The Youest of Yous. The dancing One, the Singing in my blood, the One who moves and breathes and loves me always.

So here we are again, we’ve been here before. I have a theory that You bring me here on purpose. Is it true?

Because this circle comes around again and again, and now I am at the start, where I’m kicking like a baby, resisting change with all of my might.

We box. You block all of my punches and never hit back.

I run to You, then pull away because I am more than a little upset. Why are You always bringing me to my limits? It doesn’t feel fair.

Every day lately I wake up with what feels like a fat furry cat sitting on my chest. It’s heavy and I can’t breathe and there’s that stupid cat dander that makes my eyes itch. I struggle to get out of bed because this cat feels like fear. Where is the fear from? Why is it heavy on me? Whose cat is this, anyways?

I remember the pattern from the past. You remind me, most excellent of friends, when I take the time to listen. You say, “We’ll get through this.” You say, “We’ll be a little closer, my love.” You say, “You’ll drop a few more of those ideas of yours, the ones about your self-sufficiency, your big plans for yourself, your need to be perfect, to keep it all together, to fix everything by your own small self.” You say, “Lean into it, don’t push away.” You say, “There are greener things than you can imagine, sweeter smelling days than you’ve ever known. Just wait. Just wait.”

But I feel alone and the fear is ever-present and I’m not sure why I have to do this again. Remind me?

I know there is a changing. There is the kicking and the pushing and then slowly my resistance fades, I go limp, I fall in, and then I learn contentment again. It has been this way so many times before. All the places I have been, the homes I have lived in, all the deserts, all the valleys. Even on the peaks. It is the newness I resist, the loss of what has been. It is the small etchings I have carved into the wood in places all around me, reminding me of who I am, of what my name is. Leaving these things brings a tearing that I don’t think I could have imagined.

Now I have only You to remind me. You and the faces of my family. It is enough.

And after the tearing comes a divine healing and Your hands surround me and I have obeyed and You have promised. And there are new things, there are sweet things and the ocean will fold over me and not throw me, it will rock me like a child. It is better than before, it is larger and more spacious than clinging to the old ways. You lead me into ever opening rooms.

It is good that we will have a long time together, my Friend. One day I will look back on all of this and say, “You told me so.” So just, please, help me now, when I am still blind and foolish and inwardly about two years old.

All my love. You know You have my heart.

Rae

And I do owe you house pics and belly pics and all the pics I’ve been avoiding because I’m scared of looking like a tourist.  What kind of photographer am I, anyways?

I’m a tough mom. In my family, once you’re able to hold a spoon in your chubby tiny fist, you’d better be feeding yourself, or you’ll go hungry.

Well, it’s not that bad. But my kids generally did feed themselves. That is, until we met up against the formidable obstacle of the grandparents. Otherwise known as the ones who would like to halt the development of my children.

Or so I thought. Because I’m tough like that.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve come back from the bathroom, during dinner at my parents’ house, to find my dad guiltily jumping violently enough to spill four glasses of water, holding a spoon next to some child’s mouth. Some child who should be feeding herself. Sometimes he would go so far as to post my mother as a lookout. “She’s coming!” I’d hear, as I walked down the hallway as quietly as I could.
I was gracious about it, of course. “It’s fine to feed the kids,” I’d say, “as long as you don’t mind making my life about a thousand times harder.” Notice how well I share the raising of my children. All about the village I am. As long as everyone does things my way.

Anyways, now we are here, and we are here with Jaya, who, though she rarely gets involved with kid stuff, informs me that my kids are too small to eat by themselves.

And I am giving in. Perhaps I am just too pregnant and tired. But the end of every dinnertime sees Jaya coming back to the table to feed YaYa the food that she hasn’t finished. I mean, the girl is practically a teenager. She’s four, right? So she’s only nine years away.

I think, though, that the reason I’m giving in is because I love it that YaYa doesn’t even protest. Even when my parents would feed her, she wasn’t silent like this, accepting bite after bite gallantly, gulping water in between when it’s spicy. I know a good thing when I see it. About 25% of the time.

1. Hit up Napoli’s Pizza, though it be in the very not nicest of guettos, for the phattest pizza in town. I mean serious though. Best pizza you could eat.

2. Run over to Blue Bottle Coffee for the most divine Americano on the planet. Not exaggerating.

3. Swing on the swings with Chinua in Washington Square in North Beach, because it was there that we fell in love.

4. Eat a breakfast burrito in the Mission, and then head for the thrift shops.

5. Go to the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park.

6. Avoid Fisherman’s Wharf.

7. Head over to Clement Street for a gigantic bowl of Pho.

8. Ride the Muni.

9. Run around the Palace of Fine Arts.

10. See some beloved friends.

11. Marvel at how clean and shiny everything is. Shiver. Attempt to shop at Amoeba Records, but instead run out of the store, crying, because it’s too big and confusing. (This is what happened the last time I returned from India.)

There is breeze, I am in it, there is release from the humidity
that sometimes threatens to close me in

And there is thunder! Somewhere, in the distance, I hear it
now I notice the sky is darkening, my bags are flapping
full of finds from the market- I’m taking them home to my family

My time is running out, I’d better get back
The gathering dark keeps me from seeing much beyond the road, my other senses are heightened
my sense of smell:
There is the night blooming jasmine
There is the dumpster, full and scattered by dogs and cows
There is the smell of the evening dhoop, the heady incense of the dusk
And dinner is cooking at that house there

Now the night blooming jasmine again and the scent of the jungle
the greenness of it, the living things

(Sometimes snakes mistakenly crawl out onto the road and live no more.)

I feel the first drops
That dark green smell means that I am almost home
wind whipping me, honked at and honking
others are making their way hurriedly too
not wanting to be caught in the rush of water that we are all too thankful for
It has been too dry, this monsoon

But inside I will be even more glad
I am flying, well, at 40 km an hour, I am sort of flying
And the smells are so heady
And they follow me
And I am almost home
And up the red driveway and the rain breaks and chases me inside
where I collapse, wet and laughing

Full of the night, the smells, the storm that tossed me back into
my family’s arms.

Sometimes a husband and wife may argue over who gets to have the wireless internet device thingy that usually they share. The discussion may or may not turn to questions of who is more deserving of outside connection and entertainment in the interim that the husband will be in Bombay. Then the husband and wife will probably think a little about what roaming in Bombay alone for a few days will be like and the decision to send the internet device thingy with the husband will be unanimous.

And the wife will be in the house with the childrens for a couple of days, not posting, not knowing that perhaps people are fearing for her safety and the safety of her unborn babe because of giant blue creatures that roam the wide, wide seas, stinging innocent people.

But what concerned people should know is that while innocent people were being stung, other people were safe at home, no doubt eating cookies and rereading books. Or moaning about the state of their hips. Or fighting with Jaya about who gets to make tea.

And then, when the people, the innocent ones, the stung ones, got home, the unstung Mama person was able to offer comfort and assistance after all the tears had already been cried, when everyone was tired and talking peacefully about the strange story of the blue sea creature.

So there are some answers. Here’s a question. Should I tell you about the lice? You probably don’t really need to know about the dangers of sleeper buses and the lice, do you? I’m sure that at some point in your life you’ve done a little nit-picking yourself. You’ve gone over things with a fine-tooth comb. Or not, if you’re us and a fine-tooth comb wouldn’t get through your hair in a million trillion years. You probably don’t need to hear about the lice. So I won’t tell you.

Don’t think it’s all strange animals around here, though. Okay, a lot of it is strange animals around here. But there are also the incredible vistas. The green greenness which is astounding. The fruit! The simple pleasure of finding pretty things in the market. Scooter rides every day. Flowers in the night air. Preparing for a new wee one. Making friends. And food! Good food.

Tomorrow I’ll post my first Indian cookery post at Fly Fishes Fly. Happy days.

Pics of the kids with their new clothes on.  YaYa is wearing a Salwar Kameez, a traditional Punjabi garment that is now worn all over India.  I think I may dress her in them from now until forever, because they suit her so well.

And because it is almost pointless to be a mom with a blog unless you can include your cute kid anecdotes, I will tell you about this conversation between Leafy and I. ( Just so you know, I’m not some kind of psycho mom who buckles my son down for school at age 2; the kid feels left out and wants me to teach him as well.)

“Ok, Leafy, what is this letter?”

“A T!”

“That’s right!  And what’s this one?”

“A O!”

“Uh huh!  Good, and what’s this one?”

“I don’t know. It’s an umbrella!”

“Well, kind of… It’s a U.  U is for umbrella.”

“Me is for umbrella?”

“No, not you is for umbrella.  The letter U is for umbrella.”

“The letter me is for umbrella?”

And so on.  Sometimes Leafy seems like the very stamp out of what someone would make if they were inventing the quintessential toddler.  Totally cute, totally crazy, totally mischievous, throwing out quotes left , right and center.

And as for our shipping.  I really think I understand the term now, when our ship comes in. Before you tell me to shut up already about it, you have to know that it contains my entire curriculum, all of our books, all our toys except for the five that are here with us, that have been with us since Turkey, our instruments, oh, and the mattress.  Sigh.  They say two to three weeks for processing through customs.  Sigh again.  When our ship comes in.

The good news is, we now have internet within our very own home! Luxury.

The other good news is that Chinua has a new post up.

Last night I thought I would have an absolute internet glut and read about a thousand blogs, but then my mind shut down from all the computer stimulation after about ten minutes and I just had to fall asleep.

This morning the mayflies were back so I jumped out of bed early again. They haven’t been back since the first time I wrote about them, and I was kind of missing them. Awww, cute little flying bugs with no mouths who only live for one day and only have reproductive organs. Fodder for fish. So sweet.

One thing that’s been interesting about being here is that my little world of contacts among the Western monsooners (those crazy Westerners who are here out of season, whether they be ex-pats or well, ex-pats) has opened the doors in my home quite a bit.

What?  What did that sentence even mean?

Okay, let me try again.  I’ve been receiving a lot of advice.  Which is good.  Because I need it.

This store has great shopping, if you need clean shelves and something that feels sparkly.  But normally you should shop at the market in town, because it is way cheaper.

You can get cheap dog food here (leftover pieces of chicken).

This pharmacy has oils and natural products.

Don’t swim during monsoon.

Open your windows every day, and keep your fans on 24 hours, to fight the mildew.

Close your windows at dusk, to fight the mosquitoes.

And then, You’d better get your kids in school, because it’s not good to be with them all day.

*

Okay.  I feel like I just opened up a can of worms, but heck.  I’m a homeschooler.  I love it.  LOVE it.  It’s literally my favorite part of being a parent.  I feel like I see the best sides of my kids when I’m teaching them.  It’s probably because I’m such a know-it-all, or just so plain nerdy, but I love to homeschool.  And the kids love it too.

So anyways, I’m realizing that this little community is a lot like a fishing village.  You receive so many comments about what you have to do.  And the other part is that it’s international.  So I had a woman say to me, the other day, that she has been bothered here by how little stimulation there is for the kids.  And I’m all, hello?  Stimulation?  In India?  There is stimulation galore.  It just depends on what you are looking for.  And for mine, counting cows as we zoom down the street is awesome.  YaYa moos at them.  And waves at the dogs.

(Just on that note, here’s a little piece of advice for driving in India:  The dogs will observe your horn, but the cows will not.  They are just entitled to lie in the middle of the road, thanks very much, so you’d better slow the heck down and save your horn, because it will get you nowhere.)

YaYa calls out, “Oh!  Pretty!” while we pass a man who is pulling a wagon filled with pots of flowers.

Everywhere there is something to see.  My kids have grown up in the woods, for goodness’ sake.

So anyways, thanks for the encouragement.  It means the world.

I’m feeling a lot better.  Especially as the kids are still waking up laughing.  Dancing around when it is time for tea.  Insisting on following the same routine every day.  Telling me that Chapatis and mangos are their favorite foods.  Going off to watch a soccer game with Chinua.  Visiting a little friend in the next village.

I’m getting a lot of advice about the way things should be done, and it’s good, but I’m realizing that it’s still okay to be me.

Oh, and as far as my hips go, when we receive our shipping stuff, and I get my mattress, I think I’ll be doing a lot better.  The one I’m sleeping on now feels like a block of cement.  I do not kid.  Also, there are nothing but straight backed chairs in our house, so I’m going to put a sort of couch together soon. These things will help for a fourth time mama who’s feeling a bit peaked lately.

Also, Chinua has some lovely new photos up.  Lovely is really the wrong word, but I’m too tired and too pregnant to be smart right now.

And now is the point when I need you to reassure me about my parenting skillz.  Please tell me that there are periods in a kid’s life when they have less to do, are around home more.  Tell me there are seasons.

Also, tell me that I should save the worrying for the point when they complain.  Tell me that because they are happy and laughing and waking up excited for the day that I can STOP PROJECTING MY FEARS ONTO THEM.  Tell me that friends come with time, that family is beautiful, and that our time together is precious, and that I need to STOP FRETTING LIKE A NEUROTIC CHICKEN LIVER ALREADY.

Please.

Also, tell me that one day soon my hips won’t feel like they are going to explode with every step.

Thank you.