Sunday, May 14, 2017

The Roller Coaster

 

I've said it before, but I've realized I feel like a fraud every time I try to write about "what I've learned".  It's like life tries to prove me wrong.  It's like a kaleidoscope, and how the tiniest movement completely changes what you see.  That's what I think happens when I try to claim I "officially know" something now.  


Buuuuut, that being said, I was thinking about how this is my 18th Mother's Day of being a mother, and it occurred to me that there are actually a few things I think I can justifiably say I've learned by now, and if a new mom asked what to expect, this is what I'd tell her.  


-- If you ever say out loud, "My kid will definitely____ (insert positive behavior) because ____ (insert logical reasoning)," you are spelling doom to whatever you just said.  I know this, and I still do it all the time.  I was at a baby shower this week and said to the hostess as I was leaving, "Annalee will fall asleep on the walk home and then I don't even have to worry about getting her down for her nap!"  


Guess who was still wide awake, singing "Let It Go" as I opened the door to my apartment? 


-- Vomit. Barf. Yak. Puke.  Whatever you want to call it, it will happen a lot.  And you will actually catch it in your bare hands, many times.  Last December when the kids were so sick, Wyatt coughed till he threw up.  I was putting oils on his chest, and no way no how was he going to puke on the comforter on my watch!!   Not when I know what it takes to do the laundry around here!  Without so much as a blink of the eye, I caught it, turned and walked to the bathroom sink and washed it off.  Then I calmly returned to the bedroom where Matt was sitting on the bed with Wyatt, his eyes wide.


"That was kind of awesome," he said.


"I know," I replied nonchalantly.  I almost flipped my hair but decided that was just a little much.


-- Head wounds bleed a lot.  Like... a LOT a lot.  I remember reading this.  But let me just say when it's your kid, the words "Head wounds bleed a lot" mean something entirely different.  Think of the goriest movie you've seen and multiply it by ten.  Okay, that won't be reality (I hope), but it will better prepare you for your child's first head wound than any words about the circulatory system or childhood injuries.  


One day, five-year-old Jayna and almost-two-year-old Skyler were playing out on our patio in Spain   (Matt was gone, of course.).  I had my back turned to them for just a second when Jayna said in the most unaffected, matter-of-fact voice, "Skyler bumped her head and now there's blood everywhere."  


I mistakenly responded to her tone rather than her words and turned to see Skyler stumbling toward me.  She was doing that cry where all the air in the lungs is fully expelled, and then suddenly they inhale and scream loud enough to wake the dead.  And there was blood... my goodness.  It was like Carrie, I'm not even kidding -- dripping from her head, all over the tile floor, soaking into her shirt. And it all came from a wound no longer than my pinky fingernail.  It literally took me all day to stop shaking from the shock.  This is what they mean when they say "Head wounds bleed a lot."  Prepare yourself.


-- You will wear pee that is not your own outside your house and live to tell about it.  In fact, I did this just recently, not for the first time.  I'd put on clothes that were very comfortable and I felt good in, and a certain small someone peed on me.  And though I was still home, and really should have cared enough to change, I thought about my laundry situation, scrubbed it with a diaper wipe, and headed out the door.  No one was the wiser! If it were poop, that would have been another story, of course.


Speaking of poop:

-- Your kids' poop can look very strange.  I about had a heart attack the day I was changing the diaper of one my children who had, the day before, eaten a bunch of tomatoes.  Colored icing and kiwi can also really weird you out.  Even with all the diapers I've changed, I still find myself startled sometimes. Before you panic and call the doctor, ask yourself, "What did my kid eat recently?"  Odds are excellent you will calm down, though that food will never quite be the same to you again.


-- You will spend an alarming amount of time thinking about other people's poop.  You will talk about it casually with other parents (and may even write about it on your blog)!  (You're welcome!) You will probably even have dreams (nightmares?) about it.  I say this even though I've never had more than one kid in diapers at a time.  It just becomes such a huge, stinky, normal part of your life.    


-- You will be alarmingly tired.  On Saturday night, I talked Matt into watching a movie that I've been wanting to see for a really long time.  It was great!  Really, truly great!  But still... not even halfway into it, I felt my eyelids getting soooooo heeeeaaavyyyy.  This was not happening.  I was going to stay awake!!  I was... totally...   going...      to... 


I jolted awake to find him staring at me.  For a long and awkward moment, I stared back.  How long had I been sleeping? I wondered, feeling guilty.  "I'm sorry, I'm just too tired.  I really want to watch it, but I can't keep my eyes open," I said.


"I'm so glad you said that because same here!" he answered.  


I laughed, "I thought you were going to be mad at me for falling asleep in the movie I'd picked!" 


We were both laughing now.  "And I bought you'd be mad at me for falling asleep in the movie you picked."  This is clearly marriage at its finest. We stumbled off to bed.


It was maybe 10 pm.


We party so hard.  


-- This morning, I was served breakfast in bed by my sweet kids.  There was a bowl of sliced oranges, a bowl of delicious oatmeal with coconut, craisins, banana slices and peanut butter.  There was also a coffee and a glass of water and a gigantic pastry that was some kind of amazing combination of muffin and cream puff.  As soon as the older three had delivered my tray, the younger two were sitting there, Wyatt serenading me with fart noises (from his mouth).  


"That looks like good water, Mom," Wyatt said after about ten seconds.


"It is," I answered, "would you like some?" (Never mind our ample water/ cup situation.)  He nodded. 


A few seconds later, "What's that?" pointing to the pastry.  


"I don't know, but it's super delicious.  Want a bite?" 


Dumb question.  Annalee also wanted in on the action.


And I sat there, dispensing my water, orange slices, and pastry-from-heaven only too happily.  Because while they might be completely unreasonable, stinky, messy insomniacs, they might embarrass me more than I thought possible and stretch my patience to it's breaking point, my kids are without a doubt five of my favorite people on the planet.  I smile more when they're around.  


This past week, I was remembering the amazing movie Parenthood with Steve Martin and Mary Steenburgen.  Toward the end there is a wonderful scene between the two of them, where they are having a pretty heated argument, and the grandma of Steve Martin's character Gil walks in. 


She says, "You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster. Up and down, up and down.  Oh, what a ride!"


Gil replies (sarcastically), "What a great story."


Then she says, "I always wanted to go again.  You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together.  Some didn't like it.  They went on the merry-go-round.  That just goes around. Nothing.  I like the roller coaster.  You get more out of it."


I was so scared to become a mother, to tell you the truth.  That's a story for another day.  But I can tell you all of the above and this too: I like the roller coaster.  



Monday, May 8, 2017

Expat Memoirs: Vive La France!


 Last fall, when we had just moved into our apartment and I was still figuring out the crazy garbage system and feeling pretty overwhelmed, I decided to take on a reading project.  It started with my love of certain movies like A Good Year or The Hundred-Foot Journey, where people find themselves in a new situation (preferably an international setting -- and if at all possible, Provence), and even if it's less than ideal, they learn to cope and even, eventually, triumph. 

But I didn't want to read fiction; I needed the real, been-there-done-that stories, especially as the kids kept getting sick and we were trying (sometimes it felt quite literally) to survive. 

Now I feel less like I "need" the stories now, but I've found some wonderful books.  And my list keeps growing!  You may not be living the expat life right now, but there is so much to learn from these tales, keen observations of those who have come to love a new place despite its quirks, to thrive and call it "home".  

If you made a pie chart of expat memoirs, a huge chunk of them would be about France.  And probably at least 95% (maybe even all???) of those would have to do with food -- at least to some degree.  Being a bit of a Francophile, I decided to start my book reviews with these French foodie tales.

*****Disclaimer: This is by no means a comprehensive list and in no particular order.  These are just the ones I've read since my arrival in Korea.*****

My Life in France by Julia Child
Why you should read this:
It would be more difficult to find a reason not to read it.  I honestly don't know what took me so long.  Child's unpretentious story-telling and effusive personality shine from the pages. She was educated and intellectual, and she had a very scientific approach to cooking, as she detailed in her descriptions of the research she did for Mastering the Art of French Cooking and its "son".  But her love for people blended with her joie de vivre triumph over any kind of vanity she could have laid claim to.  I like to think that if I'd been in Paris in the 40's or 50's, we would have been good friends.  But I also think that was part of her charisma.  Bonus: The text is peppered with fun words  like "collywobbles" and "muckity mucks", which in my opinion are tragically underused and I hereby endeavor to inject into my daily conversations.  Bonus bonus: the wonderful black-and-white photographs, mostly taken by her husband Paul. 

Why you should read this:
Because it's SO funny.  This was recommended by bloggers I generally agree with, but again, I waited too long to read it.  Most chapters had me laughing out loud at least once.  Lebovitz takes on some of the stereotypes and quirky ideals of French (in particular, Parisian) living, and discusses them to hilarious ends.  I came away having learned a few things but mostly with a strong reminder to find humor in the situations around me.  Bonus: as a famous pastry chef, he has some recipes that look amazing and I'm tempted to try in my beautiful new oven.

Why you should read these: 
As an American who moved to Paris after falling in love with a Frenchman, Bard might have just glossed merrily over all the nitty-gritty details of French life.  Instead, she tells an interesting and realistic tale of adapting to a new culture, as well as navigating the highs-and-lows of family and relationships, through the filter of an outsider.  She discusses issues that we American women like to talk about at length, such as the French attitude towards the female physique and eating, or fashion. But she also bravely wades into more grim territory such as  Stage IV cancer and death of a family member in her new adopted culture.  

Bard also explores what happens when the French national motto "Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité" crashes into the American belief that anything is possible.  These are both, in many respects, books about "crazy ideas": her husband's quest to fulfill his lifelong dream of working in film, writing a book about her own life even though she isn't -- quelle horreur!! -- a prize-winning scientist or former prime minister, or opening a specialty ice-cream shop in small town in Provence.  She has lived in the country long enough that hers is no longer a starry-eyed puppy love, but an ability to see what is truly there and still want to call it home.  Bonus: lots more yummy recipes.

Why you should read this:
I felt the strongest personal connection to this author due to her husband's career similarities to my husband's, and the frequent moves that has entailed (though the same was true for Julia Child). Unlike the Childs, their dream of living in Paris takes a bitter twist when he is sent to Iraq for a year, and she has to forge a life without him.  Though it's not a sad book, I read parts of it with a lump in my throat -- like when she describes the first days after her husband Calvin leaves, or the wistful thoughts about staying in one place long enough to put down roots while still being incredibly grateful for the opportunities in her life.  

I also related to her love of the French language, though discouraged by her mother who instead made her study the more "important" and "useful" Mandarin.  Both I and now my eldest daughter have received such blunt scrutiny -- i.e. "Why would you want to learn FRENCH?!" (Insert look of disgust). "It's so pointless these days."  But as she says, her mother underestimated the power of love in the ability to learn a language.  Similarly, it's through her passion for food that she survives her year of separation from her husband as she explores France and details culture and history as it relates to what the French eat.  

But even if you don't identify so strongly with the author's story, Mastering is an interesting and educating read, while remaining personal.  Bonus: (do I even need to say it?) yummy recipes (though these seemed more meat-centric than the other books).

*****
I know that there are so many excellent books that fit into this category of expat memoir, but these five reminded me that keeping your sense of humor, enjoying good stories as they happen, and finding -- or rather, living -- your passion are the keys to thriving, wherever you are.


{Also recommended, though read before this project: A Year in Provence (and sequels) by Peter Mayle,  A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table by Mollie Wizenburg (doesn't entirely take place in France, but still), and Lessons from Madame Chic (and sequels) by Jennifer L. Scott.}

Monday, April 3, 2017

One Plus One

 
Wherever in the world I've been, one thing I have learned for sure is that everyone likes a bargain.  In markets everywhere, I've heard the words, "I give you special price!"  Which usually means about twice what the locals would pay.  But at least you felt like you were getting a deal!

I also had the unique experience on the selling side once when I lived in Spain.  I hosted a garage sale at my house with two of my friends.  I sold a whopping $15 worth of baby toys (which was probably foolish since I've had three more babies since), while my friends hauled in quite a bit more.  That afternoon, when everything was cleaned up and my girls were down for siestas, the doorbell rang.  It was a Spanish woman and her teenage son, both nicely dressed.  She had a bathrobe in her hands and was carrying on about a belt.  Ah! She didn't have the belt that was supposed to go with the robe!  I hadn't sold it, but I called the friend who had.

My friend started laughing. "Joy!  That woman!  I tried to get her attention because she was running away really fast after she bought it, but I guess she didn't hear me!  Then someone else came up and bought the belt!  Without the robe!!!"

I also cracked up and went outside to explain the situation to my visitor.  To my complete astonishment, I found her digging through my garbage can, I assume looking for the errant belt!  Now... I love a good bargain as much as the next girl, and I have friends that get amazing treasures by dumpster-diving.  But in this case, I'd have drawn the line as soon as I lifted the lid.  I had a toddler at the time, so the garbage was filled with stinky diapers, doggy-doo bags from picking up after our puppy, and a dead bird I'd found on my driveway the day before!

To each her own, I guess.

Koreans love a good bargain, too.  After only a couple days in the country, I became acquainted with "1+1" or, "2+1".  These are "BOGO" or "buy two get one free" deals.  And yes, I realize this sales tactic is not unique to South Korea.  But what is unique is that I have yet to meet a Korean sales employee who will let you leave the store without getting your "+1".  Say you're buying ice cream for your kids, and in the commotion of the whole, "I want chocolate!... Wait, she has strawberry?!  I want strawberry!  No!  I want vanilla!" (hypothetically speaking, of course), you fail to see that you were entitled to one free popsicle.  When you go to pay, the cashier will emphatically tell you (if not yell), "One plus one!"  And if you don't take this moment to hurry back for your free ice cream, well then, what hope even is there for you?

Generally speaking, I love it.  I've always wanted to be one of those extreme couponers who pays five cents to feed her family dinner.  But then... my life.  The coupons get lost, torn, chewed, or used as someone's Kleenex.  I really do need these salespeople and cashiers yelling at me to go get my free ice cream already.

It's just that sometimes... Well, sometimes I don't want that one.  There is one kind of tofu I especially enjoy here.  There are others -- a whole large section of the store, in fact, devoted just to tofu -- but this one is extra firm and cooks up well with the sauces and spices I like.  But darn it, if there isn't a 1+1 deal on another kind every time I go to buy it!  And there's always a lady there with that brand, yelling at me to stop paying more money for the kind I want and buy her kind already.  (in Korean). And then I smile politely and say through my teeth, "But I like this kind! I don't like that one! I won't buy it!" (in English). 

Like I've said before, it's amazing what can be communicated without speaking the same language   

But also, the 1+1 phenomenon led to one very unique experience.  

First I must digress.  I can purchase feminine products at the commissary, which is at least ninety minutes away, and I can also order them online through Amazon.  But sometimes the ill winds of bad timing and miscalculation of supply and demand blow strong.  And so it was that I found myself at the Korean Target/ Walmart store nearby staring at a row of pads (because they don't sell tampons).  Of course, all the labels were in Korean, so I was struggling to determine what would meet my needs when I felt a gentle-but-firm "whack!" on my upper arm.  I looked up to see the kind, smiling face of a saleswomen.  

"One plus one!" she said, pointing to a sign on another brand nearby.

"Oh... sure enough!" I replied, smiling politely but not ready to make my decision.  She pointed to the sign again and, using both hands with index fingers pointed up as sign language, repeated herself, "One plus one!!!"  She indicated the items that were included in the deal.  I started to look at them, realizing there were measurements in English, but they were written in centimeters... so I had to try to remember about how big 30 cms was, and did this one have "wings" or no?  In the meantime, the salesperson walked away but reappeared shortly with a giant binder.

Have you ever gone to a home improvement store to buy new counters or wood floors or carpet?  Yes?  Well, this binder was exactly like the ones you would be shown at Lowes or Home Depot, only instead of 50 different granite pieces or carpet samples, it was filled with pads of all shapes and sizes, for every kind of flow a girl might ever have in her menstruating years.

I might have been doing this period thing for ages, birthed five babies (and written about it), had lots of "woman visits" to the doctor, even had countless "girl talk" conversations with close friends.  But I have never, ever, EVER shopped for pads like this.  Was it a little awkward to stand in the middle of a busy supermarket, staring at page after page of maxi pads mounted on cardboard?  Why yes, I would say it was. 

Still, it was somewhat comforting with my new best friend at my side, guiding me through the catalog, showing me the features of this one versus that, and asking me things I couldn't understand, so that I had to shrug and smile sheepishly.  I made a selection as quickly as I politely could and hurried on my way.  

Since then, I've bought feminine products every time I go to the commissary, without fail -- even if "Aunt Flo" isn't visiting for a month, even if my bathroom cupboard is still chockablock full, even if it does seem a little OCD.  But when I pass that particular aisle at the store, I smile to myself.  Because shouldn't we all have a friend like that saleswoman, who stood patiently beside me that day?  Yes, I'd say we all need that, people who can guide us through all the ebbs and flows of life, so to speak, all the while making sure -- 100% sure -- we get the best deal.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Date Night: Ecotopia!

 
The second question everyone asks when they find out I'm a vegetarian (usually after some form of "Why?") is, "What about your husband?"  

The short answer is no, he is not vegetarian. The longer answer is: I became a vegetarian at 15.  I started dating Matt at 16.  So it's not like I dropped this bomb on him after our wedding.  When we married, I told him that he was welcome to eat meat, but I wasn't going to cook it or clean up after it.  So at home, he is a vegetarian.  Our system works pretty well.  He complains to friends about his hardships, but honestly, he (usually) says he likes my cooking and has tried to become a vegetarian several times, especially five years ago when both our dads suffered serious heart problems within six months of each other.  He says that he just feels like Bruce, the shark in Finding Nemo, whenever he smells meat cooking.    

And one of the many incredibly sweet things he does is that he's always trying to find good vegetarian food for me.  So the other night when, for the first time in about two months, Skyler actually asked if she could baby-sit her siblings (praise the Lord for good big sisters!!!!), we headed out on a date.  Honestly, it's hard to find Korean food without meat.  Yes, they use tofu in their cuisine, but it's almost always accompanied by beef, pork, or seafood.  So our go-to for eating out here is Indian food since it's always easy to find vegetarian dishes.  There are two good places within about a mile of where we live.  But a week ago Saturday, Matt did some research and found that in Namcheon, about six subway stops away, there is an all-vegan restaurant, and it had rave reviews -- even from omnivores.  

It took forever to find the restaurant, even with the directions that were on their Facebook page, but we finally walked up to find it empty except for the proprietor and another woman (maybe the chef?).  They put their arms up in an "X" position and though smiling said, "No more food.  Free market day.  Many people here.  Food all gone."

Of course.  

Now let me back up a little.  That Saturday was kind of a weird day for me.  I'd gotten up early to make the vegan banana blueberry pancakes that I always make for breakfast on Saturdays, but we left shortly after to cheer on Lilly in a basketball tournament that lasted for most of the day.  So besides the pancake I started the day with, I had only eaten a couple cheese sticks, and a tiny portion of leftovers I scarfed down when we were finally home.  

So now, I was good and hungry.

No, no... I was hangry. I mean, I realize I said I'm not really making plans for this yearbut dinner?  I couldn't even plan on dinner?!!?!  Was it really so preposterous of me to think that I could say, "Tonight, I'm going to go out with my husband to this place and there will actually be food there."?!  To walk into a restaurant that was still open and think that, you know, maybe there'd be SOMETHING TO EAT?!?!?!

Matt led me, fuming, to a nearby convenience store where there were some tables to sit at and bought a couple drinks and a pack of Mentos.  "Want one?" He asked.

"I hate Mentos," I grumbled.  

"I'll get you something else if you want.  Can I interest you in some dried squid?  Kimchi?"

I was in no mood for his jokes.  "No.  I'm starved.  I want real food.  I want dinner."  By now it was after 7, so breakfast, my last real meal, was already roughly a million years ago according to my stomach. I finally caved and popped a couple Mentos into my mouth.

And you know, for all the bad rap high fructose corn syrup and food coloring get.... well, let's just say they have a time and place.  I started to think a little more clearly and went to a Facebook group I'm part of that is specifically for restaurants in Busan.  I searched Namcheon, and to my surprise, there was another vegetarian place.  According to the directions, it wasn't even far away.  We ventured out again, thinking that if nothing else, it was close to the subway, so we could always head to our neighborhood for Plan B (and hopefully the Mentos I'd eaten would keep me alive).

It didn't look promising at first, just another alley with myriad shops lit by neon and fluorescence.  But then I saw a little sign with a tree and the name "Ecotopia".  Just off the alley was the loveliest gem of a restaurant, with a small, walled garden, a chalkboard sign and a bucket of flowers.  The lights were on, and a warm glow emanated from within.  There were tables on the patio that looked perfect for a warmer evening, but since we needed jackets outside, we went inside to the almost-empty restaurant.  Though the sign still said "Open", after the night's adventures, I was feeling pessimistic.
 
"Open?  Yes?"  The woman nodded, yet I was sure she was going to tell me they were out of food or didn't serve Americans or something.

There was an iPad at the cash register with a menu in Korean, but she touched it quickly, and the language switched to English.  Glory be!
 
"What can I get you?" She asked.  I wanted to hug her.  All the options looked delicious, but I chose a vegetable gratin and Matt got the cress bibimbap.  We sat down at one of the nearby tables, but the woman said, "You can sit there!" indicating  a small room in the back with a cozy, cushioned bench that wrapped around half of a large table.  There was also a counter facing the window with chairs at it and a vase of flowers,
 
 but no one else was there.  It was quiet and intimate and perfect for conversation.  When the food arrived a short while later, we were both very happy with our selections.  
  
Everything was exceptionally delicious -- the gratin fully of garlicky roasted vegetables in a creamy but light sauce, the bibimbap full of flavor and accompanied with a lovely assortment of sides
 
 -- and we headed home with full stomachs and big smiles.
 
Our first date was butterflies and sweaty palms.  Don't get me wrong -- that was fun, too. But this date, over twenty years and a thousand inside jokes later, was laughter and conversation that I never want to end, the amazing (saintlike) patience of a man who won't quit until I'm happy, and will pose for 
 
and take silly pictures for my blog. It's also the knowledge that when I look into his eyes I'm looking at someone who knows me so well it's scary.  Like how a couple Mentos will actually -- sometimes anyway -- make me a better person.  

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Happy Endings


It's kind of funny when you think back to a year ago, isn't it?  A year ago today we were headed home from an idyllic three days on the Big Island of Hawai'i, and "home" was a beautiful big house on O'ahu with lots of space for my gaggle of kids to safely run around outside with all their many friends. We were filled up with goodness from our little getaway, feeling so happy our cheeks hurt from smiling. 

And then, literally as we were leaving Volcanoes National Park, something really hard happened.  We had a two-and-a-half hour drive back to the airport in Kona along a gorgeous road with breathtaking vistas.  But when I remember that day, honestly, I don't think about those views as much as I remember the lump in my throat and the ache in my chest, the crushing silence in the car, my hollow and awkward attempts to make everyone laugh.  

A couple months later, when we found out we were headed to Korea  I had to get an overseas health screening.  Basically, this is a re-hash of your entire medical history with the doctor to see if there's anything that might be incompatible with living overseas. I can't even tell you how much I was dreading it.  My doctor was exactly my age, a guy who had always seemed good at frank and funny, bad at compassion.  I'm pretty healthy, but my past has a couple big issues: an eating disorder in my early teens that almost cost my life, and a doctor's misdiagnosis that led to three excruciatingly painful days in the hospital seven years ago.  

I didn't want to talk about those things.  Not even a little.  By the time I'd finished telling the doctor, I was crying and shaking.  He was quiet for a minute as I sat on the exam table, twisting the paper towel he'd handed me for my tears in my sweaty hands.

Then he took a deep breath and said slowly, "I can see that was really hard... and very painful... and scary...  But I also look at you and see someone who is very healthy and who has five great kids!  So... I guess what I'm saying is, these are hard stories, but they have a happy ending.  Don't forget that."

I've been thinking about those words for almost a year now, wanting to write about them, but not being sure when or how.  Then today while I was working out, I listened to a podcast I enjoy -- "The Happy Hour" with Jamie Ivey.  She was interviewing Heather Avis  who struggled with infertility for years before adopting three children, two who have Down Syndrome. As I listened, I thought, This woman is awesome.  I wish we were friends.  

She was talking about a book she wrote that comes out next week on World Down Syndrome Day, the title of which is the hashtag she started on Instagram: The Lucky Few.  She also discussed something called the People First language where instead of describing someone by their abilities or conditions, you talk about them as a person first before the condition. For instance, instead of saying "a Down syndrome girl", you say "a girl with Down syndrome".  

I love it.  Isn't this truly what we all need?  I've always been vehemently against labeling my kids as anything like "The Smart One", the "The Athletic One", or "The Difficult One".  I don't want to be defined by what I'm good or bad at, what I've been through, what I can't do or what I struggle with.  I don't want words like "Anorexic" to describe me (which is why I haven't written about it before on this blog), even though my heart shatters every time I hear about someone struggling with an eating disorder because I know that pain so well, and if I could end eating disorders today, I would in a heartbeat. 

But at the same time, when I think about pain in my past, it tends to become my focus rather than the "happy endings", or what happened next.  I let the hard times color my views of the present, if not define my stories, rather than see the healing or how far I've come.    

I've waited so long to write this because for starters, I think of the wounds in the hearts of those who might read this, and I don't want to belittle that or sound like a Pollyanna.  Also, I'm not at all sure how everything I'm dealing with right now will end happily.  I've had days in the past few months when I woke up with a sense of dread, my first conscious thought honestly being, "I wonder what sh!tstorm is going to hit today."  

But I think that's exactly why I need to write this, especially today -- to have it down for myself even if no one else can relate.  What bothered me so much about the first book manuscript I wrote was that it was a total MEmoir -- who did me wrong, caused me pain, etc.  While it ended on a happy note, that's not what I want my story to be.  Similarly, I want to remember the beauty I saw that day a year ago -- acknowledging the pain, but knowing it doesn't define the whole story of that trip or my life since.  

I posted this picture on Instagram (taken on the Big Island) about a week after we got home with a quote from the poet Jack Gilbert, "We must risk delight.  We must have stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of the world."   


I want mine to be the story of what God did with a very flawed, broken girl, of the many extraordinary people He placed in my life.  I want it to point to His goodness and glory, not mine.   If somehow I can do that, I believe that however the story is written, whether it ever turns into a book or not, it will have a "happy ending".

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Our Kind of March Madness



{Loving the brave little blossoms starting to appear!}

You know the saying, "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb"?  Gosh, I hope that's true.  

A week ago Tuesday, I went to a super fun game-turned-karaoke-night with some of my friends here, and as I was walking home, my phone rang.  It was Matt.  "You need to get home right now.  The baby just threw up."

Do I even need to tell you that was an awful night?  Or that the bug had gone through the rest of us by Friday?  So.... yeah.... last week was not my favorite.

And the weird thing is, this is not the first time we've had the stomach flu on these exact dates.  I'm sure because of a picture that popped up on my Facebook timehop, and I remember thinking then how we'd been sick with it before on those dates when we lived in Virginia and also (!!) when we lived in Spain.  It's almost like I should block out the first weeks of March.  "Sorry, we won't be attending ____. That's our annual stomach flu week."

March is... just a weird month.  It's the month my husband was born, so that automatically makes it awesome.  But besides our tendency to get the stomach flu, it's historically been a month with a lot of upheaval -- and I mean that not just in reference to our digestive systems.  One March I left the country of my birth, the place I'd called "home" for almost all of my first 11 years.  One March, I got my braces off and went to youth group, and saw this incredibly cute guy across the room, and because I'd just gotten my braces off, I smiled at him.  It was in a March that I found out my first baby was a girl.  March eight years later, I conceived her second sister. (Sorry, TMI?)  Another March we found out we were moving to Hawaii (two weeks later!!!).  March three years ago started out terrible but ended with the great news that we were moving into the base housing we'd waited almost a year for, a change that brought a whole world of goodness to my time in Hawaii.  The past two Marches (even in otherwise fantastic 2015) were hard, messy low points of the year. Times I think about and kind of shudder, if not actually get a lump in my throat.  

This March will bring more change to our family, probably the news that will decide where Jayna will be attending college this fall.  That, to me, is so weird. 

But I've done a lot of cleaning this week, and with that came a lot of thinking.  And with all that thinking came this blog post, to catch you up on the strange goings-on inside my mind.

I apologize in advance.

1)  I don't share a lot of "what I've learned" posts because I don't usually feel like I can ever say, "Yup, got that down. Check!"  I've been accused of not having a "useful blog" because of this, but I'm sorry.  I don't feel "wise" or "learned" enough in most cases, and writing that kind of thing makes me feel like a fraud.  

Then again, I would probably get more traffic from Pinterest if I retitled my posts things like "How to Plunge Your Toilet Without an Actual Plunger."  How's that for useful?!

But I digress.  And I'm here right now to share one incredibly valuable lesson I've learned, so lean in close.  These gems are few and far between:  

If you think you're going to come down with the stomach flu (or for any other reason find yourself hurling), eat pizza.

I've tested my hypothesis many, many times.  My reasoning is this: you will never not want pizza.  When I was pregnant with Jayna, literally every time I ate pizza for something like five months, I'd throw up.  Did that stop me from eating pizza???  NOT ON YOUR LIFE!!!  Every time someone put pizza in front me, I'd go, "Mmmm, that looks good."  Also, since pizza isn't exactly great for you anyway, if there were a chance you would never eat it again, would that be such a bad thing?  No, right?

Instead, last week I ate a bunch of healthy food, thinking foolishly all the while that the healthy food would keep me... you know, healthy.  It didn't. And now that I have my appetite back, do I want any of that stuff??  Heck no.  I want pizza.

2) Remember my assessment of Apple Cider Vinegar (ACV) last time I had the stomach flu?  Yep, still true.  It did not prevent my getting it.  BUUUUUT!!!! At Matt's suggestion (he'd read it somewhere), I did drink a dilution of it when I woke up still feeling blah two mornings later, and you know what?  It helped!  I think I was the first to get fully back to speed.  

3) Okay, you probably don't want to read any more about stomach illnesses, so let's talk about bowls.  About five years ago, I bought a big set of plain white Corelle dishes.  They were simple, so they'd go with everything, and they were inexpensive to replace.  Perfect.

But they were a little plain. And I've been wanting something pretty, especially bowls because you use bowls for almost everything, right?

Anyway, I went to Costco one morning a couple weeks ago and found the prettiest bowls for a good price.  The box said there were eight, but when I got home I realized four were small and four were the size I wanted.  

So I went back the next day and bought another box. Then I saw another box just down the aisle, donburi bowls from Japan.  
 
They were so pretty, and inexpensive, too.  I bought a set.  Did I necessarily "need them"? Well, no.  But every time I open cupboard and see those bowls, I genuinely feel a little happier.  Sometimes I open it just to peek at them.  

I've also started making a point to set the table with them.  One thing I think my family does well is that we commit to dinner time together. There are no electronics, just us and a lot of talking.  We fill our plates in the kitchen, usually, and sit around the table to talk.  It's good as far as being useful and not dirtying too many dishes.  But sometimes I feel like our system makes meals a little more "feeding trough" than "festive", and I want our dinners together to be a celebration of coming together.

The bowls kind of do that for me.  Maybe I'm not so weird?

4) Related: my book club just finished reading Shauna Niequist's Bread & Wine.  I'd read it four years ago, but it was fun to read again with friends.  It's kind of a kick-in-the-pants to get you to open your house and practice true hospitality, the "come-as-you-are-and-find-me-as-I-am" kind.  I highly recommend it; I just love her closing words (they're not a spoiler, you need the rest, trust me): "If the home is a body, the table is the heart, the beating center, the sustainer of life and health. Come to the table."

So tell me, friends.  How have you been?  What have you read?  And most importantly, seen any pretty bowls lately?

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Strrrrranger Than Fiction!

 
In college, I took an International Relations class.  I don't remember much about it except for my professor's affection for commenting on certain elements of history (most memorably, Rasputin) by saying, "Strrrrrranger than fiction!"  And yes, he extended the "r" sound just like that.  Ever since that class, I've heard my old professor's voice narrating moments of my life with those words: "Strrrranger than fiction!"  Especially this past week in my kitchen.

Last night, as I was making dinner, I heard a loud "bang!" from very close to me,  similar to a balloon popping, but bigger.  Bolder.  I thought it was weird, since I hadn't seen any balloons in the kitchen.  As I poked around, I realized here was a very pungent odor filling the kitchen, and that's when it all made sense.  I remembered the bag of kimchi I'd bought over a month ago and mostly forgotten about.  Last week I'd come across it again, the bag hugely bloated, and thought, Huh! I guess this is what fermentation does! and also, I'd better eat this soon! but mentally set it aside again.  It had actually exploded, though it was in another bag, so the mess was easy to clean up.  

Exploding bags of kimchi, however, are by far not the strangest thing to happen in my kitchen this past week.

Ever since I moved in, my oven has caused me trouble.  I'd turn it on, wait for it to heat, turn back to put the food inside and find it had switched off.  Or another time, I erroneously left it on for 18 hours (!!!) because even though I had put the dial back to the "off" position, for some reason, it stayed on.  After turning off, it was always very hard to get it back on.  The kitchen would fill with the smell of gas as I tried time and time again to get it restarted.  I'd pray, intercede... consider calling an exorcist.  Finally, it would turn on again, and then (usually), stay on.

But Matt used it once, and it behaved in its normal psychotic way, and I told him nonchalantly, "Oh yeah,, it does that."

"Every time?"  

"Yup.  Every. Single. Time."  

Apparently, this isn't normal.  Apparently, in fact, it's dangerous.  So last week, I put in a call to our property manager.  He sent out a repairman, who deeming it beyond his skill level, sent for a manufacturer's technician.  This guy messed with it a little then said to me, "This oven... discontinued since ten years.  No parts.  But if no use, is okay. 15,000 won please."  

Ummmmm, no.  I wasn't going to pay a penny, let alone roughly $15, to have someone tell me that if I didn't use my oven, it would be okay.  I called the property manager.  He and the technician had a rather impassioned conversation, then the man left hurriedly as I was informed that the property manager would talk to the landlord, but getting the landlord to replace the oven...  "It's very difficult."  My heart sank.  In my six months here, I've learned these are the Korenglish words for no.

But on Saturday, he called me back.  The landlord had, as expected, refused to replace the faulty oven, but good news!  The property manager would himself pay to put in a new one! 

While leaving the old one in.

I was a little puzzled.  "Where will you put it?"  I asked.  My galley kitchen has just over three feet between the counters.  Wellllllll... He and another technician would come look at it in the afternoon.  

I didn't have a good feeling about this.

My bad feeling got worse as the two men stood in front of my current oven, examining, stepping back, crouching down, moving their arms around them to form a square.

"Okay," the property manager finally said, "we put oven here."  He indicated the space directly in front of my current oven.

"In the middle of the floor?!" He nodded.  "Like, right here?"  More nodding.  "But... how do I move around it?"  With his friend standing in for the oven, arms square, he showed how I could move around it, shimmying sideways with tummy sucked in and thinking skinny thoughts.  "But... how do I open the door?"  His friend (a.k.a. "the oven") showed how even if I opened the door there might still be an inch or two to spare.  

"OR! We put door this way!"  He indicated opening it at an angle perpendicular to its current one.

"Toward the dishwasher?"  He nodded.  "But then how do I open the dishwasher?"

He looked at me for a moment, and I could actually see pity in his eyes for my feeble mind.  He sighed and mimed me cooking and putting something in the oven, then into the dishwasher.  "Only have one open at a time.  No need cook and wash dishes together."  Well, obviously. I was just saying tto make a point.

"What about my young children?  My baby?  Is it safe?  Oven is hot, and in the middle of the kitchen."  Here, finally, there was some more discussion, some reluctant shrugging, but he still maintained, "Safe.  Is safe."  

Matt was in Seoul for the day, and I couldn't get ahold of him. Everything in me was saying "No", but somehow, the strangest thing had happened.  I had started to think I was the one taking crazy pills for thinking it was dumb to put a working oven in the middle of my kitchen in front of the broken one.   And so it was that I found myself agreeing to a time early in the week to have the new oven installed.  

As soon as the men left, though, I came to and thought, Wait, what?!  Did I really just agree to that?  It was just like Jafar with the sultan in Aladdin. I'm pretty sure my eyes had gone swirly and everything.  I texted a couple of my close friends here, basically saying, "Does this sound completely ridiculous?!" and suggested maybe I didn't need an oven after all.

Both affirmed that the idea (not me) was completely whacked, and one suggested I get an air oven.  Have you seen these?  This actually seems like a great plan.  The other came back with the words, "Okay.  So obviously you COULD survive [without an oven].  You could eat sandwiches and stovetop meals and miserably dream of your oven churning out enchiladas and brownies and lasagna and cookies, etc.  Or you could embrace the absurdity of the working oven shoved in front of the broken one." Then she wrote, "This could be a great metaphor... definitely a future blog post!!!"

She was right on both accounts.  I mean, well... voila! Blog post!  And, I can think of at least a couple metaphors.

1) Sometimes in life, we pretend we are perfect, shoving things that look right in front of the messy and broken things, and even if it's ridiculous, we try to call it good.  And really, where does that get us?

2) Sometimes in life, we're presented with two options, and neither one is particularly good.  Then it's up to us, with prayers for serenity and grace, to make the most of one of them.  

But thankfully, after a series of texts to the property manager, he agreed! 
 That's right! I stood by my guns and insisted I wasn't completely crazy, and today I'm happy to report that there is a brand new working oven where the old, broken one was! (See picture at top of post) What I was told wasn't possible actually, somehow, became possible. 

Strrrrrrrrrranger than fiction!

Sunday, February 12, 2017

Lost in Translation

The Far Side by Gary Larson(Image source: The Far Side by Gary Larson)

 The other day my phone rang.  It always makes my heart stop for a moment when this happens and my kids are at school, because my honestly my first reaction is, Oh no! Which of the kids is sick?! Or, What did my son do now

But once I've determined that either the school is calling me with something benign, like informing me I forgot to put 10,000 won ($10 or so) into the envelope for one kid's school pictures and could I please send the full amount? (um, yes, that just happened), or someone other than the school is calling, my heart resumes its regular rhythm and I answer confidently.  

This time, however, the man on the other end yelled.  He did not start his rant with the usual "Anyeonghaseo," as do most people, but he rattled off a string of rapid-fire Korean words.  

"I... ah... speak English?" I replied when he finally paused for breath. 

More yelling.  

"Sorry, no, I don't understand."  I hung up.  Two seconds later, the phone rang again and the man yelled some more.  I was truly scared.  Had I done something wrong without realizing it?  Entirely possible, but I couldn't think of anything! Was he some kind of hired kneebreaker and this was a case of mistaken identity?  I was glad it was my mobile phone and not a landline connected to my apartment.

I hung up again, and after his third call, I was actually shaking a little, so I texted Matt.  His office assistant called the man to ask if there was something wrong, and determined, finally, it was just a wrong number.

You'd think he might have caught on a little sooner?

Anyway.  Most of the time, with my conversations here in Korea, I'm rather astonished at how two individuals can speak totally different languages to each other, and still, at least to some level, communicate.  Buying vegetables, for instance, is amazingly easy.  I point to the vegetable and ask -- yes in English -- "How much?"  The produce vendor rattles something off in Korean and as I stand there with a blank look on my face, slowly racking my brain for the numbers I know, she holds up certain fingers and I then act like I knew that's what she was saying all along, present the money, and the transaction is made.  Piece of cake!

Other times, I think it should be easy -- like buying a subway card for my mom at the convenience store.  I bought my card and cards for my kids at convenience stores, but when I was in a hurry, of course, and went to buy my mom, the cashier and I ended up at impasse, with me shrugging and walking away, telling Mom I'd just buy it for her in the station.  

And Korean is not an easy language to learn.  I'm trying, but I don't know if my brain is getting old or it's just that hard.  At the Christmas party, I mildly bragged to one of the kids that I was learning Korean.  He speaks fairly good English, so he suggested I try out what I know.  I did, and he cocked his head to one side and said, "What?" several times before finally shaking his head and saying, "I'm sorry.  I don't understand."  Ugh, how embarrassing. 

So instead, I rely on:

1) The International Language of Smile, or ILS. I smile a lot anyway, anywhere, but I think it's especially useful outside my homeland.  Sometimes (okay, often) it's the I'm an Idiot Smile, a sheepish grin accompanied by a shrug that says, "Sorry, I just don't know better."  Or sometimes it's Pleading Smile, the showing-all-my-teeth slightly-desperate smile, accompanied by Praying Hands.  Or sometimes it's the Soulful Smile that I hope conveys all the warmth and goodwill in my heart.  Or sometimes it's the Don't Mess With This Smile, the plastered-on smile that should be read as, "I'm smiling, but it doesn't mean I'm happy.  Trust me, you do not want to push me over the edge. I'm thisclose to crazy mad."  

2) Charades.  Or miming.  I'm getting really good at this.  In fact, if Charades ever becomes an Olympic sport, I just might be a gold medal contender.

3) When Charades fails, I move on to interpretive dance.  Sometimes, when I know I'm going to have to communicate something particularly difficult, I just lead with this.  For instance, I took my car to get the oil changed.  I could not even imagine using Charades, so instead I began to choreograph an elaborate Interpretive Dance.  Not only was I asking for an oil change, I was taking in my only-one-in-Busan Odyssey, a Japanese car in the land of Hyundai and Kia.  My palms were sweating and my heart was pounding about my upcoming performance as I walked into the repair shop, so I decided -- against my better judgment -- to try English and The ILS.  "Oil Change?" I asked, with Pleading Smile.  "Honda Odyssey?  Is possible?"  To my utter relief and delight, the man replied, "Hone-dah?  Ode-dish-shay?  Okay."  I seriously almost kissed him.  However, I did end up paying $150 for it, because I think I agreed to some kind of tune-up package.  Matt wasn't thrilled, but as I pointed out, I'd gone in for an oil change and come out with an oil change -- did the price even matter???

Now, some of you tech-savvy types are probably reading this and thinking, Why not use Google Translate?

*Sigh.* I'll tell you why.  I don't trust it at all.  Yes, whenever I have a label or sign I need to read, I do try the app first.  At best, it's confusing.  At worst, it makes me think a tiny psychopath is living in my phone.  For instance, we bought one of my kids an alarm clock and were trying to set it up, but the instructions were only in Korean.  Our first try rendered the words, "..Kill the Killer 'Killer's Killer: Kill the Killer'".   
 
Well if that's not a little scary!  We tried again.  "And the ark. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."  
 
Nope.  Not particularly helpful.  I was dealing with an alarm clock, not a Bible story.

Other times it seems to have a bit of a dirty mind.   When I first arrived, I purchased some soy milk.  It was weird, though, because there was a picture of black beans as well, and it had an almost mauve color to it as well as a... different taste.  Not bad, per se, just different.  

Matt, itching to try Google Translate, scanned the label.  Most of the translation was gobbledegoop that didn't make sense, but there was also something about "twisted black beans", which I decided will be the name of my alternative rock band someday.  And then it said, "BlahblahblahTESTICLESblahblahblah."

Say WHAT?!?!  Of course, my dear husband found this uproariously funny.  I felt unsettled and not just a little queasy.  Whose "blahblahblahtesticles" was it talking about and what did they have to do with my soy milk?!  For better or worse, though, the more I got to know the app, the more common I found this kind of error.  One of my friends used it on a thermostat setting that translated to "Remove sex."  Yikes!  A scan of the ingredients in an orange-flavored vitamin drink I'd bought for the kids when they were sick translated to something about "your manhood".

So thank you very much, I will stick to my methods, however faulty they may be.  I've also started a new Korean course (this one) and will continue to annoy my Korean friends with tips for how to say... well, everything.  And maybe, hopefully, one of these days, I will not be quite so scared, queasy, confused, or lost in translation any more.

Monday, January 30, 2017

Maybe I Will Then...

As you probably know, this past weekend was Lunar New Year (also known as Chinese New Year).  But while I've lived in places where at least a contingent of the local population celebrated the event, I don't think I've ever given it as much thought as I did -- well, kind of had to -- this past week.

It started last Monday, when I went to Costco with a friend.  Not only was the fairly impressive parking structure full, the overflow parking was full as well.  People were parked -- legally? Illegally? -- along the street.  Now, honestly, if it had been only me, I'd have high-tailed it out of there, declaring we really didn't "need" anything from Costco just then.  But my friend is gutsier than me and has lived here much longer, so when she said, "Just park like them along the street," I did.

"But is it legal?" I asked, shuffling through my already-dusty memory of the Korean driving laws I studied upon first arrival.

She shrugged.  "Meh. It's not like we're the only ones doing it!!  I'll split the ticket if you get one."  Well.  That wasn't exactly the vote of confidence I was hoping for, and I'd normally say something like, "Yes, but if everyone's jumping off a bridge, should we do it??!!"  But instead, I parked anyway, due to my friend's strange, hypnotic powers over me, and at her instruction, turned my emergency flashers.

And then, you guys... I went in and shopped in Costco!!  Just like that!!  I gave one last fearful, tearful glance at my beloved minivan -- the Mystery Machine, we call her -- as I turned the corner to go into the building.  But I'm happy to report that ol' MM was still there, flashers blinking away sans ticket, when I came back out.  Filing this story under "Things I Never Did Before".

Meanwhile, Costco was a madhouse.  I don't think I've ever seen one wth more people.  And that was the tone for the whole week, it seemed: more.  More people.  More cars on the road.  More garbage piled high in the garbage room.  

Fortunately, it was a short school and work week; even Matt had Friday off.  Due to the increased traffic, we were warned not to travel anywhere, though another trip to Seoul would have been fun!  On Saturday, we were invited to celebrate the New Year with some of the Republic of Korea's army personnel who were unable to go home for the holiday.  The event began at 8 am, which meant leaving our place at 7.  The invitation had said, "Formal... but casual okay," which led to a flurry of consultation texts with friends.  Did they honestly mean "formal?"  At 8 am?!  Should I go with the casual?? 

No one knew for sure, but Matt told me that when he'd gone to these kinds of events before (and I hadn't attended due to... sigh... sick kids), the spouses dressed in traditional hanboks.  I have no formal wear of my own, but I wore a jersey maxi dress I'd typically wear only in warmer seasons with a pretty sweater over it... and heels.  And over it all, my longest, thickest jacket.  

It ended up not really mattering because all you could see was the skirt of the maxi dress, the high heels I stumbled around in, and my jacket which I wore the whole time because FREEZING.  

Still, the event highlighted to me just how amazingly warm and kind the Koreans are.  We watched as they performed traditional ceremonies of respecting the ancestors.  All the soldiers participated.  The majority, of Buddhist or Confucian tradition, prostrated themselves on the ground before a table laid with ceremonial foods.  Those of Christian tradition bowed.  

Afterward we went into the mess hall to eat with the soldiers.  
 
Well, I didn't eat much because I figured I'd share my tray with Annalee who, after a few bites of rice and kimchi -- yes, spicy kimchi! -- spilled milk over it.  Following that, we went back to the original building and played traditional Korean games with the soldiers.  It was so interesting and fun.  One of the games involved something that looked like hacky-sack (do kids still play that in high school?  Am I dating myself??  Does anyone else remember this???) except it was a disk that looked kind of like a plastic votive candle with a metallic pompom attached.  

The other game involved a board with pieces that moved around, but instead of rolling a dice, there were these large stick-like objects with X's on one curved side and blank on the other flat side, and the combination of X sides to blank determined how many you were allowed to move. 
  My kids had a great time playing (and my friend Tamara got these wonderful pictures of Wyatt).  
  
 

At the end, they gave money to all the kids present, as is tradition.  I felt guilty, having brought my five and not knowing about this.  But I couldn't help but laugh when the interpreter explained that the mothers usually hold the money for the kids, saying they will "save it for them" but spend it themselves.  BRILLIANT!  
 

For the record, I let all my kids, even Annalee, keep their won.  

Anyway, it was an interesting and fun way to spend a Saturday morning.  The soldiers were so kind and forgiving of our gaffes, some of which we probably still don't realize we made. 

And driving there, we got to watch the sunrise...
 
And while I technically get up early enough to watch it every day, I don't usually have time to just sit and stare at it.  But also, driving through the quiet streets, seeing the city without all the lights or crowded sidewalks... made me think about being more of a morning person... which would mean being less of an evening person... and therefore not getting much alone time probably... so maybe I won't.  

But maybe I will?  

And somehow, while I was thinking about crazy ideas, I thought about the manuscript I wrote six years ago that I then mostly discarded (even after rewriting about 30,000 words I lost).  I started thinking about the books -- yes, plural -- I want to write, and how maybe I will do that this year...  I've sort of mentioned it here before   But admitting this is about as scary as I can get, especially since it feels like I could hardly be further from that becoming a reality.  And, a crazy idea is kind of nothing until you say it out loud and then people probably roll their eyes at least or at worst, laugh and make you the butt of their jokes.  

So maybe I will write it just for me now.  But... I think I'm going to do it.  If I can wake up early! ;-)