Town Scrum - Weston, MA

So, I may have to change my name after writing this blog. Possibly move out of town. Today I need to talk about the town meeting. Or as I like to call it, Town Scrum. I am no rugby fan but this is how I understand a scrum (after looking it up on my friend google): 


Scrum: (noun) an ordered formation of players... in which the forwards of a team form up with arms interlocked and heads down, and push forward against a similar group from the opposing side. The ball is thrown into the scrum and the players try to gain possession of it by kicking it backward toward their own side.

I will tell you why I consider town meetings a rugby match in just a moment. First I need to set the stage…ummm, field. Town meetings. I have never attended a town meeting in my life. Not even sure we had them in San Francisco, Burlingame, Evanston, Miami Shores or São Paulo which are the places I have lived in my "adult" life. Okay, possibly in New Canaan (where I grew up) which is really Weston in a different state, more pink and green, ACK stickers and twice our size. But I was 18 and didn't care about that stuff.

Town meeting is the legislative body of our town. Yep, it's up there front and center on this, our "Brief Guide to Weston Town Meeting Procedure". The brief guide is two pages long and has everything from how to participate in a debate (line up at the microphone) and how the voting is done (a display of official voting cards). It's like auctions gone wild. We got green voting cards at this last vote. I was going to take it home but it was collected by the powers that be. 

This particular town meeting was a special meeting called because of some pressing matters such as additional funding of a playground (now this is the ball that gets thrown into the scrum…wait for it), a new sidewalk to and from school so kids don't have to walk on the road, and appropriating spaces for "community housing" (who does not love this euphemism? I do.). 

Let me note that the latter item was "passed over" but I don't know why. It was not discussed in the meeting (okay the moderator did say why we wouldn't be talking about it but I didn't hear it). That discussion will not be a scrum. That will be a mosh pit. No one wants "community housing" near them. This is a blog post for another day.


So I got there about 6:50 for the 7 pm start and the high school auditorium was about a third full. It would become about half full. I did note that there was a demographic that I don't often see--older folks mostly (I have to watch it with this term now that I am middle-aged. Older than me. Retired perhaps) then a group of younger parent-types, some with kids in tow. Remember the 7 pm start. And kids' bedtimes, if you have kids. Kids who are not vampires. 


Stage set. 

First up was approving the budget. Quick discussion, over in about 10 minutes. Passed unanimously.  Passed because we were cutting money from budget due to a decrease in school salaries. I must investigate this one a bit. I abstained; I know nothing. 

Article 2 required a full hour. An hour to decide whether or not to increase the number of signatures needed to get an item up in front of town meeting. The petition was to change it from 10 signatures to 100. I am not going into why this measure was on the ballot here in town. I got the feeling it was a targeted measure to try to resolve an issue with one resident who keeps on taking up town time over wanting to take over her neighbor's house for a parking lot. I may have that wrong. Anyway I voted yes on requiring more signatures, but the majority said no, we like only 10 signatures because, as one gentleman commentator said "it can be really hard to get signatures with such a spread-out town and we're all busy." Yes, we are all busy. Why then are we taking an hour for all this back and forth? Sigh.


And then the heart of the heart. The scrum. Here goes. Article 3 was about Additional Funding for Lamson Playground. This will take waaaaaay too long to summarize here but the Lamson playground project has been around for a while apparently. We have one teeny-tiny playground in this town called Tavernside. It is literally at the side of a tavern (not in service--whoo, that could be a lawsuit!) and small though shaded and pleasant. My kids (age 9) term it as "lame". We've been once in the 18 months almost we've lived here. It is also along the Boston Post Road which splits the playground from the town green. There is some justifiable concern about getting kids in and out of the place without being smushed like bugs. 


Lamson Park would be our new playground. Right next to the town hall and on the other side of the town green (not on the Boston Post Road). The playground was approved in May 2014 before I moved here to Weston. I can only imagine that town meeting now that I know about this one. Playgrounds cost money: $225,000 in fact from the town budget, and $40,000 more was raised privately. I admit that this planning and designing of the playground has gone on without me paying much attention. My kids will be aged-out before this comes to pass--and frankly, my kids are open spacers. Free-rangers. Ticks in the woods. Playgrounds are for recess in their minds. 


I was aware of the battles in the background though. Revolutionary War has nothing on this. Well, actually it does, as I will tell you shortly (I really had no intention to go on so long but well, here it is). Plans were changed, trees are being felled, ziplines being added, a play structure that is visible from space (just kidding--but it's not necessarily small) and our Weston Town Crier added fuel to the fire by leading a September front page with "Most Expensive Option Chosen for Lamson Park". In case you were one of the last souls on earth to think the media is unbiased, guess again.
So the article at the town meeting was about asking for $25,000 more to make the park better. Safety was the number one stated change in mission. And so here we go:


The players: 

--Parent Team, mostly younger parents who wanted kids to have a safe playground

--Historic Team, mostly ummm seasoned individuals who don't want a playground at all at Lamson Park. 

There was probably a third team that was unorganized. A third team who said yep Lamson, but not the way it was proposed.
 But a third team ruins my analogy so let's leave them on the sidelines.

First up, a resident who explained the need for funds. This resident was a forward for the Parent Team-- he explained how wonderful the park would be and what a great community-building thing an integrated park and town green would be, not to mention that we'd have fewer issues with kids crossing the street and being smushed like bugs.  More funding was needed to address some new learnings about the property.


Then the moderator (the Ref?) dropped the ball into the middle of the scrum. Historic Commission, forward for the History Team, and Planning Committee, another forward, then linked arms and stated opposition to the ENTIRE park, not just the updated price tag. 

And then the Historic Team went big time: a Daughter of the American Revolution came up to speak.
I admit the existence of the DAR organization cracks me up. Seriously, what? So American. I guess it doesn't exist in many countries, such as Brazil, my foster country, since that would be a Daughter of the Really-Just-a-Peaceful-Split. DRJAPS. No.  And I guess I personally would be a Daughter-of-the-Dutch-people-fleeing-plague-there-in-the-1860s. Wow that is so not catchy.

Okay here is the explanation of the organization, from its site:
The organization Daughters of the American Revolution is a lineage-based membership service organization for women who are directly descended from a person involved in United States' independence.The DAR, founded in 1890 and headquartered in Washington, D.C., is a non-profit, non-political volunteer women's service organization dedicated to promoting patriotism, preserving American history, and securing America's future through better education for children.

Okay, keep this "non-political" organization part in mind. So the DAR comes up at the meeting and says she is opposed to Lamson Park in general because it is an important historical site. In fact when the new town hall was built in 1917 ("new" in Boston-type age) everyone was opposed to that, because it also took Lamson land.  She mentioned that Samuel Lamson was a colonel in the Minutemen and it was from this farm site in 1775 that he led the Weston Minute Men from the mustering site to the battle in Concord. Okay he was not a colonel in 1775, but that's quibbling with something that is frankly, cool. I am so wowed by where I live. The heart of US history (yeah, okay not native American history, I get that).

But I digress. DAR says that Samuel Lamson would NOT have wanted this park--she spoke almost as if she had known him (no, she was not that old). Then she goes on from this nice history lesson to say and furthermore, this site is probably "somewhat illegal" (her words) since Lamson stipulated that a structure should never be built there. I guess the jungle gym is a structure. Sigh. I would like to point out given my research here that Lamson had seven kids with one wife and three more with a second and I'm guessing the respective Mrs. Lamsons would have LOVED a playground there. Maybe not the zipline. 

Then a Parent Team forward came up and expressed why playgrounds are so important for the community building. Then a Historic Team came up and said she suggested we "build Disneyworld Weston at another time." Yes, I hummed "It's a Small World". I have to change the words. It's a small town after all…

For the next hour, the scrum moved up and back. One Historic Team player called the building inspector "full of baloney." One seemingly neutral player did make a statement on not being opposed to a new playground, but perhaps thinking of one that was in a less historic location--he suggested kids needed "lessons in cultural and environmental stewardship."  One lovely woman said she walked around the town green every day and did not want to be disturbed by the sounds of "screaming children." I'd like to editorialize that a bit more but right now I am trying to find out her address so I can send my 9 year old twins to play on her front lawn.  Just the part owned by the town.

Then my favorite comment of the night came from the next speaker who basically said that if you tried to preserve every supposedly historic site in eastern Massachusetts, you could not build anything ever. Also he said that he certainly hoped that the space would not be needed again as a mustering place, which made me laugh out loud. I got a couple of nasty looks from the Historic Team players on either side of me. I was afraid I would become the ball. 

Finally a vote was called. Full disclosure: I abstained. That will not make some of my friends very happy with me but I really didn't know enough to vote on more money. The cards were raised for and then against the article. The request for more funding failed. When it was announced at 9:10 pm, applause broke out from the Historic Team. The Parent Team (and abstainers--me) made a break for the door--I think less because they were angry but more because it was time to get the users of the playgrounds, those kids, to bed. 

My takeaway from this meeting is that our town has quite a rift between the parents and the historics.  Only time will tell if the parents can re-group and find a way to make their playground. No, I'm not getting involved. Except possibly on the task force for making votes in our town a little less biased to those who can be there at 7 pm on a work night. Let's make an app. 


What could possibly go wrong?

{Note: blog amended February 8, 2016 to reflect correct result. Thank you to my careful readers for the correction}

The upside of small town - Weston, MA

Wait, it's September 28 and I haven't posted in two months? Yep, true story. I can't possibly catch up now except to say here is how August and September went: kids camp, New Hampshire, Maine, soccer, Brazil, more Maine, PTO chaos, back to school, back to activities, homework, superblood moon...and that brings you up to date. 

Back to school means that crazy morning breakfast, get changed, get your stuff, get out is in full swing. Our bus stop (as you have met before here) is about three houses away, and across a dead-end street that we share with the next town over. As in it's Weston for about five houses, then changes to Lincoln town. With a separate bus route, residents who I largely have not met and maybe nine more houses. Lincoln's total population (without chipmunks and deer): 5,000. With deer and chipmunks: 300,000. Weston's total population (without Audis): 12,000. With Audis: 250,000. We are talking small town and smaller town.

But, there are two little issues with us sharing a street with Lincoln. One is their bus, or specifically their bus driver, who likes to drive as if he is testing the large yellow bus for stability. At 40 mph around the blind corner that is right above our Weston bus stop. The other issue is a dark blue Acura MDX (whose plate I have memorized) with a Meadowbroook sticker (that's a private school here in Weston) which also seems to always be late to school at 7:35 when 10 kids from age 5-10 are at our bus stop. No nasty looks will stop this dad. 

So, you will ask me: why do I not confront this mad Acura driver? Because, dear readers, (if I still have any after two months away), I am a CHICKEN. The thought of ringing a doorbell and saying "dear neighbor, could you please slow down?" makes me a little woozy with fear. What if he slams the door in my face? What if we start an enmity that does not go away for the next decade I plan to spend in Weston? Yeah, chicken.

I did write an email to the Lincoln bus company to ask that bus driver be counseled to slow down. That felt right to do: in writing and not anonymous, but without a door slammed in my face. So far, the driver has not seen fit to run me down and stick me in the grille. In actuality, the Lincoln bus seems to have changed times or routes as I have not seen it in the last week. Uh oh. Hope I didn't kill off bus service for the neighborhood.

So what to do about Mr. MDX? This is what I did. I called the town manager. And the town manager said to send an email to the traffic@weston commission which is populated by the police captain, and several other important members of the community. And I thought, okay, I shall do that and then wait for their response.

I sent an email at 1:13 pm. At 4:25 pm, I got an email back from Police Chief Michael Goulding saying they would get signage and patrols to try to fix the issue. Later that evening, I told my neighbors that I had done this and got an email back from one saying a patrolman had already stopped by and hung up the sign you can see in the photo above. The "SLOW" changes to a lighted-up picture of kids on a see-saw. Three orange cones further draw attention--it's right on the blind curve above our bus stop.

I am so completely impressed. The upside of small town is things get done. Quickly. Now the downside will be if I am caught speeding elsewhere in town and my name gets picked up as someone who has complained about others speeding! Fortunately I am more likely to be ticketed for driving too slow (yep, one of those looly-loos enjoying the ride) than too fast. 

I sent a thank you note to the captain. What a town. Let's see what Mr. MDX does now...

Things Are Seldom What They Seem - Weston, MA

So, it's been a year. A year since I began this repatriation journey. A year since leaving my home of six years in São Paulo, Brazil. The changes have been immense--stresses that I didn't know I had have melted away. Stresses I didn't know I would have have reared their sleepless-night-inducing heads. It has not been easy in so many ways; it has been so easy in other ways.

When we announced our move, most people said that repatriation would be much more difficult than expatriation. I don't believe that to be true. There are challenges both ways, but here "at home", I don't feel like I am facing it alone. Perhaps I am lucky for having found people with whom I can laugh or cry here, but all in all, things have been okay. More than okay. Slightly less than awesome.

New friends have helped immeasurably, yet I had forgotten how  long it takes to make friends in a new town, especially a New England one. Old friends have been invaluable--from unpacking to inviting us to their homes, to lending a sympathetic ear when I started sentences for the two-thousandth time "well, when I was in Brazil..."

So, I'd like to sum up my year--the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful... I don't know if it will help the repatriators who follow but it helps me realize what I have gone through.

The good

People. New Englanders take a while to know, but they are in fact wonderfully helpful, funny and genuine folks. If you do get invited for dinner, they actually want you to come over rather than just a "hey, we should do dinner sometime."  They are also used to be independent and self-reliant (yes, I had to give up a housekeeper) and will stand in for you as babysitter or driver if you are stuck. We've all been there. 

New skiers (mine) and new friends.

The ease of life. Case in point: our grocery store has everything here. Batteries, stationery, milk, vegetables, beer. It's all in one place. It's easy. Of course it's easier for me because I know brands and I know where to find them. I am from here. I get it. But in the grand scheme, what I mean here is that having your kids running down the street to friends' houses without a thought to safety is ease of life, not just groceries. They bicycle down streets with little risk to life and limb. Also yellow school buses. I love them.

The closeness of family. My brother lives 12 miles from me. My parents live a two hour flight from me. I am not saying we see them all the time, but it's a bit better than the distance we've lived at for the last 15 years (Brazil then Miami then Brazil again).

The comfort of my own language and culture. Not much I need to say here. The comfort of my own language means that I don't have to worry that I accidentally insulted someone by not calling them "Senhora" instead of the more casual "voce" in Portuguese. Or that "louco" or crazy in Portuguese is actually pretty strong and not a light-hearted American "You're crazy!" And yes, I get references to Dukes of Hazzard and the Brady Bunch--not so much the Pica-Pau Amarelo in Brazil. It's nice to be comfortable in my language and my bad 70s TV shows.

Being allowed to complain. I am not a Brazil citizen or passport holder. I cannot vote there. I was always pretty careful not to complain (much) about the politics because frankly I can't do much about it. I am a voter here. I vote every time I'm allowed. I complain and I try to change what I'm complaining about. It is nice to be able to vote in local elections again. And state. As well as federal. Beyond voting, if you are a "visitor" or "permanent resident" of a country, your criticism about it often chafes a native. I get it. 

New England. It's God's Country. It's the most beautiful place in the world in every season. It is. Don't try to fight it.

Coal. My rescue dog has filled a hole that a 14-year old labrador's death on June 14, 2014 carved in my heart. He is funny, he is bad, he is comic relief. We also have two fish and of course Haifa, the world's happiest and laziest labrador, who makes me smile just by existing.

Coal and Lalo

Haifa

   











The bad

Little bads: Nico breaks an arm two hours after arrival last year.

Life goes on for some friends you had expected to see. Case in point is one friend who lives exactly one hour and a half from here. I haven't seen her since last August. Not for lack of trying--her kid plays competitive lacrosse apparently every waking moment, she and her husband work full-time and she is trying to sell her business.  For other friends, I mistakenly thought that New York (where I'm from) is closer than it is. I don't mean miles. I mean life.

BH working more in Brazil and less here. When we moved, I thought BH would be more here and less there. That he would be six months in Brazil then join us here with trips back and forth twice a month. In reality, he is more there than here--he's a consultant and he has a great client. We all do what we can but being more alone that I thought I would be has been pretty tough.

The realization that the market went on without me. For the last six months, I have dabbled in trying to go back to work. On-ramping, as it seems is the catch phrase right now. I need to for my mind and to pay for lawn care, which it turns out is really expensive ;). While I have a great educational and work background, I've been out for a long time. It is really hard, for my ego and in general, to get back in.

Even though you can afford it, you need to watch out. When you live in a city as expensive as São Paulo and imported goods are outrageously priced, you may find yourself going a little crazy when you get back in the US. Yes, a lot of stuff is very cheap but it adds up. Case in point: my Honda CRV cost the equivalent of $60,000 (before bullet-proofing) in Brazil. For that money, I could buy a nice Acura MDX (actually for $20K less) brand-new. Should we have bought a brand-new car with all the other expenses of new house coming through? Not sure. We made up for it with our second car: a 2002 Acura TL hooptie which my kids prefer to the big car!

Snowmaggedon. Yeah, it wasn't that bad but just think about 110 inches of snow and no snowblower. I love winter, but let's get real, Boston.

Missing friends and family. Perhaps the biggest "bad". The joy of being a bi-country couple is that someone is always missing. I miss my stepkids Carol and Pedro (ages 20 and 23) who are moving along life's path at an accelerated pace. I miss my friend Pri who was always up for a coffee or a glass of wine and laughing about life. I miss my expat friends who could make me laugh about the craziness of our adopted city--especially Erica, Birgit and Virginia, but many others too. I miss the fazenda where we rented a house--a place so filled with beauty that it apparently stole it from other places. I miss carefree and friendly Brazilians--the ones I struck up casual conversations with about nothing and about everything. Taxi drivers, bakery helpers, cashiers. And finally, but not meant that way, I miss my crazy Brazilian in-laws: Marisa, Marco, Zoraide, Leo, Isabela, Julia...all of you. Please no one tell them I said so.

All in all, we love our new house and new life in the USA. I am not promising to stay here forever, but it is home now.  I am now on the local PTO board. I have been appointed to a town committee. I manage my kid's club soccer team. I am doing my best to participate and live here as fully as I did in Brazil. Because I think that is the trick to expatriation AND repatriation. Throw yourself fully in, participate and BE where you are. Yes, you can miss certain things about your life in the other place but in the end, it doesn't help your happiness.

I'm not happy every day here. Not even close. But I try.

Happy Anniversary, Weston! 

Illustrating a Point - Weston

Do you remember your second grade teacher's name? I do. Her name was Mrs. Whitcomb. I remember little else from my days in her classroom in Somers, New York, but I think she wore her hair in a bun (possibly cool in the early 70s?) and wore skirts. My mom can probably dig up the class photo if I ask her to, but I won't.  

In any case, I wonder now if I could find Mrs. Whitcomb and tell her how absolutely marvelous she was. Or must have been. Mostly because she did not lose her mind and lock us all in the closet for untold hours (surely I would remember if she had? Hmmm). Because I would. Lock us up, that is. Second graders are, simply put, honeybees from hell. They never ever stop moving.

I know this because today I went to the kids' school to watch a presentation by a children's book illustrator named Giles Laroche. I must tell you that I am a frustrated artist--I so wish I had some remote talent like warbling like a nightingale, or playing an instrument, or being able to draw a dog that does not in fact look like a cockroach on meth.  It's just not something I can do. Writing is my only marginal artistic talent. Some days I can write well, other days I write things about bugs on drugs but I digress.

Mr. Laroche, it turns out, has visited and spoken to the second graders in Weston for 27 years. 27 years!! And he rolled in a cart full of framed original artwork and told stories about the books he illustrates, and answered questions about Venice and how much paper he buys in a year and all kinds of other important stuff. He showed how he creates his art, which starts as drawings, then moves to cutouts and painting and he builds up these amazing landscapes and animals out of bits of paper. You can see more at his website.

When I saw him this morning (oh all right, struck with writer envy I stalked him into the library and brought him coffee and helped him move tables--a true children's book groupie, that's me), he was about to start presenting to three of the nine elementary school classes at Weston--about 50 kids in all. All the kids were lined up and led into the library by their teachers, quickly parked into rows in front of the presentation area, and then the presentation started.

During the 45 minutes of the presentation, not one of the teachers lost sight of her 18 lambs. An overly excited kid moving to his knees was dealt with by pulling a sleeve. A snuffly kid was presented with a kleenex. Not once did a teacher check her facebook, her email or her nails. Not once did they make a side comment to the other teachers. 

The first point of my blog today is to tell you that we should all call up our old second grade teachers and thank them. Because as thirty minutes of presentation had passed, the second grader fidget started on one side of the room and passed back again. Like a wave during a professional sports game. One kid rubs his hair with his jacket, turns the jacket inside out and wears it over his eyes (that kid was one of mine). One kid ties and unties his shoelaces. Another one turns his back to the speaker and begins a conversation with the bookshelf. At one point, I could swear I saw every single kid in motion--wiggling fingers, shaking hair, sticking a finger in an ear. It's enough to make you dizzy.

The second point is more of a question. Why would anyone want to be a second grade teacher? Okay, I admit it must have its fun moments--fart jokes and new achievements, reading taking off and the kids probably still need a hug every once in a while. Still, how in the world do you match that energy every day? Times 18? I don't get it but I am in awe of it.

The third point is that illustrator/author talks are cool. More please.

100 Days - Weston, MA

The dawn of the 99th day

So today marks 99 days since our repatriation to the USA. You'll have to allow me a little license on calling it the first 100 days a day early--today being Halloween and a Friday, it means that I just won't have a spare moment during the weekend with the hyper-sugared kids.  

The boys are two weeks away from turning eight years old. They are out of their minds with joy for their first Halloween ever. They have had others--but only one in the USA when they were almost 1 year old and not trick-or-treating.  This morning they pushed playfully in their bus line--there are five boys between the ages of 6 and 10 at the bus stop and each has one day of the week that they get on the bus first. It is surprisingly entertaining to them each morning to line up--"today's Friday, I'm second!" or whatever. They are happy.

I am happy. I am in fact still in love with my new home, neighborhood and town. Aw what the heck, also my state and country. The honeymoon period has not yet passed--I expect the first cracks in the facade will come in December with days getting light at 7:15 am and dark at 4:15. That can't be good. I have no fear of the cold (yes, you can remind me of this in February) but I have fear of the dark. Yes, I will be taking the twins trick-or-treating tonight--not that kind of dark. Long dark. Cold dark.

In the meantime, I still stare open-mouthed out my kitchen window at the maples, oaks and birches that shine on with yellows, oranges and sadly now a bit of brown. The New England fall is simply mind-boggling. Showers of leaves float down as I write this--the winds are up for the cold front tomorrow. Most of the leaves are on borrowed time. 

Yesterday I took a two-hour walk in the woods with a friend I chanced to find after 25 years. We now live less than a mile apart--we both have two rescued dogs, we both are off-ramped from our Seven Sisters/MBA/business careers to spend time with our kids. The big difference is that she runs ultramarathons (50 miles!!) and I eat large amounts of donuts. Oh yes, and do Kung Fu Fit.  I have new friends who I feel like I've known forever, and old friends who are better than ever. Happy. I am deliriously happy.

Of course there are the bad days. The bad days are the ones when I am frustrated with trying to get everything done--chimney cleaning (that's right now--I am tired of the vacuuming already), irrigation system winterized, doctors appointments, books back to the library on time. My kids mostly still want to sleep in my room--they are still scared of this three-story house. They have only ever lived in a one-story house. The dogs need walking, they need an end-of year boarding situation, and I need to see a dentist after two years ignoring that task. Life is busy. 

While I was chopping up the 4000000000000 apples that my kids picked during a Cub Scouts outing last weekend and tossing them into the pot for a year's worth of applesauce (I don't bake), I began to think about what makes me so happy here.  Besides the fall leaves. Besides the wild outdoors. Besides my awesome kids and dogs.  And I found the number one thing. And it has everything to do with ex-patriation and repatriation.

Confidence. It's the overwhelming sense of confidence here. It's knowing who to call when the chimney needs cleaning. It's knowing how to explain what is wrong at the doctor's office, or at Home Depot or at the car dealership. It's knowing that the Mass Pike sucks on Fridays. It's knowing that I will shortly be very tired of apples and pumpkins.

I am fluent in Portuguese. I can confidently say that. But I am not fluent in Brazil and maybe you can never be if you are not born there--Matthew Shirts, a longtime Brazil resident, might argue with me. But it's true. It took me 9 years living there to be able to phrase things in the subjunctive (polite) or in the third person (for older people) so that I didn't insult people. My phrasing, while mellowed, is forever American of Dutch background--I say what I mean and mean what I say. That is not Brazilian. 

I am confident chatting with the neighbors -- when they invite me over for dinner, they actually mean it. Not the Brazilian "we should have dinner sometime" which means roughly never.  I am confident that when I am told the price of something, that is indeed the price--not the price because I am a gringa, or because I haven't learned to negotiate or whatever it is. I never understood when I could negotiate in Brazil and when I couldn't. I probably have some enemies I am not aware of.

I am confident in who I am and how I can do things. I am taking these months left in 2014 to settle in, but I know that I can work again outside the home if I want to. Probably in a job that is less than full time, allowing me to spend healthy time with my kids and healthy time for myself. I never felt judged badly for staying at home withe the kids in Brazil--but nor were most Brazil jobs and careers made with parents in mind. Taking kids to private school, finding educated help for the kids in the afternoon, working until 9 pm because of bad traffic--São Paulo is tough for the two-career couple. I completely take my hat off to those who could make it work.

More than any other place I have lived since 1986 when I went to college--I feel at home. I am home. I loved living in San Francisco for five years after college--but it never felt like home. I liked Evanston, but it was not home. I never loved New Jersey and Miami where I lived at various moments. 

I love São Paulo, I truly do. But it was never comfortable, and never made me confident. So much I didn't and still don't understand about the politics, about the culture, about the people. I don't want to discourage anyone ever from taking an ex-patriate assignment--it was fantastic. It made me a more empathetic person and expanded horizons that a 2-week trip cannot possibly do. 

But the truth of the truth is: I am happy to be home.

100 days.