Big E Little e

Today I read an account of a 17 year-old girl who is part of a literacy program MCC supports in the northern part of Guatemala.

Illiteracy rates there are the highest in the country. Most people don't pass 6th grade, usually dropping out to work or help at home. The poverty rates are so high that most people spend their days trying to meet their primary needs. Learning to read and write are not necessary to survive and therefore are not a priority.

That's right. If you can read my words right now, you are privileged in a way you may have never thought about before. You can read and write. You probably didn't wake up today focused on where you would find water or food to feed your family.

My three-year old is learning to read and write. We practice her letters and numbers and sounding out words and rhymes. I forget at times that this is an opportunity I too easily take for granted. She's three and she can write her name. She's years ahead of so many in poverty.

The girl in the story I read today had to quit school when she was 11 because her father died and she had to help her mom with household chores. She works the fields, sews traditional dresses to sell, and works with her mom at home.

When a literacy program came to the area, she enrolled without her mom knowing. Her mom wasn't happy at first, but when she discovered that the simple tools like paper and pens were provided, she realized it was a good opportunity. She wants her child to have a better life than what she has had.

This 17 year-old just finished 6th grade. She's now more educated than the majority of her neighbors, friends, and family. She hopes to be a teacher someday.

I was inspired by this story and so many like it. MCC supports adult literacy programs in the area and every time I hear a story from a literacy student I remember how basic a privilege it is to be able to read and write.

How am I using my own ability to read and write to make a difference in the lives of others?

What They Didn't Tell Me On My Wedding Day

I recently met an engaged couple who will live thousands of miles apart until their wedding day. They explained how it will be difficult when they get married, but they assured me that if they didn't think they could handle it, they wouldn't be getting married.

That's when I realized that everyone thinks this as a new couple, that we're invincible.We think, Of course we can handle it. Sure, it's going to be hard. But we did our pre-marriage counseling. We dated a long time. We weathered painful situations and emerged stronger because of them. We communicate well. We won't make the mistakes of our friends and families. We're good. We're the exception. We're special.  

As a young engaged couple, several people warned us about the difficulty of marriage.

Marriage is hard, they'd say. It takes a lot of work.

I believed them on some level, as much as I could. Kind of. The problem is that no one knows what it actually means. It's vague and unhelpful. It's more of a threat or a warning than helpful advice. 

I remember the first time I thought, Wow, this marriage thing IS hard, just like they said. We were about 6 months into our marriage. I don't recall the details of the argument, but I remember exactly where we were sitting and how I felt when that first feeling of doubt and panic washed over me.

After 9 years of marriage, I remember my just-turned-22-year-old self on my wedding day. I was confident. I was happy. I felt ready. Only, I wish someone had been bluntly honest with me about a few things.

I wish someone had told me that no couple is invincible or untouchable. Human beings are susceptible to loneliness, depression, anger, miscommunication, assumptions, misunderstandings, and irrational thoughts. I suppose someone may have said this to me in some form. If they did, it felt inapplicable to me.

It's dangerous to believe you're immune to problems. The number of friends and family members who have experienced painful divorces tells me this is true. We all think somehow our situation will be the exception. Therein lies the danger.

Marriage IS hard, but not because a couple will fight over who washes the dishes, or how to wash the dishes, or when to wash the dishes. Arguments are expected and normal and can be healthy. Those are the comical honeymoon stage arguments that we laugh about later. 

I wish someone had told me it's hard because no one can predict the unexpected pain, the losses, the mistakes, the impatient rash words. No one can predict how simple decisions can turn into life-altering events. 

People erroneously think big life changes will help "fix" relationship problems: having a baby, moving, buying a house, getting a new job. These don't fix problems, they create a new lens with which to amplify already existing problems.

Damaging words can't be part of the vocabulary. I know couples who toss around the ominous d-word (divorce) in arguments like a ping-pong ball. They might as well sign the papers now. That word can't exist. Half of all marriages end in divorce. It's too real a word within too close a reach to be used in any capacity. 

I wish someone had told me to focus on my own problems and not so much on my spouse. I once had a counselor tell me that the problem with popular marriage advice books is that they focus on spouses fulfilling each other's needs. Though there is validity in finding ways to love your spouse in a way they connect to, it's not the whole picture. If your marriage is not fulfilling, these books say, it's because your spouse isn't speaking to you in your "love language" or isn't filling your "love tank." The responsibility of your happiness, therefore, lies on your spouse. This is unfair and unrealistic for both, and can lead to looking to other people or things to replace what is lacking.

I wish someone had told me that "for better or for worse" could be worse before it gets better, but it can get better. There is hope in all this. Couples who have weathered unimaginable storms do survive. They can come out stronger, closer, and wiser. It requires hard work and commitment. It requires humility and grace. It requires waking up every morning with the firm choice to go forward together, letting go of yesterday. For better or for worse. In good times and in bad. By the grace of God.

Preschool Times

Another sign my baby is growing up:

Her first homework assignment.

Ok, actually, this is her second because yesterday I forgot to take a picture of her real first one because I forgot about doing it until breakfast. So, I'm hoping the mojo from her second homework ever will be what carries her through THE REST OF HER LIFE. Not to be dramatic.

Also, how cute is my youngest with her two babies?

Less is Still A Lot

We're in our new house. And we love it.

My friend and MCC country representative in Nicaragua wrote a blog post last summer, as her and her husband had just started in their roles and were looking for a place to live. It has stuck with me. Here's part of what she wrote:

And so in our work we interact with people who lead lives very different from our own. For the vast majority of people in Nicaragua and other lesser developed countries around the world, opportunities for education, just housing, and even access to basic food staples is incredibly limited.  Because we personally have not and will not ever struggle in the same way, as we enter this context, it feels like every decision counts.  People we work alongside get by with so little.  Can I really claim to need space for my kids to play?  Conflicts like this are always present.  It is often difficult to differentiate between needs and desires.  I second guess myself all the time.

And so it has been a challenge – figuring out our needs, navigating these dissonances that are here as long as we are.  How do we have a fulfilling family life?  How do we find contentment and joy (outside of work) while still living out our values?  I continue to pray for wisdom and humility as we do our best to meet our children’s needs, love and care for ourselves, and work alongside our neighbors for a more just world in Nicaragua.

This got me thinking about what we need versus what we want. Do we truly "need" a back yard with grass for the girls to play in? Do we "need" a guest room? Do we "need" a kitchen with counters or cupboards? Sometimes referred to as first world problems, some of these are issues that I'm privileged as a North American to even have the opportunity to consider.

We had been looking for houses and apartments to rent for a few weeks. It just happens that this is the same month when yearly budgets are due, as well as several other program planning type reports. It's a busy month, and not ideal for moving.

But, because we were looking for housing while simultaneously working on our budget, we were extra conscious of how much money we were willing to spend on a place to live. We've lived in some awkward yet expensive apartment in the States. We were deciding between two houses to rent, right next door to each other. The floor plans are similar, though one had a couple added bedrooms and a second story patio for about $120 more per month. It was a little nicer, a little bigger, and a little more expensive.

For many Americans $120 doesn't make a huge difference, especially when the rent is almost half of anything we've ever paid for in the US, but it was more than we needed. We didn't need more space. So we chose the smaller, slightly more outdated house.

And actually, we like this house better. We have a back patio and a separate back grassy area for the girls to play, which the other house didn't have. We are five minutes (without traffic, 20+ with traffic) from our office and the girls' school. It was less than what we thought we might have to pay to stay in the same area. We pounced on it the same day it was advertised in the classified section of the newspaper.

Another benefit is that we have a very sweet neighbor who we share a driveway with. She's an American missionary who has been here for 29 years primarily working with terminally ill and cancer children and their families as they pass away (a hospice-type service). She's already been a blessing to us. Yesterday Michael went on his first trip out of town without me and the girls. In our old house that wouldn't have been an issue but he took the truck and we can no longer walk to school and the office. I was debating either staying home or calling a taxi. Then last night I came down with something and felt pretty awful, and our kind neighbor offered to take the girls to school (along with one of our workers staying with us this week) so I could stay home and get some much needed rest. I slept all morning.

She obviously has a generous heart and lives with a few Guatemalans, two of which are deaf. Last night Ellie was out in the driveway playing soccer with all of them, and I found myself so thankful that we found such a great home where we can host well, have great neighbors, and can live freely knowing we made a good choice for our family in our commitment to live simply.

Stuff. And stuff.

We're moving. Again.

I count the number of times we've moved every time it happens. I'm too tired to think it through right now, but I'm pretty sure when I counted the other day, it was 15 in 9 years and 1 month of marriage, not counting moving into our first apartment. Apparently this is a family trait (Michael's side) because when I mentioned this number on Facebook several family members boasted very high moving rates as well.

We are practically experts. We've helped friends move using our moving expertise. It's annoying to move, like spring cleaning is annoying. But there's also something freeing about it. We throw away junk (or recycle) or have a yard sale just about every time we move. We accumulate extra stuff in a short period of time and moving helps us simplify. One advantage of moving so often is after awhile, there's not much left to get rid of.

We've learned that the bigger the house/apartment we're in, the more stuff slowly appears. One year we lived in a large house with several rooms, and we were surprised at the end of 12 months how much extra stuff had somehow filled the empty spaces.

10 months ago was our biggest move. We were sorting our belongings into 3 categories:

a) pack to take with us to Guatemala
b) pack away for five years
c) yard sale because it's not going with us and not worth saving for five years

We came to Guatemala with about 8 duffel bags, mostly clothes, toys, books, and necessary coffee making equipment. We moved into a house rented by MCC for years. Every piece of furniture, every plastic cup and fork and pyrex dish was here when we moved in.

Mennonites don't like to throw things away. I imagine the thinking goes like this:
This broken plastic water jug? I'm sure somewhere, someone could fix it. So, we can't throw it away. That would be wasteful. We'll just stick it in the shed until someone in the future wants to fix it.

Cleaning out the shed

Besides all the "fixable" broken or useless junk in the back, this house has been the collecting place for any MCC worker who comes and goes, so we have several extra sets of kitchen supplies, sheets, blankets, lamps, etc.

Moving is a bit different this time in that we are sorting through junk that we inherited, and that could be fixed and/or used someday. 

We are moving because the owners of this house who have rented to MCC for years are leaving the country. We knew this was going to happen, it was just a matter of when. The timing has been a blessing with finding a place to rent within two days of the house selling.

I've been pondering the process of searching for a home within the context of signing a contract to live simply, not to mention while simultaneously working on our program budget for the entire year. That's another post.

For now, I close with silly pictures of my oldest, who, while I was taking pictures of our stuff strewn about, said to me, "Mommy, why don't you take a picture of me?"

I obliged.

Repost: The Disaster that was San Francisco '12

I have several posts half-written. I can't quite work up the motivation to complete them. They're mostly blah.

So, today I thought I'd repost one of my most popular blog posts ever, because, well, I need the reminder that life these days, though insane at times, could be worse.

It's a story of a trip we took to San Francisco with a recently potty trained 2-year old, and a 4 month-old. Here's the link, or you can read the text below.

Warning: excrement is mentioned occasionally in the following post. 

The Disaster that was San Francisco '12

I was looking forward to a fun family day in the Bay. We had never been as a family. Maybe we would get a caricature of the girls or buy some funny souvenirs. We planned to see Fisherman's Wharf and Pier 39 and Ghirardelli Square.

As we approached the 7-mile toll bridge before the city, we heard from the back seat, "I'm poopin'."

Those two words used to make me drop what I was doing to race to the nearest bathroom, assuming it was too late. I've learned that this statement actually means, "Mommy, I need to poop now and I can hold it for maybe a few minutes but we better find a potty soon."

As I said, we were approaching the toll bridge. No toilet in sight. "Ellie, you're going to have to hold it and we will find a potty in one minute." Any time we use a time increment, it's always one more minute. "Ellie, you have one more minute of play time. Ellie, you have one more minute of time out." That minute can be anywhere from 30 seconds to several minutes, and in this case, it was looking like it was going to be an eternity.

I looked at her face. She looked worried. We all realized she might not hold it. We paid the toll and slowly scooted across the bridge. "Look, Ellie, boats!" I tried to distract her. As the beautiful downtown San Francisco skyline came into view I had one thought: "That's a lot of buildings. I bet there are hundreds, no, thousands of toilets staring at us, but we can't get to even one of them."

I don't remember when I realized it was too late. My poor girl couldn't hold it any longer. She informed me that her pants were wet. She seemed sheepish and confused. I felt bad for her and was also feeling badly for the parent that would be cleaning up the mess.

We started pulling in to a parking space as another car started backing in. After a passive aggressive discussion with the older couple (I wanted to yell out my window, "we have a poopy toddler in here! That trumps you being old!" but I only mumbled it loud enough for Michael to hear), we caved in and drove to the parking garage with all of its outlandish fees.

Michael gets the hero award for cleaning up the mess of a carseat and child while I nursed Hazel in the cold, dark parking garage. We were determined to be positive and still had a whole day in front of us. This was only the second pants change of the day, after all. No big deal. (The first change was a few hours earlier. Despite making it to the toilet at the gas station Ellie's aim was off and she still needed a change of clothes. Who knew girls could aim out the toilet too?)

We loaded up our two strollers and headed towards Fisherman's Wharf. We had been given a few recommendations for lunch and were looking forward to some yummy food. We got to the restaurant and were deciding where to sit when we heard a tiny voice, "potty." Michael pushed her stroller to the bathroom and a few minutes later returned, shaking his head. Apparently they were too late, and the stroller and her pants were soaked. Of course I forgot to throw in a new pair of pants so back to the car Michael went, a 15-minute walk each way.

At lunch. Hazel was a happy girl, at least.

I found a new restaurant closer to the car and 30 minutes later I finally saw two little side ponytails up on Michael's shoulders heading my way.

After a somewhat disappointing 2PM lunch we decided we must go to Ghirardelli Square. We walked towards the chocolate tourist trap and once again heard, "potty." We were a few blocks from the Square and the public restroom within it. Michael took Ellie and started running and I would meet them there.

I got to the fountain and waited with Hazel. It was starting to get chilly outside.

Here we are waiting, the Ghirardelli sign behind us.

A more accurate depiction of how I felt about the day so far.

Michael came around the corner carrying Ellie. I was hopeful. He had made it all the way to the men's restroom only to stand in line. Several stalls of men sitting and looking at their smart phones caused my poor girl to pee on Michael's arm as they stood there, so close, yet not close enough. Thank you, men of San Francisco, for taking your sweet time on the pot so my little girl could have yet another accident.

The parking garage with our car was directly below the Square. We decided to head to the car. I could feed Hazel again, Michael could change Ellie and also get a new shirt since his was wet with pee, and then we could return for the long awaited chocolate ice cream.

Michael changed Ellie once again in the cold parking garage. 4 hours after our arrival we were in the same spot again, a few accidents later, and nothing but a quick lunch in between. We decided we were paying way too much to use the parking garage as a changing center without even getting to enjoy much of the Bay. It was getting too cold for ice cream anyway.

We had heard there are several great coffee shops to try in San Francisco. There is nothing Michael and I like more than to find a warm, cozy coffee shop on a cold day and enjoy a good cup of joe. Hopefully this would help salvage the day.

We drove a few miles and as we were parking, once again from the back seat: "I'm poopin'."

Seriously? Are you serious? You need to go AGAIN? "We're almost there. One more minute."

We parked. We got Ellie out and she started crying, "I'm poopin," and this time I knew she meant IT'S TOO LATE, I'M LITERALLY POOPING RIGHT NOW. I quickly grabbed a plastic bag, pulled her pants down, and tried to get her to squat and finish in the bag. It was a mess. She was a mess.

We debated just loading back up and heading for the hotel. I was done. The Bay had been a disaster with zero fun had by us all, except maybe Hazel who enjoyed walking around in the baby carrier. It was getting cold and our frustration level was reaching its max.

But oh, the idea of sitting in a warm coffee shop caressing a mug beckoned us. A cup of good espresso can fix a lot of bad in our book. We were determined to have at least one good thing happen in our day. Never underestimate the power of good coffee. We set off on a hunt for this shop, wondering if we had enough pants to make it through the rest of the day.

A few blocks later we found what we were searching for, only, it wasn't. It was an outdoor coffee stand. With little garden chairs to sit on. In the cold.

I forced myself to be positive: "I WILL enjoy this coffee, despite the cold. I WILL sit and relax and forget about this crazy day. I WILL enjoy a few minutes with my daughter so we can all have one good memory of this day."

The coffee was good. I sat on the cold patio furniture and released the day, trying not to be distracted by how cold I was. Ellie was sipping her first hot chocolate. Ever. It was a sweet moment. She sipped it and said, "yummy inside." Michael and I smiled at each other. "Finally. This moment is helping redeem the whole day," I thought to myself. "Despite the cold and the atmosphere, this is a precious moment." 

Ellie's first hot chocolate.

Then this happened.

I'm pretty sure she had two sips. I may have shed a few tears. Seriously. I couldn't take it anymore. The fleeting thought of redemption through hot chocolate was flowing away down the sidewalk.

We finished our coffee, let Ellie play on a nearby play structure for a few minutes, and left for the hotel.

I could explain how the hotel charged us for parking for the week when it was supposed to be included.  I could mention how tired and hungry we were and how our patience was down to zero. I could mention our tired toddler or our crying baby. But I'll move on past the hotel lobby and the two cranky parents yelling at the hotel employees.

Michael and Ellie had a fun time in the pool. We ordered room service pizza. We considered finding a laundromat because two pairs of clean pants didn't seem enough for the next day of travel, but we decided to risk it. We all slept well.

We enjoyed our complimentary breakfast. The front desk ladies couldn't change the parking situation but we did get free breakfast and we were upgraded to the Executive Floor-the quiet floor with no kids. We got some dirty looks from the businessmen in their suits the next morning as our daughter yelled happily down the hallway past all of the Shhhhh! signs on each door.

We were waiting for the airport shuttle and Michael was paying at the front desk. I looked over at Ellie. She looked away and her face turned red. "Ellie, are you pooping?" It was happening right in front of me.

I threw Hazel in the car seat, bonking her head as she started to cry, scooped Ellie up, yelled to Michael across the lobby for all to hear, "She's pooping!" and ran to the bathroom as fast as I could holding 25 pounds by the armpits.

The good news was her pants could still be worn. The bad news was the shuttle had arrived and the driver made it clear he was not happy to be waiting. Michael came into the empty women's bathroom, grabbed a shoeless Ellie, I grabbed the messy clothes wrapped in paper towels, and we all ran to the front of the hotel, making the shuttle late and getting dirty looks from all aboard.

At the airport we made the decision to put a pull-up on Ellie. A little late for that thought. She stayed dry on the plane. Of course.

Ellie's first plane ride as an official passenger.

On our drive from Denver to Colorado Springs she mentioned something about potty but we just drove. She had a pull-up on and there was no way we'd make it to a toilet anyway.

Someday we hope to go back to San Francisco. I'd like to eat some ice cream at Ghirardelli Square.

Ellie did well in Colorado. The first day she was a bit tentative, but after a couple of days she was back to her potty-trained self. I think the first incident in the car on the toll bridge confused her and threw her off for a few days, but I'm happy to report that we're home and she did great both on the airplane and on our drive home. 

So far in January...

Silly sister moments

Trucks with Daddy 

First lickings of a beater

Good-bye, pacifier.
We cut the tip off, so despite Hazel's best efforts to find a way to use it, it's officially retired.
We're all still coping. Naps will never be the same again.

Sister moment caught on the stairs

This duo.
Because the only thing more fun than pizza is a pizza picnic outside...

...followed by smores.

Unlike her sister, this one has a major sweet tooth.

Quick work trip to the north. Ellie makes new friends wherever we go. 

JUMP!
SALTE!

Ellie painted this mug for Mother's Day 2 years ago. She was 18 months old. 

We brought it to Guatemala. This week, it shattered into hundreds of pieces on the floor.
Sad day for this momma. 

And now this one is 18 months old.
Happy 1 1/2 years, Hazelnut.