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.

I've Got Nothing - Natick

So it's getting cold here in New England. We got BH some winter boots at REI today which is where I pulled this wackiness off the sale rack. Why yes, it is a down mini-skirt. 

I've searched for something else to say here, but I've got nothing.

Who and What It's All About - Weston

Last night my kids fell asleep in my room late at night after a Saturday evening blowing up soccer balls for party favors and watching bad kid sitcoms. Both of them prefer still to sleep in my room on the carpeted floor rather than in their shared bedroom. They are sharing out of preference--we have a room for each, but they are scared since moving here of sleeping alone.  The separation anxiety is worse for one than the other--he will follow me from room to room, always calling out if I disappear for a minute into the laundry room or bathroom. He is terrified of being lost, even in his own house. 

As I do most nights, I woke in the middle of the night, anxious about various things. I gave up sleep after a bit, and turned on my light. I had forgotten for an instant that the twins were in my room. As I looked down, there was my son who had spent his first five years of life as a complete dinosaur obsessive. He knew the names of about 40 dinosaurs, knew their eating habits, their tracks, their eras. His favorite was triceratops, and his frequent companion was Triceratopsie, a green tri- he had chosen at the Field Museum of Chicago one Christmas. Sadly his love for dinosaurs started to diminish in the last year until at the age of seven, he loves them out of habit, not depth of feeling. 

Last night he chose Triceratopsie from the 10 or so stuffies on his bed, and here he is, curled up around his favorite, sleeping like an angel on his dinosaur pillowcase (mom is cheap and has not upgraded to Pokemon or Avatar or whatever) having read his dinosaur book. He sleeps on top of a quilt I had made from his infant rompers--a lovely Brazilian woman made one for each twin-- and tucked into a zebra blanket--his favorite animal from safari last year.

My kids turn 8 on Friday. I am filled with love and regrets for this fact. Let's be honest here--the first three months here have been filled with intense joy, huge changes and great learnings. And sadness--separations from close friends, from the only place they remember in their consciousness, and from their father, who spends more time in Brazil than in the US. For now. Hopefully he will be with us more often shortly. And I've been stressed out--yelled a bit more, lost my patience countless times, and cried tears of frustration for not being able to do everything I want to do.

So what is this move all about? Why are we here? We are here for me and for them. I still feel like I can be a better person here in the US than I was in Brazil. I don't know how to explain that. I am happier here and more relaxed. We are doing the best we can, and it's not half bad. 

When we adopted our dog Coal a month or so ago, the foster coordinator said to me that I needed to set him up for success. As in don't leave him alone outside the crate and then have him eat the couch. Then you won't want to keep him. Don't let him off-leash in deer country--he may run after them.  How do you set your kids up for success? Let them sleep on your bedroom floor (don't worry Nana, I'm not on my way to Chicago). Let them wear their Brazil shirt four days out of five. Let them explore the wild without saying "watch out, there are ticks in the woods!"  I'm letting them be.

And celebrate eight. Happy birthday, my little Brazilian-Americans!

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.

I'm a Stranger Here Myself - Weston, MA

You know that Bill Bryson book about re-patriating named I'm a Stranger Here Myself? Besides having the best title for a repatriation book ever, it is perfect for many a moment of mine here. This time it involves Halloween. It turns out that Halloween, that wonderful silly holiday of my childhood, is not what it used to be. And before you think this is going to be one of those sad tales about how everything was better back in my day, blah blah say the teenagers, I will tell you it is quite the opposite.

I had a storybook childhood. I really did. After being born in University Hospital in NYC (giving me bragging rights FOREVER for being a New Yorker--this is huge to Brazilians), my family moved out to suburban New York when I was around three and my brother five. We spent our early childhood at the top of a hill where houses got hit by lightning (making for great fireball stories), kickball was played in the dead end and we were surrounded on two sides by huge farms. No wonder I like Weston. 

I have a hard time choosing a favorite holiday -- probably Thanksgiving, possibly Christmas --and a close third is Halloween (well, seriously which other one would you choose? July 4? No). I loved dressing up as most kids do and candy never hurt anyone (says the mother of a kid with five cavities) but I was terrified of the dark. So trick or treating was done early, in huge gangs of kids, and only in the hilltop neighborhood. It was awesome and the candy lasted at least a week, and my mom would always eat out the dark chocolate outliers for me. Who gives dark chocolate to kids? Anyway.

My total of 9 years in Brazil (six of them with kids) showed me that Brazil has no idea how to do Halloween and should simply ignore the holiday. I even had a short-lived campaign to make the country give it back cause they were wrecking it. It's all about adult parties with people wearing skimpy clothes they REALLY shouldn't or children's parties in party rooms with tons of candies and nothing involving pumpkins, trick or treat yelling or the joy of trying to walk in a form-fitting nylon costume with your snowsuit on underneath because of course the weather turned. I tried to ignore Brazilian Halloween.

So I've been loving fall as you all know from my blog, and the lead-up to Halloween has caused me to buy about 40000000 pumpkins because I can't resist a farm stand or the church selling pumpkins to save the Navajos and then we got some from the Cub Scouts and well, I have an army of the little orange things outside on my steps. I bought skeleton flamingos, put up the pumpkin lights and have scheduled the candy run as close to the date as possible. I buy all the candy I love of course in case there are leftovers and there are never leftovers when I have eaten them all by October 30. Life learnings here, my friends, life learnings. 

When I was over at my friend-neighbor's (frie-bors?) house last week, though, I got completely blown out of the imaginative waters. The kids told me they had just been GHOSTED. And I said, very intelligently, "like in Ghostbusters?" and then all the kids who were born LONG after that movie came out looked at me like the irrelevant adult I am, and scoffed. It is tough to be scoffed at by 10 year olds when they are not yours. Trying to recover I said "just kidding! so do you feel okay now?"

It turns out that there are no health issues associated with being ghosted. It is a new (to me) American fad of ringing the doorbell of one of your friends or neighbors, leaving treats and small presents on their doorstep, and running away before they can catch you. Included with the treats is a little card and a ghost or sign that says:

You've Been Ghosted!

Late last night, we left you a treat. The tradition is fun, one we hope you'll repeat.
Take the ghost and pin it on your door, to let others know, you need ghosted no more.
Now it's your duty to pass on the surprise, to two more families, we must advise.
Gather some treats and deliver them soon, within two nights, under the light of the moon.

Once you've been ghosted, you are supposed to ghost two more houses in the neighborhood until every house has been done. In actuality, some people get ghosted multiple times and then hit several houses back. 

My kids got ghosted tonight. We had just gotten back from a soccer game at 6:45 when the doorbell rang. We got there pretty fast but all that was there was two pirate handkerchiefs, some Boo bags, candy, trinkets and the ghosted note.

I love it. I admit it. Though this means that I will need to spend some time tomorrow putting together two ghosting packages and then drive or walk the kids to two nearby houses in pitch black cold, I love it. And I love that someone ghosted my kids--it shows that they have made friends here (I'm guessing you don't ghost enemies). 

Now I am up to speed on the latest in doorbell ditching. Tricking and treating. Ghosting. Bring it on. I'm still a stranger but I'm catching up...

Being and Breathing - Weston, MA

Photo credit: Broomstones Curling Club

When I tore three ligaments in my ankle a few years ago, I recovered strength by doing yoga. Specifically, power yoga with the DVDs of Bryan Kest and my favorite Baron Baptiste. While I enjoyed Kest's workout, the folks in the video were all clearly Claymation because no one but NO ONE can bend like that. So I stuck more with Baron since being in Brazil in the tropical heat and no air conditioning made hot yoga just obvious, not marketing.  And his students seemed to have the normal range of motion...

I do have a point here. At least I did before I ate the last 40 candy corns. What is it with candy corn? It doesn't taste good, it's so sweet it sets my teeth on edge and I can't stop eating it. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Baron. One of my favorite lines in the DVD is when he tells you to relax into a pose and says that you should be just "being and breathing...being and breathing." This is a pose I have never done in my life, especially in the three months since moving to the US. Just being and breathing...

Instead, I am running around like a chicken. I knew it would be like that in the beginning, but now, isn't it supposed to slow down?  So while I was driving down to a store in Natick (7 miles away) this morning and trying to keep my car on the road because let's face it: New England fall makes you forget to be and breathe, and even drive. Breathlessly beautiful around every curve in the road.  Wait, did I finish that sentence? Doesn't matter. 

Anyway, my favorite app called Waze led me down some new roads in this town of 11,000 and I like to look at all the business signs when I'm not looking a sugar maples and I saw this "XXX Curling Club" where XXXX has been forgotten by yours truly. What? Curling? We can do curling here?  People outside of Canada and Scandinavia still curl? My high school boyfriend was a curler. He also sometimes reads this page so I'm done here.

The point being (wait, I need another candy corn) there is so much to DO here. I know what the land of opportunity moniker means. It means you have the opportunity to fill yours and your family's schedule NON STOP with stuff. Sports, arts, crafts, farming, climbing, jumping, hiking, etc. It makes me dizzy. So here are the sports you can do within seven miles (let's include the curling, shall we?) of my house:

Hockey (on three different teams)
Skating (figure, ice, fall on your face in the driveway shortly, also ponds in the neighbor's backyard)
Knee hockey (okay this is cheating but two friends have basement courts on our street)
Soccer.
Football.
Lacrosse
Field Hockey
Volleyball
Kung Fu
Karate
Tae Kwan Do
Tennis
Swimming 
Rowing
Kayaking
Biking
Canoeing
Squash
Skiing - Cross Country (out the back door)
Skiing - Downhill (cheating but you can take the Ski Train from Weston to Nashoba Valley in the winter). 
Curling - it IS a sport. Stop laughing.

What else can you do? 
Arts and Crafts at the Community Center
Drumlin Farm mini-camps (my kids are currently detectives on Wednesdays)
Birding (ditto the above)
Farmhanding
Picking your own whatever.
Pottery
Join a thousand volunteer groups. volunteer until you don't have a spare moment
Writing classes
Book groups
Alumnae Groups (I live 10 miles from my college and can't get there cause I'm so busy!!!)
Get my dog trained. 

And I can't even begin to tell you about committee-landia--I can be on the math and science committee or the creative arts committee or Friends of the Library or a room parent. Oh, yes I am all of the above. I must stop volunteering. Here is a new word for me: "No." 

It's a gorgeous fall day and I feel like I have to go walk in the woods. And so I did. I took two labbies (mine and my neighbor's) for a walk and a swim and watched the leaves fly through the air. And then I hurried home for the next program.

I'm tired. And my kids get home on the bus in an hour and we're heading to the detective camp.Where I will sit and try to organize thoughts of what to do for their eighth birthday party in less than a month. Curling party?

Being and breathing...

Book of Days - Weston, MA

Lincoln Conservation land

One day, one night one moment
With a dream to be leaving
One step, one fall, one falter
Find a new world across a wide ocean
This way became my journey
This day brings together
Far and Away

- Enya - Book of Days

Yesterday was as beautiful a day as you will ever find here in New England. An autumn show. I am adding it to my Book of Days, those days that touch me so deeply by their beauty.

I started the day in the woods with my friend's dog Finley and my new dog Coal. Finn will be the star of these photos because Coal is still being leash-trained and he stayed by my side. Finn is a most excellent three-year old yellow lab, highly trained, highly fun and the best canine I can think of to take for a walk in the woods (yes, Coal included. He'll get there but he's not there yet). Here is our walk through the Lincoln conservation woods behind my house:

Finley

Finley too fast

Seriously he's like a doggy supermodel. I forget to look at the trees.

After our walk, I did some work around the house and then thought: what am I doing? These days are short and getting shorter! During the afternoon I went to Mass Audobon's Drumlin Farm, a wonderful learning center and working farm. My friend (the one with Finn) has a farm share there and I went to pick it up while dropping off the three boys (my two plus one of hers) for Drumlin Detectives, a fun afternoon class. 

And I got to pick cherry tomatoes and lavender and zinnias. I talked with friendly people and basked in the autumn sun. I carefully read the white board about the quantities of potatoes, carrots, squash, kale etc that were her shares for the day. I signed her name. I toted the stuff up the hill. I watched chubby sheep cross the golden fields. I wandered paths and watched wild turkeys. 

 

I remain in awe of where I live. Lucky me.

Drumlin Farm and zinnias

Picking the cherry tomatoes

Mysterious pond view

Drumlin headquarters

Pumpkins for sale at the front gate. And my shadow...

Wild turkeys. Immediately before being chased by kids...

 

 

One day, one night, one moment
My dreams could be tomorrow
One step, one fall, one falter
East or West,
Over earth or by ocean
One way to be my journey
This way could be my
Book of Days