended family. It was for 50 Russian orphans and their caretakers. They are not babies, like you would think, or even toddlers. They are funny, excitable, sometimes brooding teenagers. We had built a relationship with them during our time in Moscow and they had hosted us many times at their home and school. They had served us Borscht and Shashlik and proudly showed off their artwork and handcrafts. It was our turn to show them some American fun. We played games, laughed, and ate pumpkin pie. We joined with so many dear friends who donated food, energy, and time to create a memorable day.





During that time, my house was in boxes as we prepared to leave Moscow.

Now here I am, nearly a year later, in Washington DC. It doesn't always feel like home. Some days I walk outside my door and face all the exercise-clothes clad twenty-somethings or ride the bus with the military somebodies headed to the Pentagon. It doesn't feel like mine. It doesn't feel like I fit in.

But the real tell, that time when I know I'm exactly where I should be, is when I am able to serve others. Last weekend I went with my 12 year old daughter to feed the homeless. This wasn't like a soup kitchen where I stand across the counter with a ladle and they shuffle through the line. We drove my mini-van downtown at 5 AM to bring sack lunches and coffee to the needy. Our guide knew most of them by name. We stopped under bridges, near park benches, all along the National Mall, and near bus-stops. We found lots of people sleeping on the grates. Sometimes we found them under construction tarps or wrapped in garbage bags to keep out the biting wind. They almost always had a warm word of thanks after reaching out their humble hands.

Of course my heart was filled with pride as my daughter served. This has always been her scene. The picture below is on her 8th birthday when she served from a food truck in 20-degree weather. She didn't want a cake or a party, just to serve others.




My kids are always inspiring me to serve others. Sometimes I don't know where to look. This time, it was behind the steering wheel of my van where I saw my town, up close and personal. The nitty-gritty. The unlovely.

In different seasons of my life, I've been the needy. I haven't had much to offer anybody during times of challenge or pain. I'm thankful for these chances to reach out. I'm thankful there is a little bit extra to go around. I'm thankful for the rebound.

My Major League Summer

I love baseball. I loved it when my grandma would send us Detroit Tiger's t-shirts from Michigan when I was growing up in California. I loved it when my brother had posters of Californian teams on his walls and my dad would tell us stories about playing as a kid and being called Little Willie Mays. I started loving it more when I would stroll past my teenage boyfriend's practice just to sit and watch him a bit. Seventeen years later and hundreds of games later, I will watch baseball with that guy anywhere.

When we were in Russia, baseball was pretty hard to come by. Every March we would all feel a lonesome sadness for what should be the beginning of the greatest American pastime. In 2012 when our beloved Tigers were in the World Series we couldn't seem to get the games to stream right. We missed most of it.

But we're back. We aggressively set out to make up for lost time. In April, my sweetheart whisked me off to Seattle for a long weekend and surprised me with tickets to the season opener at Safeco Field to watch the Mariners. It was raining. I loved every minute.



In May, we took our whole family to Camden Yards in Baltimore for an Orioles game. Actually, the Tigers were playing so we went to watch them. It was amazing. Our kids have sun-bathed in the Mediterranean and seen the Eiffel Tower, but the awe on their sweet faces when they entered the park was ten times more exciting.



For the June, July, and August, we supported our hometown team, the Washington Nationals. We went with friends, the kids, and sometimes alone. My husband would call me from work and say, "Hey, $5 tickets tomorrow. Wanna go?" I answered the affirmative every time. We learned pretty quickly that if you sit on the first baseline, MUST WEAR SUNSCREEN. No matter the weather or the score, the kids never wanted to leave.





We had planned a vacation up to Michigan in September, but we wanted to add a couple of days on the front end for some extra fun. Fun equals baseball. We stopped in Cleveland for an Indians game. Our seats were only nine rows behind the dug-out and we could hear the crack of the bats and the leather smack in the gloves.



And then a long awaited stop at Comerica to see our wonderful Tigers. It rained so there was a delay, but it was just as perfect as ever. I even sprung for Cracker Jack so the kids would have the real, American baseball experience.



But there was on last stop to be made in September. To end the season, we hopped on a plane for a well-timed business trip and caught a San Francisco Giants game. With boats in the bay and palm trees in the courtyard, AT&T is a pretty beautiful park. My favorite part was finding a little gated area behind center field where anyone can watch three innings for free.



I don't know if I'll ever have a summer like this again and it was good. It was good because it was spent with family and because it truly is the greatest game ever. Sure the Tigers didn't make it to the World Series, but there's always next year...

The Real Deal

I'm a homeschooler. I used to be one by necessity. Now I am one by choice.

Many of my friends are teachers (for real). They have real classrooms, don't get paid enough, and have way more students than they should. They have standards to achieve and powers to whom they answer. They do it with pride. They do it with joy. Sometimes they do it with tears.

In some ways more than others, homeschoolers are no different. I usually start petitioning for funding in May. I present to the "board"(my husband) the strengths and weaknesses of curricula compared to the needs of my students. I plan, I purchase, I plan some more. Sometimes with joy, sometimes with tears.

This is our fifth year of homeschool. This is my first year homeschooling in America. There are co-ops, field trips, classes, and everything I could possibly imagine. Some things seem necessary. Some things seem counter-productive.

Right after Labor Day, on social media, lots of people posted pics of their kids' first day of school. Truth be told, we started school on a rainy day early August. I won't lie. I feel a little bit left out. Nothing is stopping me from posting these, but it's not the same. Just as everyone begins their yearly routine, we drop everything and go on vacation. Every September.

The night before we begin school, I lay awake obsessing over whether I chose the right books, whether Number 3 will ever master cursive, whether Number 1 will be challenged in Math. I think about what we'll eat for lunch and how much time we won't have to waste on learning each others' names. I lay awake perfectly certain about choosing homeschool and alternately terrified.

Sometimes I need to be grounded from perusing catalogs or looking through science books. Sometimes I need to be told to walk away from the work. Sometimes I need to skip grammar. No, that's not true. We never skip grammar. Maybe math.

All this to say that teachers are the best. Those who work in schools, those who volunteer, and those who teach their own kids. I'd like to raise my glass to toast teachers. To all my teacher-friends out there, you are the best! And that's for real.



With my "class" in St. Ignace, Michigan just before heading to Mackinac Island. September 12, 2014

Shame on you, Library

I hope I've been clear about how much I love the public library. Until recently.

Summer reading program. For this girl, who was never athletic, summer reading was my opportunity to shine. I could outread all my peers, win the prizes, and submit my name for drawings repeatedly. I couldn't wait to pass on this time-honored tradition to my kids.

Numbers 3 and 4 had to read 600 minutes (in increments of 10) in order to win a "prize" and be entered in a drawing. They both completed the task in three weeks, six weeks earlier than the deadline. Here they are with their filled-in sheets.



We rode our bikes to the library and walked up to the counter as a family. We wanted the children involved to feel the gravity of their achievement. The passionless volunteer cut off the entry portion and pointed to a box. The contents in the box were remnants of a local school book donation. There was nothing classic, nothing interesting, and frankly, nothing worth reading.

But the bigger point...a crummy, thrift-store book as a library reading program prize? My amazing readers were beyond disappointed. Number 3 said, "We get better prizes at the dentist, and that's for the pain we have to go through." I looked at my husband with horror. If we didn't get this kid a prize, and I mean a prize, she would probably never pick up a book again. Our school curriculum is only about 90% reading so this could be a problem later.

Dejected, we walked down the street to a little toy shop. It's the kind where the owner works the counter and knows about every toy in the place. It's a shop for brain candy. We told the girls they could each choose something for under $10 as a prize for all the reading they did. Number 4 chose a reusable sticker doll book. Number 3 chose a Magic 8 Ball. I'm not sure why that fits into the learning toys, but she's wanted one forever and the guidelines were clear. I immediately asked the ball if Number 3 would read books again. It said simply "It is certain." We bought it.

A few weeks later, we returned to the library to turn in Number 1 and 2's reading logs, four novels each. Here's how the librarian reacted;

"Wow! Great work!"
"Do we get a prize?" asked Number 2.
"Unfortunately, the prizes were returned due to a safety issue. Check back next week."

Since Number 2 had seen the drill earlier, he requested a specific toy at Target that was exactly $9.99. We went, bought the toy, and went home. Number 1 simply asked for $10 to be transferred to her bank account. Wise child.

So, to sum it up, the FREE reading program at the Library this summer cost me $40, an uphill battle for book-reading motivation, and maybe future counseling. Shame.

First of Many

A wise friend passed on some marital wisdom to me. I will share the basic gist with you.

One person has to be in charge during an outing. If it's his idea, he can plan meals, prepare for tickets, make arrangements etc. If it's her idea, she charts the map, packs the sandwiches, etc. If it goes wrong, you know who is responsible. If it goes right, you know who to thank.

This has worked so well for myself and my husband! I used to hate outings because he always had the good ideas and I was the pack mule and logistics planner. It wasn't fun. I already spend all of my days teaching the kids and then trying to navigate weekend "field-trips" became exhausting.

This past Friday night, we looked at the forecast and saw another sunny Saturday ahead with no plans. He started looking around and came up with a plan. We told the kids to be ready at 10 AM the next morning. I had the responsibility of getting myself dressed, applying sunscreen, and grabbing the bug spray (because he NEVER gets bit). Well before departure, my delightful travel agent had already been to the supermarket for Saturday doughnuts, had packed lunch and snacks, and got the address to our location in the GPS.

There was no arguing, no disputes.

Our destination was Rock Creek Park in the heart of the District. We parked at the Nature Center to begin a two mile hike around the northern half. Some of our company was not excited about hiking for fun, but we set out anyway, determined to prove them wrong. A little ways in, we stopped for lunch on a rocky landing in the middle of the creek. Number 2 was in heaven skipping from rock to rock and teetering dangerously on a fallen log seven feet above the creek!



Number 1, being cautious as ever, fell in anyway and got soaked up to her middle. Numbers 3 and 4 couldn't be convinced to keep moving. They took their sweet time looking at tadpoles, frogs, and arranging rocks in a decorative way. The lunches my husband packed were delicious and filling.



When we continued on, we enjoyed the company of one another amidst the sound of the babbling creek. The boys' heads were sweating and we were all smiling from the exertion.

When we got back to our car, we drove to the South Side of the Park (this took 10 minutes) to see the Peirce Mill. It looked unpromising until we got nearer to the entrance. A volunteer helped my girls make corn-husk dolls while my son played in toy water locks. This cost us nothing.

After this, we watched a video about the family who owned the Mill (back in the late 1800s) and got to see the mill in action. My husband, who grew up working his Grandfather's farm, reveled in showing the kids all the gears and mechanisms of this primitive tool. At the end of the tour, we discovered that Rock Creek Park is a National Park, the first we've ever enjoyed as a family. We purchased a National Park Passport and can't wait to see some more.