This is a lengthy post and I've written it more for myself, for proof of my sacrificing ways. I might need this later when the kids are older.
This morning my eyes look like little squinty slits.
Yesterday was a prime example of the difficulty one may face when planning for any sort of semi-formal event in Jordan. The forty-five year old brother-in-law who is finally cutting the proverbial apron strings and embarking on a new life as a husband is/was the catalyst for all of yesterday's mayhem.
My search for tasteful clothing to wear to his wedding began two days ago, when I ventured out alone to a smaller mall that is known for having decent prices and a good selection. The first thing I tried on, I thought, "I can make this work. I can live with this," but the price made me choke and gag because the quality was just not there! I left without making any purchases related to my reason for shopping; I did buy an iced coffee for myself and a dozen donuts for my kids.
Yesterday's quest began early. I was at the mall when its doors opened. I found a store that sells only high-end Turkish clothing. The sales gal was very helpful, and I was ecstatic she was not a smoking man. She asked me my size. I told her. She gathered all sorts of outfits that were lovely and tasteful. I tried the first one on. It was not my size. I tried the second; again, not my size. I gave them back to her. She asked again, politely, what my size was. I added four additional numbers to the original size I had told her. (It's alright; I needed a reality check.) She brought my back the same clothing in my 'new' size. The first thing I tried on worked. She was honest. She did not make me feel like an old hag, complimented me on my bleach-stained sports pants she saw hanging on the hook, and asked me if I'd teach her English. She found my Arabic "cute" and "entertaining." I found her helpfulness absolutely priceless. Cha-ching, purchase made. And a fez tip to the Turkish, who know how ladies are built.
I quickly found shoes to match, jumped in the car and stopped by the supermarket. I ran home and put on the beginnings of lunch, ran back out and picked up child #4 from pre-school, then ran back home to check on lunch, then ran back out to pick up child #3 from her school. I drank three glasses of water and waited for the other kids to arrive.
Once lunch was finished and everyone was home, it was time to get ready for baseball practice, where they were having a good-bye gathering for one of the players and his Dad, who is also one of the coaches. Such is the life of embassy employee ex-pat types, who are bound to be re-assigned to new places. I left the Lone Ranger at practice and took the three girls to find shoes for the little ones and an entire outfit for the older one. We lucked out at "Special Italian Shoes," a store whose name always makes me laugh, as if the shoes are somehow learning disabled--either that or the shoes are for learning disabled Italians. The little girls were finished, with outfits completed, since their aunt had already sent them beautiful dresses from America several months back. Way to think ahead, sister!
This left the Lone Ranger and Oldest Daughter. She is in that in-between stage where she is young enough to be called a "girl" but old enough to wear something a bit mature. We walked and walked and walked, roaming in and out of stores carrying the most tasteless clothing. When we did find something suitable, it was either too big or too 'old.' Fruitless.
It was time to pick up Lone Ranger from practice/pizza party sendoff. We found him sweaty and full of pizza. We drove home, dropped off the two girls whose task had been completed, and flew to the nearest mall we had not yet visited. We found Oldest Daughter's ensemble in an American store whose clothing line is well-known and who just so happened to be having a sale, reducing its prices to almost affordable. She looked like a princess and I had to turn away quickly and bite my lip to fight back tears. By this time my bleach-stained sports pants were soaked with sweat, because we had literally been running for hours on end.
Three down, one to go. We meandered from store to store, trying to find a simple outfit for the boy. Everything was either for preschoolers or gelled teenagers, of which my son is neither. Farouq was limping from having pulled a muscle at practice, and he said he'd wear his old jeans to the wedding--he just did not care. I persisted. Finally I found myself drawn to a suit store. I asked the man if he carried suits for boys. He told me he did not, but a neighboring mall did, and he even knew which floor it was on. Thank you, helpful suit store man.
Back in the car, to a different mall. By this time it was already past my kids' bedtime. I was feeling shaky. We rounded the corner of the food court and found the store the man had described. I saw the prices hanging from the suits and was taken aback but I told the man, "We want a suit for my son." We found a beautiful grey one. Shirt, tie, everything. Alterations being done today, will pick up this evening. He looked so handsome standing there in his baseball cap, dirt-stained face, and brand new suit. Again, I fought back tears. The salesman felt sorry for me. I asked him if he had any idea how much money I had shelled out since 10 a.m. that day, just to get myself and four kids ready for a two-and-a-half hour event. He knocked an additional 30 JD off the price.
Today I have the remnants to buy--shoes for the boy, some accessories. Oldest Daughter kept telling me, "Remember, it's for Uncle Akram." But it really isn't. It's for them. Me. Us.
Thighs are aching, eyes are squinty, but we're going to look smashing.
Showing posts with label Kiddie-Os. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kiddie-Os. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Because Childhood Counts, part One
Farouq the pirate, courtesy of his sister and her Disney camera
Discussion in the car while riding to baseball practice--one of those rare moments when it's just the two of us.
My son: Mama, do you ever write about me on your blog?
Me: Sure, sometimes.
My son: What do you write about?
Me: Mostly the trials and tribulations of being a parent, good times we share, living in Jordan, funny things you might say or do. Stuff like that.
My son: Oh. Do I have a cool name on your blog?
Me: Well, you're called "Farouq."
My son: You use my real name?!
Me: Yes, since my name is "Umm Farouq," I didn't see an issue with it.
My son: Oh (thinking). Couldn't I have a nickname or something?
Me: I guess you could. What would you like me to call you?
My son: How about, The Lone Ranger?
Me: (laughing) The Lone Ranger? What made you come up with that?
My son: Well, this summer PawPaw told me that in his day, the Lone Ranger was to him like Power Rangers or something. It was cool.
Me: Yes, it was cool. It was better than Power Rangers. The only thing that bothered me was that his sidekick was named Tonto, which means stupid in Spanish. I never knew if that was on purpose or if the creators really just thought that was a good Indian name.
My son: It was probably on purpose.
We break into the Lone Ranger theme, which he suprisingly knows; usually I would do it with my hands slapping my lap, but since I am driving, I opt for the vocal "da da dum, da da dum, da da dum, dum, dummm."
When we get out of the car, the Lone Ranger holds my hand, and we walk towards the practice field.
Monday, March 10, 2008
On Measuring their Success
Two nights ago I dreamt that my oldest child scored a 90% on the Tawjihi exam. This exam is the one that students take to get out of high school, and in Jordan it basically determines the path one's life will take. At age 17. Two stupid numbers. A test score.
I woke from that dream in kind of a half-jubilant, half-panicked sweat. I was so proud of her, but at the same time, I was thinking, "Ninety? But she cannot study medicine with a 90! What happened?"
Then I needed to slap my face, three times hard--maybe even four times. Good Lord, had I actually (albeit in my dream world) let her go through the Tawjihi stream? Did I honestly lock her in her room until she had memorized 27 volumes of boring text, for months on end, not allowing her to have any semblance of a social life? Did she regurgitate all of that memorized text verbatim, allowing her to be one of the successful (or unsuccessful, depending on her family's perception of success?) Did I deny her a giant boogie-down fiesta and fireworks from the roof tops and trays of kanafeh for all of the neighbors because she, my child prodigy, only managed to squeak by with a 90? What a disappointment she is! Where have I failed as a parent?
If this all sounds ridiculous, it is because...it is. When I was a senior in high school, I was a hard working, studious type. But I also had loads of friends, loads of fun, and could not wait to start my education after high school with a clean slate and fresh attitude. Almost everyone I knew planned to go to college after graduation. My graduating class today boasts doctors, lawyers, politicians, chemical engineers, actors...just about every sort of profession one can imagine.
I remember one of my classmates who was a heavy drinker/pot smoker/general troublemaker in high school, and was prevented from walking across the stage to receive his diploma with the rest of us. He had simply failed too many classes and had to stay behind for summer school. He was not particularly smart (or was he? perhaps he just made bad choices) but was very funny and well-liked. When I went back to Alabama in 2003 for a visit, I saw his face plastered on billboards all over town. He was one of the top real estate agents in the entire state, and I believe he worked for Coldwell Banker and was in the "Million Dollar Club." He had made hundreds of thousands of dollars in a few years' time; he lived in a mansion, had a beautiful family, and was really, really happy. (or so it appeared on the billboard)
Had his high school performance or graduation exit exams been the determining factors in his career opportunities, this guy would have been shoveling dung for a living, not selling million dollar homes.
This is what I love about America. This is what I miss about America. One can sling hash on Tuesday, get a secretarial job on Thursday, and by next Fall be next in line for a managerial position or be offered a spot in a commercial or open his own restaurant or become a...whatever. Anything. It is all within reach. IT IS ALL WITHIN REACH.
How many folks were in classes with me in Grad school who had already retired from their jobs? How many self-made people do you know who possibly began their journeys in college without knowing how to write a proper paragraph or who could barely speak the English language? I know plenty! And they walked across that stage, some of them ten years later, but by God they did it. And they move on, move forward, making successes of their lives and allowing their God-given talents--that might have been laying dormant for years upon years--to be developed and polished and put to good use.
I don't believe in the way these kids have to be boxed in here. I don't believe that a sixteen year-old should choose to study either Sciences or Literature, because life will tell them that they need both. I don't believe these kids yet know what they want to do or even what they are really good at doing. I believe they need to be able to fall on their faces a few times and make some bad choices. I don't believe in scripting my children's entire lives. I don't believe in putting pressures on my kids that I myself would never have been able to bear.
I do believe kids are powerful and resilient and can do more than we give them credit for. I don't, however, believe this is what my children need. When I taught the TOEFL classes, I would always begin my first lesson by taking a poll of my students and asking them, "Who ended up studying what they really wanted to study in University?" Out of sixteen students, maybe two, but usually one, would raise a hand. The blank faces staring at me--sullen, tired faces of young people who wanted to pass an English exam so they could leave this country--spoke volumes. This country is producing droves of graduates who hate what they do, but they do what they do because the test scores determined it all. This is the worst sort of victimization--it chips away at a person and breeds regret and frustration.
This is a pivotal year for me and I have to decide what is best for my kids.
I woke from that dream in kind of a half-jubilant, half-panicked sweat. I was so proud of her, but at the same time, I was thinking, "Ninety? But she cannot study medicine with a 90! What happened?"
Then I needed to slap my face, three times hard--maybe even four times. Good Lord, had I actually (albeit in my dream world) let her go through the Tawjihi stream? Did I honestly lock her in her room until she had memorized 27 volumes of boring text, for months on end, not allowing her to have any semblance of a social life? Did she regurgitate all of that memorized text verbatim, allowing her to be one of the successful (or unsuccessful, depending on her family's perception of success?) Did I deny her a giant boogie-down fiesta and fireworks from the roof tops and trays of kanafeh for all of the neighbors because she, my child prodigy, only managed to squeak by with a 90? What a disappointment she is! Where have I failed as a parent?
If this all sounds ridiculous, it is because...it is. When I was a senior in high school, I was a hard working, studious type. But I also had loads of friends, loads of fun, and could not wait to start my education after high school with a clean slate and fresh attitude. Almost everyone I knew planned to go to college after graduation. My graduating class today boasts doctors, lawyers, politicians, chemical engineers, actors...just about every sort of profession one can imagine.
I remember one of my classmates who was a heavy drinker/pot smoker/general troublemaker in high school, and was prevented from walking across the stage to receive his diploma with the rest of us. He had simply failed too many classes and had to stay behind for summer school. He was not particularly smart (or was he? perhaps he just made bad choices) but was very funny and well-liked. When I went back to Alabama in 2003 for a visit, I saw his face plastered on billboards all over town. He was one of the top real estate agents in the entire state, and I believe he worked for Coldwell Banker and was in the "Million Dollar Club." He had made hundreds of thousands of dollars in a few years' time; he lived in a mansion, had a beautiful family, and was really, really happy. (or so it appeared on the billboard)
Had his high school performance or graduation exit exams been the determining factors in his career opportunities, this guy would have been shoveling dung for a living, not selling million dollar homes.
This is what I love about America. This is what I miss about America. One can sling hash on Tuesday, get a secretarial job on Thursday, and by next Fall be next in line for a managerial position or be offered a spot in a commercial or open his own restaurant or become a...whatever. Anything. It is all within reach. IT IS ALL WITHIN REACH.
How many folks were in classes with me in Grad school who had already retired from their jobs? How many self-made people do you know who possibly began their journeys in college without knowing how to write a proper paragraph or who could barely speak the English language? I know plenty! And they walked across that stage, some of them ten years later, but by God they did it. And they move on, move forward, making successes of their lives and allowing their God-given talents--that might have been laying dormant for years upon years--to be developed and polished and put to good use.
I don't believe in the way these kids have to be boxed in here. I don't believe that a sixteen year-old should choose to study either Sciences or Literature, because life will tell them that they need both. I don't believe these kids yet know what they want to do or even what they are really good at doing. I believe they need to be able to fall on their faces a few times and make some bad choices. I don't believe in scripting my children's entire lives. I don't believe in putting pressures on my kids that I myself would never have been able to bear.
I do believe kids are powerful and resilient and can do more than we give them credit for. I don't, however, believe this is what my children need. When I taught the TOEFL classes, I would always begin my first lesson by taking a poll of my students and asking them, "Who ended up studying what they really wanted to study in University?" Out of sixteen students, maybe two, but usually one, would raise a hand. The blank faces staring at me--sullen, tired faces of young people who wanted to pass an English exam so they could leave this country--spoke volumes. This country is producing droves of graduates who hate what they do, but they do what they do because the test scores determined it all. This is the worst sort of victimization--it chips away at a person and breeds regret and frustration.
This is a pivotal year for me and I have to decide what is best for my kids.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Aha!
I was certain today was Thursday. Before sleeping last night, I had mentally prepared myself for my usual Thursday routine, which consists of trying to clean the house nicely to prepare for Friday, my husband's only day off. Also, every Thursday evening a lovely friend drops by for a cup of coffee and a chat, and I always look forward to seeing her. She is 11 years my younger, but is a pillar of maturity and introspection; not to mention, she loves my kids and engages them in all kinds of conversations about what they are interested in, what they are reading, or what Quranic surahs they might be working on. My eldest is currently memorizing Surat al-Baqarah, while my son just finished Surat Yasin. MashaAllah wal hamdulillah.
Last week my friend provided my daughter with all sorts of nifty study strategies (which all kids here need), as well as tricks to help her memorize Quran more easily.
Alas, today is only Wednesday. I have more time to prepare myself for the weekend, as well as more time to contemplate the 'a-ha!' moment that I had with my friend last week. I do believe she is an excellent choice as a mentor for my children--someone from outside of the family, not too far removed from their generation, yet adult enough to help them along their paths. I had mentors growing up and they were invaluable people in my life.
More on this later, inshaAllah; have been offered a ride to the supermarket and I must take it.
Last week my friend provided my daughter with all sorts of nifty study strategies (which all kids here need), as well as tricks to help her memorize Quran more easily.
Alas, today is only Wednesday. I have more time to prepare myself for the weekend, as well as more time to contemplate the 'a-ha!' moment that I had with my friend last week. I do believe she is an excellent choice as a mentor for my children--someone from outside of the family, not too far removed from their generation, yet adult enough to help them along their paths. I had mentors growing up and they were invaluable people in my life.
More on this later, inshaAllah; have been offered a ride to the supermarket and I must take it.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
De Colores
Hubellubo.
My third child turned six years old on Friday. She requested a Rainbow Cake be made in her honor, so I happily obliged, but not until yesterday, when I actually felt safe driving to the store in the snow leftovers. My oldest daughter and I learned how to make this cake from an episode of Zoom, circa 2001. I loved Zoom (the original) and I was quite happy when PBS launched a modern version. Zoom was also responsible for teaching my older sister the language of Ubby Dubby (also spelled Ubbi Dubbi), which she has passed on to her children. Zoom is (was? is it still on PBS?) a powerhouse of entertainment and information, a pioneer in children's programming.
I give you the Rainbow Cake. This cake's theme is the bluegreens, not because we're partial to blues and greens, but because, much to my surprise, we had only two shades of food coloring in the pantry. Then I remembered, I lent my RED food coloring to a neighbor who was making red velvet cake. I never got it back. Ours is not an angel food cake; no one in this household likes cake that tastes like shrunken styrofoam.
Here are my two main colors: green and blue. I will mix these colors to make a third color: bluegreen, or if you feel like being fancy, aquamarine. Ignore the honey and peanut butter in the background; they have nothing to do with the cake.
We divided the batter into three different bowls, to make three colors. Mix thoroughly.
Layer the colors carefully, one on top of the other. You need a Bundt (a what? a Bundt! a bun? no, a Bundt! It's a cake! Oh, she made a CAKE! Look everyone, she made a CAAAAKE!) pan. It does not have to be humpy but what kind of Bundt pan has no humps? Does anyone remember that Bundt cake mix from the 80s that was called Tunnel of Fudge? That was my fave. I digress.
Once the cake has cooled completely, slice it in half to make two rainbow humps, and place them back to back on a large cake plate. Take your icing (I splurged and bought Duncan Hines but I usually do not) and divide it into three bowls, and make three different colors. Once again, the shades of blue...so we threw in some strawberries for pizazz. Ignore mound of dirty dishes in the background.
This is Child #3. She took her supply of M & M minis and dotted the cake with them. This kid is about to burst, she's so excited. I just love her.
Here are the inner workings of the cake. It has that tie-dyed look to it, which we thought was rather eclectic. The Eclectic Rainbow Cake. Make one for your kids, I guarantee they'll tuck the experience back into those unforgettable things we did for fun with mom memories. If you don't have kids, make one for yourself or your significant other. Or for your best friend. This cake is promised to fill the room with warm fuzzies.
We're gonna zoom, zoom, zooma-zoom,
We're gonna zooma zooma zooma, zoom...
My third child turned six years old on Friday. She requested a Rainbow Cake be made in her honor, so I happily obliged, but not until yesterday, when I actually felt safe driving to the store in the snow leftovers. My oldest daughter and I learned how to make this cake from an episode of Zoom, circa 2001. I loved Zoom (the original) and I was quite happy when PBS launched a modern version. Zoom was also responsible for teaching my older sister the language of Ubby Dubby (also spelled Ubbi Dubbi), which she has passed on to her children. Zoom is (was? is it still on PBS?) a powerhouse of entertainment and information, a pioneer in children's programming.
I give you the Rainbow Cake. This cake's theme is the bluegreens, not because we're partial to blues and greens, but because, much to my surprise, we had only two shades of food coloring in the pantry. Then I remembered, I lent my RED food coloring to a neighbor who was making red velvet cake. I never got it back. Ours is not an angel food cake; no one in this household likes cake that tastes like shrunken styrofoam.
Here are my two main colors: green and blue. I will mix these colors to make a third color: bluegreen, or if you feel like being fancy, aquamarine. Ignore the honey and peanut butter in the background; they have nothing to do with the cake.
We divided the batter into three different bowls, to make three colors. Mix thoroughly.
Layer the colors carefully, one on top of the other. You need a Bundt (a what? a Bundt! a bun? no, a Bundt! It's a cake! Oh, she made a CAKE! Look everyone, she made a CAAAAKE!) pan. It does not have to be humpy but what kind of Bundt pan has no humps? Does anyone remember that Bundt cake mix from the 80s that was called Tunnel of Fudge? That was my fave. I digress.
Once the cake has cooled completely, slice it in half to make two rainbow humps, and place them back to back on a large cake plate. Take your icing (I splurged and bought Duncan Hines but I usually do not) and divide it into three bowls, and make three different colors. Once again, the shades of blue...so we threw in some strawberries for pizazz. Ignore mound of dirty dishes in the background.
This is Child #3. She took her supply of M & M minis and dotted the cake with them. This kid is about to burst, she's so excited. I just love her.
Here are the inner workings of the cake. It has that tie-dyed look to it, which we thought was rather eclectic. The Eclectic Rainbow Cake. Make one for your kids, I guarantee they'll tuck the experience back into those unforgettable things we did for fun with mom memories. If you don't have kids, make one for yourself or your significant other. Or for your best friend. This cake is promised to fill the room with warm fuzzies.
We're gonna zoom, zoom, zooma-zoom,
We're gonna zooma zooma zooma, zoom...
Monday, January 28, 2008
Save the Kids: A Reprise
I know I write about food and how I enjoy good things to eat quite often. My husband and children love a wide range of foods (well, except the almost six year-old, who currently prefers Arabic dishes that start with the letter "m"). Good food and good company go hand in hand; I love to cook and I love to feed others. However, I have battled with my weight at different stages of my life, including this one, and anyone who has weight issues, whether they be those thirty extra pounds, or one hundred and thirty, is someone with whom I identify. I really do understand.
I am not trying to make any enemies via posting what I'm about to write. Those of us with weight issues, who are adults, have made choices regarding our eating habits and commitments to moving our bodies or living a sedentary lifestyle. OK, some of us were born with the genetic predisposition to be large, some of us have hormonal issues such as thyroid or pituitary, and some of us are diabetic or battle with fluctuating glucose levels. We adults all have circumstances, and a history of choices behind us.
But what of our ten year-olds? What about those precious children we are raising who have not even truly reached puberty, but whose body fat comprises more than half of their weight? What about the kids who never go outside to play, who cannot touch their toes or do one single push-up or sit-up? Children who have never been taken on hikes or family evening walks, but rather are obliged to sit in front of some sort of entertainment box with a plate of microwaved crap because their parents are just too busy to deal with them? What choices has my 7th grader made about what goes on her plate at lunchtime or at dinnertime, except for those choices I have provided her?
I think that living in Jordan for the last six years has been great for my family in that we are away from the drive-in kind of life. I remember being a working mom in the US, when my workday was from 7:30 a.m. until nearly 5 p.m. The last thing I wanted to do after leaving work was to come home and cook. Many nights we ate pizza or fish and fries from a box or take-out Chinese. I do not apologize for those times because I did what I thought was right for my family at that time. But I made sure I interspersed those kinds of quick meals during the week with wholesome, home-cooked stuff, too.
All praise is due to God, my children got their father's metabolism. They are string beans and full of energy, mashaAllah. Looking back at my own childhood, I recognize that I was also a ball of energy and I was given the opportunities to be athletic time and time again. I am thankful that I took them and made physical activity an integral part of my life. It was not as if I sat down and contemplated, "to move, or not to move," because it was just the natural, feel-good thing to do. I attended public schools where P.E. was mandatory, every single day. Each year we took the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. There were perhaps two or three overweight young girls in my entire grade level, and virtually no overweight males. I can vividly remember sitting in Science class after P.E., and my legs pressing against that creaky old wooden desk seat would make these icky pools of sweat. It was yucky, yes, but looking back I am truly grateful someone--the system-- gave me the chance to make my heart beat fast.
If you never watched Shaq's Big Challenge, it is an eye-opening, moving show about a group of kids who are morbidly obese. I tuned in last night with my family. We were all moved to tears. The United States is on a fast track to being the first country where children's life spans will not be longer than their parents'. Heart disease will start showing up around age 20 in some kids; forget about the mid-life crises, because many won't make it past 40. We have let our children take over our households on so many levels. What parent cannot control what he brings home from the supermarket? Put the damn salad and grilled fish on the table, and let that be all there is. If they behave well, must we reward them with an ice cream? A pizza? What happened to a hug or a card or a sweet note in their lunch boxes? With all that we know about how the body works, why are we killing our children? Daily physical activity, increased heart rates and the kind of racing that makes you feel like your lungs are going to explode are not unnatural. They should be part of childhood and adolescence.
To end on a positive note, here's one of the success stories from the show. This kid's parents had to be in on the game, or he never would have made it.
As with anything--mental, spiritual, physical--we must begin with ourselves, purify ourselves, and be the right role models. Nourish those children, who are completely innocent, and teach them to want to take care of the gifts that their bodies are.
Some helpful links:
CDC and Childhood Obesity
Childhood Obesity Statistics and Facts
Kids and Fast Food, with other great links for kids' health
Overweight Teen, with BMI indicator for children and teens
Denise Austin Helps Kids Get Fit
I am not trying to make any enemies via posting what I'm about to write. Those of us with weight issues, who are adults, have made choices regarding our eating habits and commitments to moving our bodies or living a sedentary lifestyle. OK, some of us were born with the genetic predisposition to be large, some of us have hormonal issues such as thyroid or pituitary, and some of us are diabetic or battle with fluctuating glucose levels. We adults all have circumstances, and a history of choices behind us.
But what of our ten year-olds? What about those precious children we are raising who have not even truly reached puberty, but whose body fat comprises more than half of their weight? What about the kids who never go outside to play, who cannot touch their toes or do one single push-up or sit-up? Children who have never been taken on hikes or family evening walks, but rather are obliged to sit in front of some sort of entertainment box with a plate of microwaved crap because their parents are just too busy to deal with them? What choices has my 7th grader made about what goes on her plate at lunchtime or at dinnertime, except for those choices I have provided her?
I think that living in Jordan for the last six years has been great for my family in that we are away from the drive-in kind of life. I remember being a working mom in the US, when my workday was from 7:30 a.m. until nearly 5 p.m. The last thing I wanted to do after leaving work was to come home and cook. Many nights we ate pizza or fish and fries from a box or take-out Chinese. I do not apologize for those times because I did what I thought was right for my family at that time. But I made sure I interspersed those kinds of quick meals during the week with wholesome, home-cooked stuff, too.
All praise is due to God, my children got their father's metabolism. They are string beans and full of energy, mashaAllah. Looking back at my own childhood, I recognize that I was also a ball of energy and I was given the opportunities to be athletic time and time again. I am thankful that I took them and made physical activity an integral part of my life. It was not as if I sat down and contemplated, "to move, or not to move," because it was just the natural, feel-good thing to do. I attended public schools where P.E. was mandatory, every single day. Each year we took the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. There were perhaps two or three overweight young girls in my entire grade level, and virtually no overweight males. I can vividly remember sitting in Science class after P.E., and my legs pressing against that creaky old wooden desk seat would make these icky pools of sweat. It was yucky, yes, but looking back I am truly grateful someone--the system-- gave me the chance to make my heart beat fast.
If you never watched Shaq's Big Challenge, it is an eye-opening, moving show about a group of kids who are morbidly obese. I tuned in last night with my family. We were all moved to tears. The United States is on a fast track to being the first country where children's life spans will not be longer than their parents'. Heart disease will start showing up around age 20 in some kids; forget about the mid-life crises, because many won't make it past 40. We have let our children take over our households on so many levels. What parent cannot control what he brings home from the supermarket? Put the damn salad and grilled fish on the table, and let that be all there is. If they behave well, must we reward them with an ice cream? A pizza? What happened to a hug or a card or a sweet note in their lunch boxes? With all that we know about how the body works, why are we killing our children? Daily physical activity, increased heart rates and the kind of racing that makes you feel like your lungs are going to explode are not unnatural. They should be part of childhood and adolescence.
To end on a positive note, here's one of the success stories from the show. This kid's parents had to be in on the game, or he never would have made it.
As with anything--mental, spiritual, physical--we must begin with ourselves, purify ourselves, and be the right role models. Nourish those children, who are completely innocent, and teach them to want to take care of the gifts that their bodies are.
Some helpful links:
CDC and Childhood Obesity
Childhood Obesity Statistics and Facts
Kids and Fast Food, with other great links for kids' health
Overweight Teen, with BMI indicator for children and teens
Denise Austin Helps Kids Get Fit
Thursday, December 20, 2007
These boots were made for walking (sort of)
My five (almost six) and three (almost four) year olds were pleased as punch with their new winter boots they donned for Eid. The decorative fur balls, however, ended up being deterrents to walking easily, coming unraveled and getting stepped on. I have one fur ball in my purse right now that needs to be sewn back on to one little grey boot.
Seeing my kindergartner all revved up about her boots reminded me of a time when I was a boot fancier. Mine, however, were a little less glam and a lot more, shall we say, proletariat? No, perhaps that is not the right word. I guess as a teenager I felt I had been born in the wrong decade, and I wore these boots proudly in an effort to symbolize something I couldn't really verbalize, much to the dismay of my school administrators and teachers. My 'rebel with an undefined cause' phase lasted about two years, during which I believed I was cool. Maybe I was.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Ay! Me Achin' Belly!
We live right behind my kids' school, but I still drive them every morning because I am afraid of the crazed bus drivers who fly around our street corner as if they're on the Autobahn. They all display that warning "Caution, School Bus" on the back of the bus, but to me it seems that anything outside of the bus on the sidewalk or the streets is fair game. Driving my kids to school gives me a chance to check out all the kiddies walking or getting off of the buses in the morning.
Morning time in our family, as in every family, can get a little hairy. Everyone must wash, dress, eat, and get out the door within a reasonable amount of time. This morning, it was 20 minutes. It all depends on when yours truly can stumble out of bed. My caffeine addiction does whip my butt.
However, I make sure everyone has something in his stomach before heading out the door. Even if it is as little as a glass of milk or a banana, they must start their day with some fuel. This is my family policy, and my husband and I enforce it together.
What kills me is to see the multitudes of children on the sidewalks outside of school, at 7:20 a.m., stuffing their faces with bags of chips. Where are their parents? Where is the fruit or the milk? The culture of snack foods here in Amman is even worse than what I ever witnessed living in America. Chips here are mostly made with the cheapest oils (I'm talking about the shillin' variety); I've come to recognize that the kids here feel it is a birthright to have ishi zaky (something delicious) on a daily basis, sometimes more than once a day. I will be the first to admit that I will snack on some junk food now and then, but I never as a child ate chips daily. Our after school snacks were apples smeared with peanut butter or some cheese and crackers--not two bags of Lay's.
My kids come home and tell me stories of what they see their peers eating at school. Kids will bring two bags of chips, two juices, nary a sandwich, and then go to the canteen and buy some licorice (fake kind, red filled w/ white sugar cream) or donuts. My kindergartner's principal finally declared that the five year-olds may only bring something sweet or salty such as cookies or chips once during a week. They are trying to turn these kids' eating habits around, but it takes more than kindergarten teachers to accomplish this task.
This is a country where an entire crate full of beautiful cucumbers can be purchased for less than $3. Carrots are sweet and delicious. I even love to munch on the romaine lettuce, which is in season and plentiful. Oatmeal is now available on every supermarket shelf, even in the local ducanehs. We have the tools to change our kids' habits before they are fighting Type 2 diabetes here in Jordan the way they are in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf countries.
Ditch the chips; save the kids.
Read here about Chef Jamie Oliver of Naked Chef fame and his attempt to put nutrition into the foods served in Britain's schools.
Morning time in our family, as in every family, can get a little hairy. Everyone must wash, dress, eat, and get out the door within a reasonable amount of time. This morning, it was 20 minutes. It all depends on when yours truly can stumble out of bed. My caffeine addiction does whip my butt.
However, I make sure everyone has something in his stomach before heading out the door. Even if it is as little as a glass of milk or a banana, they must start their day with some fuel. This is my family policy, and my husband and I enforce it together.
What kills me is to see the multitudes of children on the sidewalks outside of school, at 7:20 a.m., stuffing their faces with bags of chips. Where are their parents? Where is the fruit or the milk? The culture of snack foods here in Amman is even worse than what I ever witnessed living in America. Chips here are mostly made with the cheapest oils (I'm talking about the shillin' variety); I've come to recognize that the kids here feel it is a birthright to have ishi zaky (something delicious) on a daily basis, sometimes more than once a day. I will be the first to admit that I will snack on some junk food now and then, but I never as a child ate chips daily. Our after school snacks were apples smeared with peanut butter or some cheese and crackers--not two bags of Lay's.
My kids come home and tell me stories of what they see their peers eating at school. Kids will bring two bags of chips, two juices, nary a sandwich, and then go to the canteen and buy some licorice (fake kind, red filled w/ white sugar cream) or donuts. My kindergartner's principal finally declared that the five year-olds may only bring something sweet or salty such as cookies or chips once during a week. They are trying to turn these kids' eating habits around, but it takes more than kindergarten teachers to accomplish this task.
This is a country where an entire crate full of beautiful cucumbers can be purchased for less than $3. Carrots are sweet and delicious. I even love to munch on the romaine lettuce, which is in season and plentiful. Oatmeal is now available on every supermarket shelf, even in the local ducanehs. We have the tools to change our kids' habits before they are fighting Type 2 diabetes here in Jordan the way they are in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf countries.
Ditch the chips; save the kids.
Read here about Chef Jamie Oliver of Naked Chef fame and his attempt to put nutrition into the foods served in Britain's schools.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A Mom's Cordial Request
Dearest Children,
I love you all so much.
But please, if you feel the need to throw up, consider the following:
1. Try to already be in or near the bathroom when the feeling overtakes you. Stomach acid, I've found, can penetrate marble floors, leaving them with the "splattered" look, long after they've been cleaned.
2. Don't drink a 1/2 gallon of chocolate milk just hours before needing to vomit. Sour milk is bad enough, but milk + Nesquik + digestive juices = most unpleasantness.
3. If Mom or Dad put a bucket near your bed and line your carpet with plastic just in case you feel the need to regurgitate during the night, TRY to at least aim your spillage in the bucket or on the plastic. How it makes it across the room to your sleeping sibling is beyond our comprehension.
4. Try, just try to not plan your illnesses on the same days that your parents want to take a trip or have very special out of town guests coming to visit.
5. Mama will always be there to hold you up, put a cold or warm cloth on your head, and give you 7-Up.
Vomit: It's an undeniable part of life's experiences.
I love you all so much.
But please, if you feel the need to throw up, consider the following:
1. Try to already be in or near the bathroom when the feeling overtakes you. Stomach acid, I've found, can penetrate marble floors, leaving them with the "splattered" look, long after they've been cleaned.
2. Don't drink a 1/2 gallon of chocolate milk just hours before needing to vomit. Sour milk is bad enough, but milk + Nesquik + digestive juices = most unpleasantness.
3. If Mom or Dad put a bucket near your bed and line your carpet with plastic just in case you feel the need to regurgitate during the night, TRY to at least aim your spillage in the bucket or on the plastic. How it makes it across the room to your sleeping sibling is beyond our comprehension.
4. Try, just try to not plan your illnesses on the same days that your parents want to take a trip or have very special out of town guests coming to visit.
5. Mama will always be there to hold you up, put a cold or warm cloth on your head, and give you 7-Up.
Vomit: It's an undeniable part of life's experiences.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Untitled
The best way to remember how to spell the word definitely is to identify its root, which is finite, meaning,
1. having definite or definable limits; "a finite number of possiblities;" Etymology: Middle English finit, from Latin finitus, past participle of finire
Date: 15th century
This is one of the most commonly misspelled words I read, daily. There is no "a" to be found in it.
Do schools even bother to teach etymologies anymore? How about the fine art of lexical knowledge? Do we care about building our vocabularies, or are we content accepting our condemnation to the texting universe of CU LTR and H R U? I, for one, say "No!" (or is there an abbreviation for that these days?)
I am on the cusp of having to make some big decisions about my children's education here in Jordan. I want them to be proficient in my mother tongue, not just spitting out words, but writing with confidence and clarity. The old paper-and-pen write till your wrists ache exercises that helped me to not be a moron are lost on them here. I question whether or not they will accept instruction from me; I have always been able to teach others' children but not my own. Am I alone in this way? Any hints to help me help my kids be interested in writing well?
I definitely have some planning to do.
1. having definite or definable limits; "a finite number of possiblities;" Etymology: Middle English finit, from Latin finitus, past participle of finire
Date: 15th century
This is one of the most commonly misspelled words I read, daily. There is no "a" to be found in it.
Do schools even bother to teach etymologies anymore? How about the fine art of lexical knowledge? Do we care about building our vocabularies, or are we content accepting our condemnation to the texting universe of CU LTR and H R U? I, for one, say "No!" (or is there an abbreviation for that these days?)
I am on the cusp of having to make some big decisions about my children's education here in Jordan. I want them to be proficient in my mother tongue, not just spitting out words, but writing with confidence and clarity. The old paper-and-pen write till your wrists ache exercises that helped me to not be a moron are lost on them here. I question whether or not they will accept instruction from me; I have always been able to teach others' children but not my own. Am I alone in this way? Any hints to help me help my kids be interested in writing well?
I definitely have some planning to do.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
School Daze
School starts tomorrow. I've been partially in denial, thinking that August 19th was still far, far away. Alas, it's tomorrow.
Typical school lunch choices for kids in Jordan, packed from home with love:
1. Za'atar sandwich
2. Lebaneh sandwich
3. 3 bags of chips and a candy bar
4. Dyed sugar water, naturally flavored, of course
In my house, I offer some variety:
1. Za'atar sandwich
2. Lebaneh sandwich
3. Cheese sandwich
4. Turkey sandwich, but only in cold weather
5. Peanut butter sandwich
I'm off to buy some labels for the kids' books, because we must wrap all school books in clear contact paper, thus ensuring they last for at least half of the first semester. At some point in the year, we'll all be going to the stationery store to use the giant stapler to piece back the pages that have fallen out. Those would be the ministry-issued books. The McGraw-Hill English Literature, hardback, at 40 JD a pop, had better last the entire year.
Here's to a smashing school year, kiddies!
Typical school lunch choices for kids in Jordan, packed from home with love:
1. Za'atar sandwich
2. Lebaneh sandwich
3. 3 bags of chips and a candy bar
4. Dyed sugar water, naturally flavored, of course
In my house, I offer some variety:
1. Za'atar sandwich
2. Lebaneh sandwich
3. Cheese sandwich
4. Turkey sandwich, but only in cold weather
5. Peanut butter sandwich
I'm off to buy some labels for the kids' books, because we must wrap all school books in clear contact paper, thus ensuring they last for at least half of the first semester. At some point in the year, we'll all be going to the stationery store to use the giant stapler to piece back the pages that have fallen out. Those would be the ministry-issued books. The McGraw-Hill English Literature, hardback, at 40 JD a pop, had better last the entire year.
Here's to a smashing school year, kiddies!
Monday, August 13, 2007
Just blowing off steam, dude
When parents let their kids rule the house, trouble ensues.
There is a seven year old boy in my presence--a visitor--who says and does things that, in my humble opinion, require serious consequences. No consequences are given. His behavior snowballs into fits of rage and words that I would never think to let fall from my lips. I think he caused my blood pressure, which is normally very normal, to rise. I just now, in a fit of shaky frustration, accidentally washed my brand new contact lens down the sink.
These boys are the future of our Ummah. The mothers will be questioned. I remember a lesson with Umm al-Khayr, a very beautiful lesson, in which she was describing an elderly mother complaining about her son beating her. Who was to blame for this child's behavior, which carried into his sorry excuse for manhood? The mama. It's the mother, most of the time, who lets these boys, these little golden can-do-no-wrong men, get away with murder.
I am cut from a different cloth, I guess. I'm always looking to find out what my children have done or said, keeping them in tow, forcing them to have good manners even if it makes them severely uncomfortable. I can't, I won't, raise a hoard of brats. I refuse to raise a prince who can't clean up after himself or take a dish to the sink or who demoralizes women, be they his sisters, his mother, his wife, or any other breathing female.
I am not afraid to use my hands on my children. I'm not promoting physical force, but I think that there can be, in certain instances, merit in it. (My grandmother was a well-known pincher) Some of you may disagree, and that's your thing. My husband has manners. My father had manners. My grandfather had manners. All of them were spanked for something, at some point in their lives. All of them knew about consequences, and had a level of fear for elders. They did not go into other people's homes, ripping open refrigerators, criticizing the food of the hostess, abusing the children who lived in the home. What is up with the need to destroy property? To slam my doors or throw rocks at my daughters? I'm trying to fathom how parents can just sit by and watch these things happen. I also think that after my generation, the boys (and girls, to be fair) started ruling the roost. Somewhere along the way the psychologists and "family experts" told us that kids need to be empowered. Empowerment lead to total control in some cases. Where has that road taken us regarding respect, manners, and concern for our neighbors? To disaster, I believe.
Hillary Clinton may have said a lot of dumb things, but "It takes a village" wasn't one of them. The trouble nowadays, though, is that if another villager tries to right a wrong with another's child, the adult villagers will end up hating one another. It's the "not my angel" syndrome. Puh-leeze.
You are the parents. Take a hold of your kids; love them, but give them limits, for the love of God. You owe it to them.
There is a seven year old boy in my presence--a visitor--who says and does things that, in my humble opinion, require serious consequences. No consequences are given. His behavior snowballs into fits of rage and words that I would never think to let fall from my lips. I think he caused my blood pressure, which is normally very normal, to rise. I just now, in a fit of shaky frustration, accidentally washed my brand new contact lens down the sink.
These boys are the future of our Ummah. The mothers will be questioned. I remember a lesson with Umm al-Khayr, a very beautiful lesson, in which she was describing an elderly mother complaining about her son beating her. Who was to blame for this child's behavior, which carried into his sorry excuse for manhood? The mama. It's the mother, most of the time, who lets these boys, these little golden can-do-no-wrong men, get away with murder.
I am cut from a different cloth, I guess. I'm always looking to find out what my children have done or said, keeping them in tow, forcing them to have good manners even if it makes them severely uncomfortable. I can't, I won't, raise a hoard of brats. I refuse to raise a prince who can't clean up after himself or take a dish to the sink or who demoralizes women, be they his sisters, his mother, his wife, or any other breathing female.
I am not afraid to use my hands on my children. I'm not promoting physical force, but I think that there can be, in certain instances, merit in it. (My grandmother was a well-known pincher) Some of you may disagree, and that's your thing. My husband has manners. My father had manners. My grandfather had manners. All of them were spanked for something, at some point in their lives. All of them knew about consequences, and had a level of fear for elders. They did not go into other people's homes, ripping open refrigerators, criticizing the food of the hostess, abusing the children who lived in the home. What is up with the need to destroy property? To slam my doors or throw rocks at my daughters? I'm trying to fathom how parents can just sit by and watch these things happen. I also think that after my generation, the boys (and girls, to be fair) started ruling the roost. Somewhere along the way the psychologists and "family experts" told us that kids need to be empowered. Empowerment lead to total control in some cases. Where has that road taken us regarding respect, manners, and concern for our neighbors? To disaster, I believe.
Hillary Clinton may have said a lot of dumb things, but "It takes a village" wasn't one of them. The trouble nowadays, though, is that if another villager tries to right a wrong with another's child, the adult villagers will end up hating one another. It's the "not my angel" syndrome. Puh-leeze.
You are the parents. Take a hold of your kids; love them, but give them limits, for the love of God. You owe it to them.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Round Six, Ding
I am psyching myself up to go to my kids' school and pay tuition. We are beginning our sixth school year living in Amman, which is hard to believe. The time--well, I can't really account for most of the time that has passed, because it's flown by at lightning speed. I do know that my son now wears the same size shoe as I do, so I guess six years have indeed passed.
I have a love-hate relationship with schools here. The other day I was watching a documentary on Jazeera English about the secular education in Lebanon, and how they are working to develop 'whole children' who possess skills in critical thinking and who emerge from twelve years of compulsory education as internationally aware students who can compete in the world. I was thinking to myself how uncanny this was...a country that has been war-torn on and off for the last thirty years, yet their educational system is not only in tact, but also thriving.
Seeing the children interact in the American-style classroom setting in Lebanon pushed my thoughts elsewhere, to my kids' school(s) here in Amman. What a stark contrast. Classrooms are overcrowded (around 30 + kids), teachers are so grossly underpaid and overworked that the only classroom management they can typically muster up is screaming until they are hoarse. I actually know one fellow co-worker who had to leave the teaching profession because the doctor told her she had done so much damage to her vocal chords. What I also find lacking is the boosting of the sense of accomplishment in children on the part of teachers. It all boils down to test scores and final grades, with homework playing a very insignificant role. If you can memorize and regurgitate, you are rewarded. Very little kudos are given for the hard road of just giving it your best. I've seen too many kids, including my own, feel defeated. It hurts.
And while I'm a staunch supporter of the competitive spirit, I cannot promote in my children the cut-throat be the best or else attitude that I see in kids here. And it doesn't come from the children themselves initially of course, but rather from parents who hound and pound and berate from the time the little guys are in the first grade.
While all of this sounds like a foreign element that has no place in American educational pedagogy, Ms. American Teacher typing this post has gotten (partially) sucked into this mentality. It's lethally contagious, and one can easily find herself asking her children, "Why? Why the 94? Why not 97? You know the answers, what happened?" Ugh.
So here's to a calm year, full of learning and accomplishment, and maybe a bit of FUN thrown in. I'm off...
I have a love-hate relationship with schools here. The other day I was watching a documentary on Jazeera English about the secular education in Lebanon, and how they are working to develop 'whole children' who possess skills in critical thinking and who emerge from twelve years of compulsory education as internationally aware students who can compete in the world. I was thinking to myself how uncanny this was...a country that has been war-torn on and off for the last thirty years, yet their educational system is not only in tact, but also thriving.
Seeing the children interact in the American-style classroom setting in Lebanon pushed my thoughts elsewhere, to my kids' school(s) here in Amman. What a stark contrast. Classrooms are overcrowded (around 30 + kids), teachers are so grossly underpaid and overworked that the only classroom management they can typically muster up is screaming until they are hoarse. I actually know one fellow co-worker who had to leave the teaching profession because the doctor told her she had done so much damage to her vocal chords. What I also find lacking is the boosting of the sense of accomplishment in children on the part of teachers. It all boils down to test scores and final grades, with homework playing a very insignificant role. If you can memorize and regurgitate, you are rewarded. Very little kudos are given for the hard road of just giving it your best. I've seen too many kids, including my own, feel defeated. It hurts.
And while I'm a staunch supporter of the competitive spirit, I cannot promote in my children the cut-throat be the best or else attitude that I see in kids here. And it doesn't come from the children themselves initially of course, but rather from parents who hound and pound and berate from the time the little guys are in the first grade.
While all of this sounds like a foreign element that has no place in American educational pedagogy, Ms. American Teacher typing this post has gotten (partially) sucked into this mentality. It's lethally contagious, and one can easily find herself asking her children, "Why? Why the 94? Why not 97? You know the answers, what happened?" Ugh.
So here's to a calm year, full of learning and accomplishment, and maybe a bit of FUN thrown in. I'm off...
Saturday, July 07, 2007
I stayed off the wagon
I have happily stayed off of the wagon o' video games since gaming became so popular. I have allowed two small Gameboys in my house with tame, calm games, but NOTHING that hooks up to the TV. No X-Box or Playstation or Gamecube or whatever. Nothing.
Am I a meanie?
I think the stuff rots the brain. We already have enough battles with the television and computer and the small Gameboys already in our home. Is that not enough stimulation? (or over-stimulation?) Am I being the punisher my kids make me out to be sometimes? Am I depriving them in some way I will regret in the future? Maybe their hand-eye coordination isn't as up to par as the gaming boys, but heck, their brains aren't mushy, either. For that, I am grateful.
I have also outlawed the word bored in the house since we've been on vacation. I don't want to hear it.
I wish there were fields to plow or cows to milk. That's the stuff my kids need to be doing.
Am I a meanie?
I think the stuff rots the brain. We already have enough battles with the television and computer and the small Gameboys already in our home. Is that not enough stimulation? (or over-stimulation?) Am I being the punisher my kids make me out to be sometimes? Am I depriving them in some way I will regret in the future? Maybe their hand-eye coordination isn't as up to par as the gaming boys, but heck, their brains aren't mushy, either. For that, I am grateful.
I have also outlawed the word bored in the house since we've been on vacation. I don't want to hear it.
I wish there were fields to plow or cows to milk. That's the stuff my kids need to be doing.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Al Majari
One of the words any foreigner living in Jordan should learn within the first few moments of being here is majari.
You'll hear expressions like,
"No, it didn't rain; that's just majari water on the street." (roll up the windows, please!)
"Why does her bathroom always smell like the majari?"
"You shouldn't buy a building there. It's too close to the majari."
I'm sure strides to improve the majari system in Jordan have been fruitful. Jordan does not smell the same in 2007 as it did in 2000, the first time I came here. And for that, I'm thankful.
So the other day when my daughter and I were eating some leftovers that didn't really go together, I told her, "It's ok. All this food goes to the same place anyway." (meaning the stomach)
She looked at me seriously, and said, "Yeah. It all goes to the majari."
You'll hear expressions like,
"No, it didn't rain; that's just majari water on the street." (roll up the windows, please!)
"Why does her bathroom always smell like the majari?"
"You shouldn't buy a building there. It's too close to the majari."
I'm sure strides to improve the majari system in Jordan have been fruitful. Jordan does not smell the same in 2007 as it did in 2000, the first time I came here. And for that, I'm thankful.
So the other day when my daughter and I were eating some leftovers that didn't really go together, I told her, "It's ok. All this food goes to the same place anyway." (meaning the stomach)
She looked at me seriously, and said, "Yeah. It all goes to the majari."
Monday, June 04, 2007
Where your nose should be...
Well, this time of the year in Amman, a student's nose should be in a textbook.
It's exam time yet again. As I dropped my kids off this a.m., I saw many youngsters walking to school with books in hand, reading/mumbling/regurgitating information that has been memorized (learned?) since the start of the second semester.
When I was in sixth grade, the last week of school was the time when we brought cupcakes to share with classmates or had pizza parties for the class who collected the most Campbell Soup labels. We traded stickers or signed each other's memory books or whatever. Maybe, just maybe, one super wicked teacher would actually give us an assignment, usually in the form of some kind of project involving poster board or some other nightmarish school supply our moms or dads would have to go out and get on Sunday night, the night before said project was due.
But exams? Burning the candle at both ends? Waking up at 5 a.m. to go over an entire text book? We lived in ignorance, and ignorance was blissful. My kids, on the other hand, live in the cruel world of testing.
I swore when I moved to Jordan I would not jump on the Mom is an Ogre testing bandwagon. I'd say to my kids, "Honey, do you feel confident with the material? Did you learn something dear? Are you happy? Sweetie, what matters is that you tried your best, not what score you received."
**Cough, cough, clearing throat**
I've changed. I admit it. I care what grades they get. I do.
My daughter spent a few nights grinding her teeth in her sleep, worried about the gigantic Geography/Civics test she had. When she came home yesterday, she looked quite drained. But at least it's over. We can rest easily until July 10 or so, when the final grades will be revealed, defining our children, and their teachers' expectations of them in the year to come.
I can't wait.
It's exam time yet again. As I dropped my kids off this a.m., I saw many youngsters walking to school with books in hand, reading/mumbling/regurgitating information that has been memorized (learned?) since the start of the second semester.
When I was in sixth grade, the last week of school was the time when we brought cupcakes to share with classmates or had pizza parties for the class who collected the most Campbell Soup labels. We traded stickers or signed each other's memory books or whatever. Maybe, just maybe, one super wicked teacher would actually give us an assignment, usually in the form of some kind of project involving poster board or some other nightmarish school supply our moms or dads would have to go out and get on Sunday night, the night before said project was due.
But exams? Burning the candle at both ends? Waking up at 5 a.m. to go over an entire text book? We lived in ignorance, and ignorance was blissful. My kids, on the other hand, live in the cruel world of testing.
I swore when I moved to Jordan I would not jump on the Mom is an Ogre testing bandwagon. I'd say to my kids, "Honey, do you feel confident with the material? Did you learn something dear? Are you happy? Sweetie, what matters is that you tried your best, not what score you received."
**Cough, cough, clearing throat**
I've changed. I admit it. I care what grades they get. I do.
My daughter spent a few nights grinding her teeth in her sleep, worried about the gigantic Geography/Civics test she had. When she came home yesterday, she looked quite drained. But at least it's over. We can rest easily until July 10 or so, when the final grades will be revealed, defining our children, and their teachers' expectations of them in the year to come.
I can't wait.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Belated Pics
First stop was here, at the Narameen waterfall. I've never been there, but my husband said that while it looked lovely, the water was rather murky. No one dipped his toes in.
Eleven fathers, eleven sons, and a few teachers.
That's my son's Arabic teacher in the white shirt, standing amongst the musicians. He has instilled in my fourth grader a love of Arabic poetry.
A scene from Jarash, Roman ruins.
Here are a few pictures of the Father & Son field trip that took place last month. It gave my husband and son the opportunity to bond with other sons and fathers, seeing sights in Jordan and playing games. My husband won the "Dads' Race." He could not walk for two days afterward, but by gosh, he won.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Sleep Deprivation
My little one's fever just wouldn't break.
We took a trip to her pediatrician today. It's kind of a journey from where I live, because it's in the neighborhood where I lived over three years ago, and they are tearing up the highway (wait, is there a highway in Amman?) so we had to take a detour.
He said, "She's a step away from being in danger of rheumatic fever."
Rheumatic fever can occur when a streptococcus infection goes untreated. Apparently, many kids here have strep throat that ends up going untreated. Eventually, the strep infection will go away, but it can leave permanent damage which will rear its head about 20 days after the initial infection, and can cause heart valve damage.
We are not living in the land of the rapid strep tests. In fact, strep has only been diagnosed through visual means with all of my kids; a strep test/swabbing of the throat was never done.
Needless to say, she got a major shot (it hurt me to watch!), and a five-day dose of antibiotics.
Hurrah for medical advancements. Fifty years ago, rheumatic fever was one of the leading killers of children under the age of five.
I have had two sleepless nights, but I think we're in the clear now. She's playing with her new chalkboard (a prize for being such a brave girl) and fighting with her three year old sister. Those are signs that she's on the mend.
As Umm Zaid said, my mommy instincts kicked in, and I followed them. It's a good thing.
Alhamdulillah.
We had an experience at the US Embassy here in Amman on Thursday, and I thought it was worth mentioning. It was POSITIVE. Imagine that. This time last year I tried to go and do a few things (namely, renew my kids' passports), and I left the American Services office in tears. (Did I also use the "F" word? Yes sir, I think I did, and I don't usually swear.)
This time around, however, everyone was super nice. I mean, SMILING and helpful. Passports will be ready within eleven days, they informed me.
Now we just need a destination. *sigh*
We took a trip to her pediatrician today. It's kind of a journey from where I live, because it's in the neighborhood where I lived over three years ago, and they are tearing up the highway (wait, is there a highway in Amman?) so we had to take a detour.
He said, "She's a step away from being in danger of rheumatic fever."
Rheumatic fever can occur when a streptococcus infection goes untreated. Apparently, many kids here have strep throat that ends up going untreated. Eventually, the strep infection will go away, but it can leave permanent damage which will rear its head about 20 days after the initial infection, and can cause heart valve damage.
We are not living in the land of the rapid strep tests. In fact, strep has only been diagnosed through visual means with all of my kids; a strep test/swabbing of the throat was never done.
Needless to say, she got a major shot (it hurt me to watch!), and a five-day dose of antibiotics.
Hurrah for medical advancements. Fifty years ago, rheumatic fever was one of the leading killers of children under the age of five.
I have had two sleepless nights, but I think we're in the clear now. She's playing with her new chalkboard (a prize for being such a brave girl) and fighting with her three year old sister. Those are signs that she's on the mend.
As Umm Zaid said, my mommy instincts kicked in, and I followed them. It's a good thing.
Alhamdulillah.
We had an experience at the US Embassy here in Amman on Thursday, and I thought it was worth mentioning. It was POSITIVE. Imagine that. This time last year I tried to go and do a few things (namely, renew my kids' passports), and I left the American Services office in tears. (Did I also use the "F" word? Yes sir, I think I did, and I don't usually swear.)
This time around, however, everyone was super nice. I mean, SMILING and helpful. Passports will be ready within eleven days, they informed me.
Now we just need a destination. *sigh*
Saturday, May 19, 2007
General Update
I found out who the lady is from Alabama. I was sure I knew all the gals in Amman from Alabama. I was wrong. I'm looking forward to meeting her in person.
I have a little one home with a fever that won't seem to break. I was reading in a parenting book about how we parents go cuckoo when our kids get a fever, and that fevers are just a sign that the body is fighting infection, and we should let them ride their course.
But I want instant fever reduction! Mystery fevers freak me out. We did the cool bath thing and that seemed to help for a little while, but it's right back up to 40 degrees Celsius, which is, I believe, around 103 degrees Fahrenheit.
We purchased Lost, Season III, up to episode 21, in the balad last night. So far it's really worth it. Talk about cliffhangers. JJ Abrams is a master, as is the team of writers sitting in rooms trying to come up with ways to intrigue me over and over. They are succeeding.
That's about it for today.
I have a little one home with a fever that won't seem to break. I was reading in a parenting book about how we parents go cuckoo when our kids get a fever, and that fevers are just a sign that the body is fighting infection, and we should let them ride their course.
But I want instant fever reduction! Mystery fevers freak me out. We did the cool bath thing and that seemed to help for a little while, but it's right back up to 40 degrees Celsius, which is, I believe, around 103 degrees Fahrenheit.
We purchased Lost, Season III, up to episode 21, in the balad last night. So far it's really worth it. Talk about cliffhangers. JJ Abrams is a master, as is the team of writers sitting in rooms trying to come up with ways to intrigue me over and over. They are succeeding.
That's about it for today.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
El Padre y Su Hijo
I just dropped off the two men in my life at the school. They are on their way to a Father & Son field trip.
When my son first brought home the paper this week announcing the trip, my husband immediately said, "I just can't take a Saturday off. There's no way."
I wanted to interject. I instead kept my thoughts to myself.
The next morning, as my kids were getting ready for school, my son proudly displayed the signed and dated permission form. "We're going on the trip!" he exclaimed.
I was not sure when my husband signed the paper but I didn't care. My elation knew no words. When my husband left for work that morning, I told him,
"You just made that kid's week. You made his year, for that matter. For the rest of his life, he will remember the Father & Son field trip. Twelve hours of dads and boys doing their thing."
Will my husband, for the rest of his life, remember the day he decided to close the lot, ticking off prospective Saturday car buyers? I think not.
When my son first brought home the paper this week announcing the trip, my husband immediately said, "I just can't take a Saturday off. There's no way."
I wanted to interject. I instead kept my thoughts to myself.
The next morning, as my kids were getting ready for school, my son proudly displayed the signed and dated permission form. "We're going on the trip!" he exclaimed.
I was not sure when my husband signed the paper but I didn't care. My elation knew no words. When my husband left for work that morning, I told him,
"You just made that kid's week. You made his year, for that matter. For the rest of his life, he will remember the Father & Son field trip. Twelve hours of dads and boys doing their thing."
Will my husband, for the rest of his life, remember the day he decided to close the lot, ticking off prospective Saturday car buyers? I think not.
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