The Travel Mommy

The Beeps

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 02:25:00 +0000

The beeps haunt my dreams. F-F-D-D-A. The notes mechanical, the tones without reverb.

When I hear the familiar song from the mobile, I think it's Clair de Lune, I stop dead in my tracks. I am paralyzed with fear, with the memories of what was and what wasn't.

For him, though, the beeps are the birds chirping. The sound of crickets on a warm Autumn evening, when the windows are open to let the breeze in. He hears doorbells and ice cream trucks. He hears lullabies sung by big chested women with deep voices.

He doesn't realize that F-F-F meant his sensor had fallen off. Or D-D meant warning. Or a long A meant he wasn't breathing.

I can't tell him of their meaning because for him the dream of birds and ice cream and crickets is what kept him going, what kept him in the familiar, what sparked his imagination and perception of the real world. When he thinks upon those sounds, he has nothing but positive memories.

Whereas I have panic attacks and am gripped by fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what was and what could be again.

But that's the difference between him and me. He only knows forests of chirps and swaying branches, sticky sweet candy dreams, summer nights, and voices singing Debussy. And that's ok.

Because my reality, the reality of the beeps, is my horror. And should stay that way.

***************
This post was based on the book Room, by Emma Donoghue, which I received free from the publisher to participate in the From Left to Write book club. The book should only be read by adults and is very dark. Don't say I didn't warn you.

What It Costs to Keep Him Alive

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 09:22:00 +0000

Parents complain about a lot of things.
Price of diapers. Price of formula. Using formula versus breastmilk. Price of toys. Price of daycare.

And other parents complain about other things.
Medicaid is making our country poor. Homosexual marriage is a crime. Muslims are terrorists.

For the record, I don't believe any of the above things. Muslims are good people (have you read my blog?), homosexual marriage is a modern concept we should appreciate, and by golly, Medicaid is the only way that The Great Potato stays alive.

This last one is what I want to address today. I try to stay out of political issues on my blog, but this one has me fired up.

The hubs and I pay good money for the best PPO health care that our employer offers. It costs about $400 a month. We have a $500 deductible, which we reached within the first month of Potato's birth and subsequent hospitalizations. So, for healthcare alone, in the 19 months he has been on this earth, we have spent $8,600 out of our own pocket for health care.

And we love BCBS. They have taken great care of us. They never question charges, they pretty much pay anything at any doctor.

But, because they are a PPO, we pay very high co-payments.

In the past 19 months, according to our tax documents, we have paid over $15,000 in hospital and doctor co-payments. That's just co-payments. $30 here, $20 there. In 19 months. Don't even get me started on the $4000 in prescriptions as well as the recent bill for home nursing.

But Potato requires more. Potato requires a monthly supply of feeding bags, specialized formula, oxygen, and home nursing care. This is above and beyond the cost of normal baby things: clothes, diapers, wipes, etc.

So here is a breakdown of the cost it takes to keep Potato alive for one year (minus doctors bills):

1 Can of Elecare (formula) = $33
He uses 26 cans a month = $858
For one year = $10296

Medical Supplies (oxygen rental and feeding supplies)
One month rental = $1000
For one year = $12,000

Home Nursing Care = $25/hr
8hrs a day / 4 days a week / one month = $3200
For one year = $38,400

Prevacid & Norvasc & Albuterol Prescriptions Out of Pocket = $60 + $20 + $300
Refill every month = $380 a month
For one year = $4560

So far, for non-hospital related expenses, we would be paying $65,256 a year just for the necessities to keep him alive. Add in hospital expenses, doctor co-pays, and the like, we are looking at a total bill of $100,000 a year just in medical needs (again, not including diapers, onesies, developmental toys, baby food).

Here's the kicker though. As hard as Hubs and I work, our salaries combined do not equal $100K. Which means that just working full time jobs, the both of us, wouldn't bring in enough money to cover the costs of Aidan's care. Meaning, we would have to max out our credit cards, dip into our savings, and the like (been there, done that) to afford it.

Now, before you get your panties in a twist, this is not a "woe is me send me money" post. The Hubs and I are in ok shape financially and can afford usually anything that comes our way! Let me repeat that again. WE CAN AFFORD IT.

Sure, we seldom go out to dinner/lunch/breakfast, hardly ever by clothes (yay for Mom's hand me downs), and have had 2 Christmases, birthdays, hanukkahs, mothers and fathers day, and anniversaries in a row where we haven't gifted each other (or Potato) anything. And we choose not to do these things because we have to save for the surgeries that cost a couple thou. Or for Potato's schooling. Because that's what it takes to survive.

You know what else it takes to survive?

MEDICAID.

Potato is the fortunate recipient of government assistance. So on top of our expensive PPO, which covers most of his medical things, we also receive Medicaid which covers a majority of the rest (it does not cover his new doctor in Maryland, nor does it cover his medications).

Medicaid gives us the nursing care, which makes it possible for me to work my butt off for a measly wage. Medicaid covers the cost of his therapists, which come every week from the county to get him ready for school. Medicaid covers his dentist bills. Medicaid gives us the peace of mind that we can take care of our son in the best means possible.

For many against government assistance, their argument is that it is a hand out, not a hand up. Well for us, for Potato, Medicaid pays for the tools necessary for us as a family to succeed. It allows us to work and provide for our family while keeping Potato out of a slimy day care that can't attend to his feeding tube needs and gives him probably-fatal childhood illness. It allows us to know that we can keep the medical team of doctors we have assembled to give Potato the best care.

And if that isn't a hand up, I don't know what is.

So, if you are my friend, and you comment on this post or anywhere that Medicaid is an evil program that needs abolished or that you hate paying out of your taxes for it or blah blah blah.....then you are essentially condemning Potato to death. And you are no longer my friend.

Oh, and if you refuse to pay out of your taxes for government care of others that are disabled or need special care, then by all means, pay attention to the donate button at the top of the page. I will make sure your hard-earned income goes to the right place.

For real though, the Paypal donation button at the top of the page goes directly into Potato's 529 savings plan. Should you feel compelled to donate, Potato will use it for schooling when it comes time.

New Gig

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 21:53:00 +0000

Today, I'm starting my regular gig over at Active Woman Traveler. I hope you will join me!

Why Travel Cures All

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 09:27:00 +0000

At one point in time, my family asked me why I felt called to live overseas, at least 5000 miles or more away from the only support system I have ever known. It was and still is very hard to describe why I felt so called to travel...

Except for to say that it really cured me.

Prior to leaving for Jordan, the Hubs and I had serious marital problems. I'm not talking the "oh we aren't speaking for the morning" kind, but more the "take a pillow and go sleep upstairs" kind.

And I don't know why I was so out of love for him except for the fact that there seemed to be a void in our marriage that I wanted to fill with what-ifs.

What if I had tried harder to stay together with that guy from college? What if I had been able to hold on to my first love? What if I was single so I could play the expansive field that was opening itself up to me?

We went to therapy, we talked it out. It still didn't feel like the void had been filled.

Until it was wheels down in Jordan.

As we drove along the Desert Highway from the airport to our new home in the blackness of our new Middle Eastern nights, Hubs gently took my hand. We were in this together, him and I.

Over the course of the 1.5 years we were there, we filled those voids with love. Love of each other. Love of exploring together. Love of new experiences. Love of pride for what the other had accomplished. Love of work. Love of friends. Love of food (oh, the shawarma).

And now, looking back on that time which seems a distant memory, I long for that feeling again, even though our marriage is stronger now than it was before.

Travel is the lost love that I have been searching for, that one thing that ties all bonds, fills all voids, and lifts the spirit.

And for me, it's a love I never want to quit.

This post has been inspired by The Stuff That Never Happened by Maddie Dawson, which I received for free as a reviewing member of the From Left to Write Book Club. The book tells the story of a woman so consumed by the failings in her marriage that she takes up with a past love. I did not like the book. However, I can totally relate to the plight of the main character. Visit From Left to Write to see what others thought.

Hopeful Parents

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 11:19:00 +0000

Today, I am over at Hopeful Parents.

This is from the About Page:

Hopeful Parents is a place of common ground.

We'll introduce you to our diverse pool of talented, thoughtful writers who will share their stories, their feelings, their ups and their downs.

You'll meet parents raising children with physical, psychological, emotional, neurological, sensory, behavioral, social, genetic, and developmental disabilities. Some parents are single, some are married. Some grieve the loss of their child; some grieve the loss of their spouse.

You'll also meet healers -- the "medics" who help us through our run. People we can turn to in our pain; people who can help provide some relief.

These writers -- the parents, the healers -- remind us that we're all on this journey together. We don't have to go it alone.

And with that spirit of togetherness, I invite you to get involved with Hopeful Parents. An easy way to start is by commenting on the posts that move you. Then explore the sidebar. There are quite a few links with ways to participate. Please check them out.

Whatever you do, please join the community.

Joining costs nothing and will give you access to our online community. But that's not the only reason to join.

You should join because we -- parents who face increasing medical expenses, parents who often times face uphill battles with our schools, parents who feel the minority in broader social settings -- will have a louder, more powerful voice if all of us, regardless of diagnosis, could come together as one unit.

If every parent of a child with special needs were to join Hopeful Parents, imagine, for a moment, what we could do. Imagine banding together as a whole, collective voice to advocate for our children. Imagine a united assembly, strong in numbers, able to encourage more thoughtful leadership and policies so that we can better help ourselves, each other, our children, our communities, our nation and our world.

I'm glad they invited me to be a part!

I'm Taking a Potato Break

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 15:19:00 +0000

As you know, we moved. To a house that is now 45 minutes away from work (as opposed to 10).

And I used to come home every day at 3pm and have plenty of time to cook dinner and blog before spending a few moments with Potato before it was off for an early bedtime.

Now, with the longer commute, I have a grand total of 15 minutes to spend with the Potato before I'm too tired to enjoy it. And the result is that The Great Potato no longer enjoys me, but searches and wants his father instead.

This is always the plight of the working mother, trying to balance work and life.

But there is something that I can control. I can stop blogging.

It takes about an hour of every day just to respond to things, set up posts, think of what to say, attempt to be funny. And that is an hour that I could be spending learning about and raising The Great Potato.

So, I've decided to take a break.

I'm not quitting or anything. I can't leave it forever, because I love you, I love the community, and I love the writing.

So I just won't be posting as often. Maybe once a week instead of once a day.

HOWEVER...

I will be posting over at Potato's place because I owe it to him to keep his story going. And as I have new opportunities to write and reach out, I will.

Thanks for everything!

Getting Away for the Weekend: Picnicking By The Road

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 10:14:00 +0000

We arrived in Jordan at night on a flight from Paris. We were tired, confused, incredibly jetlagged, and nervous. What would befall us in this crazy Middle Eastern land?

As we drove the long highway from the airport into Amman, wide-eyed and frightened, we couldn't help but notice fires burning openly along the side of the road. What kind of ridiculous country had we dropped in to? Open fires, burning tires, riots? Our minds only jumped to the obvious conclusion. We obviously were going to be attacked by terrorists wielding pitchforks and torches that would set fire to our village.

But then our driver pointed them out and said, "don't worry about the fires. Those are just families picnicking."

...huh...

At closer inspection, we could make out mothers and fathers, kids, uncles, aunts. The elderly and the young. People cooking whole lambs and salads, appetizers and such on the side of the one main 6 lane highway in Jordan.

Apparently, the thing to do on a Saturday in Jordan was to take your family to the side of the highway, start up a fire, cook some meat, and enjoy each other's company. Oh, and the diesel fumes from the trucks traversing the country.

And it wasn't just the poorer families that practiced this tradition. We saw just as many Range Rovers on the side of the road as beat-up jalopy trucks. The rich picnics looked no different than the poor ones, although I am sure the quality of the campfire was greater with those who could afford more sticks.

We never really understood the draw of a highway-side meal. But, in some strange way, I am sad I never got to try it out.

I hear that there's an especially lovely stretch of I-95 between McDonaldses. Anyone want to join me? I'll bring the lamb.

The Burn Heard Round the World

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 09:27:00 +0000

My husband and I have different vacationing styles. He prefers to do and I prefer to do not. If given the choice between laying on the beach or going snorkeling, you better believe I've got a towel and a book. And the hubby? He's standing on the beach with goggles, scuba fins, and a snorkel, wondering why I'm all comfy on my beach chair instead of already in the water with him.

So when we went on our first real vacation together, our honeymoon, I had to make compromises. Oh, who am I kidding, I had to make deals.

One deal: I would get 6 hours of laying and reading by the pool time (while he went scuba diving) if I would take the rented convertible offroading with him. Fine, I would bring a dust mask. No worries.

Two deal: He would take me shopping in Lahaina if I would do a real authentic Luau with him. No problem, I like food.

And last but not least deal: If I went horseback riding with him to the bottom of the volcano, he would pay for a couple's hot lava stone massage afterwards.

I agreed.

The morning of the ride, we awoke early and dressed (as was recommended) for temperatures of 50-60. So I was wearing jeans, a tank top with a hooded sweatshirt over top, and a hat. I figured, if I got hot, I could take off the sweatshirt and tie it around my waist, but if it was indeed 50 degrees, as the brochure stated, I would be comfortably warm.

The brochure did not lie. It was not only 50 degrees, but it was windy AND raining, with the skies horribly overcast and gray. Compound that with getting paired with a horse that had recently been pastured ("on vacation" the ranch hand explained) and didn't want to move, I spent the whole four hourse with wet, cold, jeans, my sweatshirt hood pulled tightly around my face, trying to whack a horse that would have rather farted than moved (and fart he did) down into the mouth of a volcano and back up again.

Four hours later, the sun came out for a bit, so I removed my hood for the last 15 minutes or so of the ride.

Afterwards, we prepared to go to the Luau that night. I had a beautiful Hawaiian dress I had picked up on the aforementioned shopping trip and we had the opportunity to take a nice afternoon nap after our long and tiring horse ride.

But when I woke up from my nap, I could tell something was wrong.

I felt like I had a fever. My face was very very hot to the touch. Was I sick? Too many horse farts gave me some kind of Gassy Horse Flu? I went in to the bathroom to fetch a cool washcloth when I saw it.

My swollen, red, blistery face.

Apparently for the 15 minutes that I had taken off of my hood, I had burned my face and the tiny wedge of chest/boob skin that was exposed by my fashionably unzipped hoodie something major. I'm talking the worst degree burns I have ever had. My face was so swollen that I looked Asian, with beautiful almond-shaped eyes made out of the skin blisters plaguing my face.

The worst part is that we had non-refundable reservations at this Luau.

I could tell from the moment we walked up to the restaurant that everyone was staring at my face. I could hear tell-tale whispers of "ooh" and "ouch" from everyone we passed. When the photographer passed by to take our romantic, on-the-beach, luau picture, I nearly cried. I begged him to be quick so I could sit back down again and go back to the safety of my food.

The next morning, prior to our agreed-upon hot stone massage, I bought a very, VERY, wide-brimmed hat which I wore every day after that. Perhaps I had learned my lesson in sun protection, but more than that, I didn't have to show my poor red face to anyone for the rest of the trip!

This post was a response to Mama Kat's Writing Challenge this week: Describe a particularly bad burn.

I'm turning a shade of green

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 10:38:00 +0000

So we moved.

We bought our own little piece of heaven in the country, complete with hardwood floors, an electric fireplace, and tons of natural light. And a community pool. So what if it's a "condo," so what if the dude downstairs can't keep his stupid labrador from barking at all hours of the night. It's our new home.

And it's GREEN.

For those of you that really know me, you know that being green isn't necessarily my MO. Sure, I recycle a few cans, I try desperately to remember my reusable shopping bags when going to the grocery store. But I don't live green.

Except, now I do.

My lamps have energy efficient lightbulbs.

The power system has a usage monitor to keep everything efficient.

We have water-saving shower heads, faucets, and toilets.

The air filtration system is high efficiency and does something with something that makes it cleaner. Or something.

We hooked up our TV to our iGo Power Tower (aka the Vampire Slayer) that reduces vampire power to our various entertainment devices by 85%. It's the world's greatest invention, well next to sliced bread that is.

But, I am still going to clean out my sink with bleach. Sorry, I need to know the various germies that I am throwing down there are actually dead. As in KOed, not just stunned and/or drunk on various fermented cooking products.

In honor of this move to a new green home, I am also doing a little re-inventing of my purpose in blogging. I have some great opportunities for writing on the horizon, so I hope you will all stick with me! I'm enjoying this ride.

Getting Away for the Weekend: Out of Africa, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 15:37:00 +0000

The continuation of Saucy B's story. Read Out of Africa, Part 1 here.

Being on a shoot for a TV commercial can be equal parts painfully boring and exciting. There’s a lot waiting around while things are made just right, followed by short bursts of intense activity. Thankfully, my colleagues and I had a driver at our disposal almost 24/7, so we were able to make the most of whatever down time there was before and during the shoot by taking quick excursions to some of South Africa’s attractions.

One of those jaunts involved an afternoon at Constantia Vineyard. During a sumptuous lunch served on the patio of the vineyard’s restaurant, I learned two very important things about South African wine: one, it makes me British, since the words “bloody hell I’m drunk” came falling out of my mouth; and two, it also makes me melancholy. I promised myself I would stick with Old Faithful, (vodka) for the rest of my trip. One maudlin phone call to my family was enough!

Another getaway entailed a visit Table Mountain. You can hike (total craziness) or take a cable car to the top (much more my speed). The view from the top is fantastic and I had the same sense of being in the presence of something awesome that I did when I visited the Grand Canyon.

While these experiences were amazing, there was no way I was leaving the continent without seeing a zebra or some other exotic animal. I mean come on, I was in SOUTH AFRICA.

I’m happy to say that I did get to see a zebra and a whole lot more. After we finished shooting, I had almost a full day to myself before I needed to depart for my flight home. I was able to arrange for a half day safari at a game reserve.

I do use the term safari loosely, since it’s not like I was hiding in the bush of Kruger Park hoping to see something with tusks. It was more like a real life version of Jurassic Park, only without dinosaurs or Laura Dern. Much like the movie, a group of us boarded a jeep and these huge gates opened into the game park.

Make no mistake, this was no zoo either. The only animals that were behind a fence were the lions, for rather obvious reasons. Everything else, the rhinos that were scuffling with each other, and the rather pissed off looking Cape Buffalo that I’m convinced was ready to charge if we didn’t keep moving, were quite out in the open. Bouncing along in the jeep with the breeze blowing and these majestic animals strolling by was an unforgettable experience.

So yes, I got to see my zebra, and just about every other animal that is indigenous to South Africa poop within several yards of me.

And that, as they say, is a wrap!

Getting Away for the Weekend: We're So American

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 12:50:00 +0000

I loved Leigh's last guest post so much that I asked her to write another! Thank you to Leigh from Jersey Diva Mom for her help while I am busy moving.

Several years ago now, we adopted from Russia. These trips often bring many frustrating last minute changes. Traveling solo on my first trip, I was greeted in Moscow with news I’d be there four days, not going to the Black Sea Coast the next day. As I now had time on my hands, I figured I would go see some sites. My driver, Val, suggested the Kremlin Armoury. He said to hire one of the people who wait near the kiosks to translate the tour. When I asked how I’d pick one out, he answered, "They’ll be by the Kremlin walls, looking for Europeans and Americans, and they will just know." That sounded weird, but off I went.

I passed Red Square, and in a heartbeat was politely approached. “Would you like a tour? You are from USA, yes?” Though a little taken aback to be assessed so quickly, I bought tickets. As time passed, I was more curious about her observations of me than the precise size of Peter the Great’s quite great foot. How did she made her mark? How did she know from 100 yards that I was an American? Dressed in clothes I bought in Moscow the day prior?

Her comments are a study in cross-culture people watching. They show that “American-ness” goes well beyond accent. It shows what the world sees when they see one of us. Her feedback contrasting Americans to others, delivered so matter-of-factly, was pretty amusing. She told me much of it just comes from watching, day in day out, and picking out all the patterns. Her word choice was always seemed measured, precise. Here were some highlights:

* Straight back & shoulders set back, yet not rigid. (Thank you, yoga DVD’s)
* I looked ahead, not down.
* I looked at people. Ok with eye contact, but not forcing it.
* I was neither ignoring people, nor being intrusive-- just a casual midpoint.
* I smiled gently at the baby that passed by.
* I appeared to be walking with a purpose, but not charging through.
* I was forcing past or through people, not too meek to move through. According to her, had I pushed through with kind words, but not kind expression, she’d say Englishwoman. (HER words- no hate email please)
* Every move and gesture was casual, lacking formality or airs. So not English. (HER words)
* I did not look threatened or threatening.
* I looked at ease.

All of those things, according to her, helped narrow down that I was American I was not very jovial, so she assumed not Canadian. I don’t know if that’s an insult to me or them. (?)

So, why did this all this scream American? She shared with me that her recognition of me as an American was not about hair or clothes. It wasn’t about an accent she had not yet heard. Our body language speaks about the open aspect to our culture. In her words, it shows the lack of fear we have lived under. It shows a confidence that is ingrained in generation after generation unlike in her country in which for centuries, intimidation was common. We’re polite, but never classist. We’ll look people in the eye, but not be affronted by pedestrians who do not reciprocate. Even when hurried, we’re more at ease. She said that Americans will ask, “Why not?” Why? Because we can. We basically always could. Our society over centuries has bred a casual and confident tone in all aspects of us. The very things we take for granted have influenced our very movements down a street.

It struck me that these are really great reasons to stick out like a sore thumb. As my trip progressed, and Russians I met shared recent decades from their perspectives, I thought, “You know what? We have got it pretty damn good.” No wonder we can’t help looking so, acting so, being so… well, so American.

Dumb Mom's Guide to Traveling With Kids

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 11:33:00 +0000

When Travel Mommy invited me to guest post I was super excited.

I love being asked to guest post!

Makes me feel like a celebrity host or something.

Naturally ~~as I am a fame seeking fame seeker~~ I obliged.

But then, I got super nervous.

Like sweaty-palms-hot-flash-smelly-pits nervous. Because I’m pretty sure Travel Mommy writes about traveling.

With kids.

Something I don’t do. EVER.

I have a hard enough time managing the ~~little heathens~~ Dudes at home to be able to take this freak show on the road.

But then I remembered that back in February, in a fit of I-can’t-take-another-drop-of-effing-snow insanity I booked us a week long beach vacation this summer.

Which immediately lead to more sweating and pretty-sure-I’m-gonna-puke nervousness.

I mean how am I, Dumb Mom that I am, gonna survive a *gulp* full week at the beach?!

Sedatives.
It’s the only way.

But I do intend to try a few things before we go with hopes that it will make a difference in the long run.

Dumb Mom’s Guide to Prepping for a Super Long Beach Vacation That You Can Survive Without Drowning Yourself, Your Husband, Your Mother, or Your Children

1. Don’t go. Send the kids on vacation with their grandparents while you stay home alone (or with the husband, if he agrees to leave you alone for a significant period of time) and do stuff. I mean, even if I have to clean the entire house while they are gone I can easily accomplish such a feat if the people who dirty things on contact are not around to inflict punishment on every little thing they touch. Vacations are not restful and relaxing for moms, they are just work trips. I’d argue they are actually even more work than when you are at home because their is no room to send the naughties to and their is no set schedule and routine to keep the kids from melting down. Remind me again why I agreed to this?

2. Bring reinforcements. If the grandparents taking the kids on vacation is out of the question, then bring them along on yours. We are taking Mimi with us. It’s the only reason I agreed to go. Pretty sure I can’t handle the three of them on vacation, alone (Dumb Dad doesn’t really count) for a week. Plus, we like the old bat (totally kidding, she’s not old or bat like at all) so why not drag her along?!

3. Bribery. It’s my personal mantra and the only thing that gets me through life. Some people resort to alcohol, some people take drugs, I bribe people in my life to get them to do what I want. Bribery and brainwashing are my first line of defense against everything annoying kids do. When these fail then I look to the booze. Which I fully intend to enjoy daily on my trip.

4. Prep the parties. Make sure the kids understand that the trip is not all fun and games. There will be some difficult times to, like getting there (we have an 8 hour drive!) and being safe (we will be oceanside) when we finally do. But don’t forget to get them excited about going too. The Dudes are so pumped about our impending beach vacay that they are already laying out some of the stuff they are planning to take with them. Their joy over the whole thing is almost enough to ease my fears. Almost.

5. Get some rest. Before, during, and after. I’m hoping to spend a partially relaxing week sipping sun tea and reading my newest find (Water for Elephants which I am reading because R. Patz is filming it as we speak and I do NOT miss films starring everyone’s favorite, human-life-sparring vampire!) while the kids ~~play with Mimi~~ enjoy the sun and surf. If all goes well I may even hit the town for a date or two with Dumb Dad before I shove them all in the car for the supernaturally long drive home. Wish us luck!

Dumb Mom is the awesomeness behind parenting BY dummies, a mom blog where she shares how she gets outsmarted on a daily basis by three part-time evil masterminds known as The Dudes. Dumb Mom spends her mornings dodging flying objects and naptime writing (she’s a freelancer), blogging (she’s a pro), and editing photos for her photography business. She fully intends to take over the world the moment she catches up on her sleep and gets her wits about her!
http://parentingbydummies.com
http://thenagainphotogaphy.com
Twitter: @thenagainphoto

The Kindness of Russian Strangers

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 12:42:00 +0000

When I get sad that we will be stuck in the US for a little while longer, I like to remember fondly the stories of how great overseas was. I am so excited to invite Leigh from Jersey Diva Mom for a guest post this week as I sort through the junk that we will or won't be moving. Visit Leigh often, she's pretty awesome.

There are several things that I always dreamed of in my life. One was the thought of being a parent, another world travel. In my daydreaming all those decades, I never really thought the two would be intertwined. And I certainly never expected the intersection of the two would border on surreal.

Russia was a place that held great allure to me, with its rich history, vast territory, and its political presence in our lives. As fate would have it, it also boasted the two little boys who I now call sons. Much is said about paperwork leading to adoption. Much is written about steps to bond with your child after. The funny thing is, I never stopped to think about the disorientation of going through the actual emotionally-charged event with jet lag, in a parallel universe. At the last minute, my husband & I realized I would need to travel alone or we’d lose our visa window. I was excited, nervous, and anxious about meeting our boys. I relished the opportunity to travel in Russia. I was a little mopey that I’d be without my partner in crime.

I was also exhausted from jet lag and a bazillion last minute travel shifts, and utterly confused by every sign in front of me. The travel log from my solo trip to Moscow and down to the Black Sea coast played out like a SNL skit of a Lifetime movie. There are several lessons-learned to share:

Pack for Moscow:
As go the Moscow airports, so goes your Russia trip. I packed for September in the Southeastern port city of Novorossiysk, a city with climate comparable to Virginia Beach. Flight changes and policy changes yielded four extra days in Moscow, a city with climate more like Fargo. While you can readily buy seasonally appropriate clothes, prices for what you’d ever want to be seen in, let alone photographed in, can be sky high. And please keep in mind I’m from NY Metro area, birth place of sky high prices.

Prepare to step back in time:
I was immediately struck by many of the interiors. They seemed outdated, yet modern. It was like being at The Contemporary in Disney World-- a past generation’s view of our present. While ornate traditional buildings and churches abound, many buildings and much of the infrastructure reflects the more recent Soviet past. Economic challenges have meant many have gone without update. As a result, the airport and hotel lobbies I entered were as cozy as the halls of my college dorm. Soviet-shabby chic, if you will. The hotel in which I stayed was torn down recently. This is no great loss to the world of tourism. I’ve been assured by recent travelers that its ambience lives on in other utilitarian sites.

When I eventually boarded the plane to the city of Krasnodar, I felt a déjà vu. Only, it wasn’t a déjà vu. After 20 minutes I realized I was in the same plane Lucy Ricardo flew in coming back from Italy with the big swaddled cheese log. The windows had curtains still; overheads were racks not bins. It was like a set for a business trip on a Mad Men episode. I gained a new appreciation for the comfort and safety measures of this century’s air travel.

Once you leave Moscow and head to the countryside, you will see images of bygone eras. You will see people working in the fields who looked like peasants in those quaint paintings. You will undoubtedly be taken aback to see them whip out a smart phone. Satellite technology has helped hop skip decades of communications development in rural areas.

Throw culinary caution to the wind:
Because, you’ll really have no choice. At each turn, you will see that ANY tactic you’ve used to decipher a menu is out of play. While I can find food of nearly any ethnicity in NJ, the names are in our alphabet so you can decode a lot. The waiters can describe it. The snag was, the alphabet is Cyrillic, so even “American” food is indiscernible. The first day in my hotel, a waiter pointed to one item and in thick accent said “Blehni- like panscake.” Now we’re talking, I thought. Um, no. They were more like crepes. That was fine, but I kept trying in vain to have them served without creamed herring. No matter what I said or mimed, BAM- creamed herring crepe. Seriously, I mimed “herring.”

I threw in the towel and ate at a Sbarro franchise one day. Sitting a stone’s throw from Red Square yet next to an 8ft scale model of the Statue of Liberty with my “New York” style pizza was comforting. I missed my husband. For that hour, I <3’ed NY.

Wherever you are, you can always rely on the kindness of strangers:
My final night in Moscow, I was still yearning for non-herring crepes at a venue with metal utensils. I wandered into the mall where Gum Department Store once stood, and found a gem of a place serving Kazakh food. It’s not that I knew anything about cuisine in Kazakhstan per se. The displays and dishes I saw served looked appealing. The college-student-cum-waiter, sensing an eager tourist on whom to practice his English, was very helpful. His simple “Hello, hows are yous zis ev-en-ings?” was music to my ears.

For nearly two hours, this young Moscow native stood in his “traditional” Kazakh waiter’s uniform, sharing tidbits about the region he said was like a fruit-basket for Russia. “Like Cal-E-for-n-I-A,” he said. I tried to figure out why they were playing the complete collection of Frank Sinatra. Had he been huge in Kazakhstan? I dined in sheer confusion, trying to contain the adrenaline rush of knowing I’d meet my children then very next day. I consumed about six bushels of dried dates and some type of fowl (I still hope). Over my after dinner drink, I noticed I was the last patron dining. I let out a sigh and enjoyed the quiet moment. Hearing “Old Blue Eyes,” a fellow NJ-native, was then so strangely reassuring. I knew my Russian adventure would all work out.

Which brings me to my final lesson for Russian travel: To laid back Americans, Russians may seem cold. But inside, there lies the heart of a truly passionate and very kind people.

Camping, Why I Don't

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 12:00:00 +0000

I am a Jewish Princess. We don't mow lawns, do housework, or cook. And we CERTAINLY don't camp.

Except for Kami from The Fence. Apparently she camps. And is ultra-hilarious about it.
P.S. If you are offended by strong language, don't read further. Although, you will be missing out on why I love this lady!

So we did it. The requisite summer camping trip extravangaza. As it turns out, naysayers, Acadia is the shit. I was worried that after 2.5 days of light hiking and natural scenery, we (as in my 3 year old and I) would be like, "ok, cool. Where's the ice cream?" But, our out of doors experiences were so varied that I never got bored. I kind of loved it actually. Except for the fussing (of which an ENTIRE day was dedicated to), the mosquitos who think my sons are just delectable (I mean, really, who doesn't?), and, oh yeah, the fact that after spending a beautiful day driving for six hours, then finally making it to the campground and setting up the tent, it began to rain. Torrentially. Noah's Ark type rain. We had gone into Bar Harbor before it started, to eat dinner at the town Chinese place China Joy because when in Rome, right? Actually, my 3 year old INSISTED on having Chinese, apparently having missed the memo on Maine lobster and fried seafood, and as we are admittedly complete suckers, we chose to appease him and his white rice addiction. The downpour began while we were eating and of course, the restaurant was across town from the car. Yeah, we got a little wet. And so did our tent. Which was standing in 3 inches of water upon our return. "We're giving you a site on a hill," they said. "You shouldn't get too wet there, next to the playground," they said. "Don't worry about it. It's all part of the fun," they said. "I'm not sleeping in a fucking kiddie pool," I responded politely. "reimburse us for tonight, OR ELSE."

We spent that night at the Best Western.

Other cool things about our trip: Popovers. Popovers seem to be big up there. I, myself ate three of them. In one day. With fresh blueberry jam. Here's a link to Paula Deen's popover recipe if you're interested. Also, I found an awesome kids store in Bar Harbor called Hatley. They were having a great sale, so I snagged some super hip doggy rainboots for my 3 year old. And yes, he wore them. For the rest of the trip. We also read the shit out of One Day in Maine by the Make Way for Ducklings guy Robert McCloskey. You should read it with your kid even if Maine isn't on your itinerary. And one final plug: we inherited a toddler-sized inflatable bed with a zip up blanket attached from a good friend. That thing has come in so handy - we take it everywhere. And it was great on our camping trip. Sometimes my older one slept in it and sometimes my younger one did. Check out these readybeds if you travel with your kids. P.S. These are my personal opinions. I was not paid off, kicked back or bribed in anyway. (Yet.)

Moments I so wish I had gotten on videotape:
1. It was 5:00am and we had just spent our first night in the tent. My 16 month old (who evidently is 17 months old now) rolls over, looks at me, smiles his most winning, delicious smile and yells out, "All done!" And that's how we and everyone else in the entire campground knew it was time get up.

2. We are mid-3 mile hike along Jordan Pond. It's beautiful, picturesque, mountains surrounding pristine reservoir blah blah blah. Baby's in backpack, big boy is walking - well really sauntering, holding a stick, checking stuff out, asking the kinds of questions only he can ask, when suddenly he stops, farts, and says, "umm, I have to go poops." My man took him up into the woods to find suitable spot (which is probably illegal in light of the pristine part) but the kid couldn't do it. Crapping in the woods takes practice. And style. And, toilet paper. So, we walked back.

3. The guy who took us on a horse and carriage ride through the park let my 3 year old "drive" the horses. My kid was so proud! He sat up there in the driver's seat with his little arm resting across the top part of the bench like a little man.

4. The side of the road rockin' lobster joint we went to for dinner. The food was great - what we could taste of it as we shoved it into our mouths as quickly as possible because our two boys were throwing rocks at each other and sitting under the picnic table "hiding" and running around like crazy people and yelling and saying ,"ewww" and refusing to eat the steamers and the chowder and the corn on the cob and the lobster and the beer. Oh wait. Not the beer.

All in all, it was a fab trip. This travelling with two kids thing is fun, but it's a challenge to be "on" as a parent 24 hours a day for four straight days. Napping didn't really happen. And neither kid slept through a single night. It didn't take me long to realize how much I depend on that time to decompress. I expect them to nap forever. Or at least until they're old enough to play by themselves. So I can nap.

Oh, last thing. Did I mention I got my period? The minute we pulled out of the driveway. And now I probably have toxic shock syndrome from the infrequency with which I changed my tampon while we were roughing it. When you have a 3 year old in the stall with you asking you about the string that's hanging down from your special place, you kind of lose interest in drawing attention to it.

Getting Away for the Weekend: Out of Africa, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 12:55:00 +0000

Dana from www.lifeofsaucyb.com is one of the funniest bloggers out there. She's from Jersey, which automatically gives her star quality, and she is also the self-professed owner of a sexy husband and cute kid. She has it all. Which is why this story is extra funny. Visit Dana at her blog to keep up with the awesomeness.

I work in marketing, and part of my job responsibilities includes producing our company’s TV commercials. This year’s production was really something extra special, because this year we filmed our commercials in South Africa.

Up until that trip my travel experiences had been pretty pedestrian. I’d been to the Caribbean and I’d seen a fair amount of the United States. So embarking on a trip that would literally take me half way around the world made me equal parts nervous and excited. (And made my dad nervous and irate. Never mind that I am 36-years-old.) But I digress…

The total travel time to get to Cape Town was over 24 hours, so I was allowed to fly Business Class, which pretty much makes Coach look like steerage. The food, the booze, the free stuff – if they offered it, I took it!

My itinerary involved a 13-hour layover in Frankfurt, Germany. Since I had never been to Europe, I planned ahead of time to make a day of it and leave the airport to go sightseeing by myself. My main goal was to leave Deutschland without the words “ugly American” being uttered in relation to some faux pas on my part, so I dutifully read everything Frommer’s had to say about “Meinhattan” and even memorized a few basic German phrases.

Backpack securely in place, I hailed a cab and headed into Frankfurt ready to immerse myself in the country’s culture. And then my cab stopped in front of a Starbucks. Yes folks, that’s right - the first thing I saw on my first trip to a European city was Starbucks. And like a lemming, I went in and got a cup of coffee.

Unfortunately, that’s really a lot of what Frankfurt is about. It’s very modernized with an abundance of American fast food restaurants. Not quite the old world Europe I was expecting. Plus, the tourist info lady was mean to me. All right, maybe not mean, but not the way a tourist info lady is supposed to be. (Hey Eva Braun, don't look at me like I have two heads when your web site says you take credit cards but says nothing about the 25 euro minimum. I charged a 4 euro cup of coffee across the street!)

But I can't give Frankfurt a totally bad rap. Their claim to fame is museum row which is really impressive and I saw a fantastic Botticelli exhibit. Best of all, when I bought my museum ticket the cashier asked me with complete sincerity if I was a student. After that I seriously considered walking around with a backpack all the time.

And although I did not get to try any authentic German food, (I kid you not, the high end hotel I had dinner in had a Chinese buffet) I did get to try Apple Wine, which Frankfurt is known for producing. I had it prepared “sweet” and it was quite good, kind of like a Riesling.

With that, I say “Auf Wiedersehen,” until my next guest post where I’ll be re-capping my experiences in Cape Town.

Accepting Normal

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 12:00:00 +0000

I'm still moving or thinking about moving or something. So today, I am featuring Bailey, who blogs about the ups and downs of military life over at The Flores Garden. You should visit her and show her some love!

"Why can't we just be normal?" I have asked my husband this question countless times since I began the journey of military wife 5 years ago. And now that we're embarking on yet another move; trying to sell our house, figuring out where we're living next and for how long, etc. etc. I have found myself asking (with a whole lotta whining in there) this yet again.

But what is normal? My vision of normal is the cute house in small town, USA where everyone knows your name. My parent's parents live there and my children's children are going to live there. It's home, our settled little home. It's a far cry from the reality of having a new home every 3 years. We have many states, many cities we have called home. This will be our reality for next 12-15 years. That is my normal.

Do we all have visions of what "normal" is? And we whine because THAT'S what we want, rather than what we get? It can be anything. Perhaps you're a working mom who dreams of staying home. Maybe you're a "gypsy" like me and travel from place to place. Instead of ~~whining~~ wishing for what's on the other side, maybe we should take the time to embrace what we have. Bloom where we are planted. In other words: suck it up and embrace it.

This is our life, this is our normal. I can sulk about how I don't know anyone in our new place. The locals are funny, I can't find a decent hairdresser to save my life, and I miss our old Mexican restaurant. My advice (which I still have to remind myself) is to get out there. Find out where the locals hang out, dive into the culture, ASK people, talk to them. Dive in! It may be our temporary home but it's still HOME. Bloom where you are planted. Whatever "normal" occurrence in your life you are struggling with, Dive in! Accept it, grab it by the horns, and hold on for the ride! Don't wish your life away, don't fight where life takes you.

It's taken me 5 years to finally learn these skills and I still sometimes struggle with it. But I figure the US government is going to pick us up and move us whether I like it or not. We may not get choices in this life but we DO have the choice on how we react to situations. My choice is to live life to the very fullest, not dreaming of what could have been or what's not. No, my choice is to love MY life. To love OUR normal.... whatever or wherever that may be.

*I am so excited that I got to guest blog over here today! Stop by my blog anytime!

I love sharing stories and getting to know other moms!

www.thefloresgarden.blogspot.com*

If Only You Knew Him...

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 23:37:00 +0000

We couldn't decide on a name for a boy.

I liked names that my husband deemed too "ethnic": Jonah, Noah, Elijah (Eli for short). And he liked names that were a bit too...well...Christian.

Not that there is anything bad about a strong Christian name. But we had discussed that it was important for my children to have names that could easily translate into Hebrew. It was and is important for me to carry on my Jewish traditions, if not my Jewish faith.

At 7:21am on February 24, a small boy was born punching and kicking the air in a sterile operating room in Jerusalem, Israel. As I strode in and out of consciousness and a drug-induced haze, a nurse approached my husband and asked to him to provide a Hebrew name for the baby. As is tradition in Israel, a baby is named on its seventh day of life. However, our American health insurance wouldn't pay the bill if the baby wasn't named, and Hadassah Hospital wouldn't recognize the name (like, physically wouldn't write it down) unless it was Hebrew.

Choking back tears and fear, my brave husband explained that he didn't know Hebrew. That it was important for his wife to pick the name, that I was the one and only one that should pick it. But, seeing as it needed to be chosen and I was still in surgery, a gentle, non-English speaking, nurse sat with my husband.

"What will American name of baby be?"

"Aidan," my husband replied. "Aidan Joshua."

"Then call him Eitan. Beautiful name, means strong."

With a stroke of a pen, my husband gave our son an amazing destiny. Eitan means long-lived. It means strength. And with the blessing of this name, my husband, his father, gave him a force, a motivation, to live.

He uses his name as a battle cry. He is Eitan, master of his destiny, a force to be reckoned with. Born kicking the air, but not breathing, Eitan Yehoshua has beaten the odds, grown firmly, and shown all of us that determination can come in the smallest packages.

What my husband didn't realize at the time was that through a name, he had given a great gift. He had sealed the fate of a beautiful little boy who needed motivation and protection to survive. And through all the prayers, chants, and meditations over that one name, Eitan, we created a cosmic strength that defied all bounds of space and time.

For the little boy has survived. And day by day shows us the strength and life that "eitan" describes.

This post was based on my experience reading If Only You Knew Suzy by Katherine Rosman, a beautiful story of a mother and daughter's love across lifetimes and through cancer. Suzy, Rosman's mother, used her Hebrew name (Ariella Chaya) as a force of strength to carry her through her struggle and eventual death from lung cancer. I couldn't help but draw this parallel, because let's face it. Strength is strength, whether it be from within or a more conscious choice. And just as Suzy was able to teach her daughters about life, strength, and passion, so shall Eitan teach us.

Getting Away for the Weekend: When In Rome

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 12:00:00 +0000

Life at the Travel Mommy house are hectic as we prepare to move. So since I will be without internet for a few weeks, I thought I would open up "Getting Away" to some of my friends.

First up, Kami from The Fence. She tells the best stories about how her kids ~~ruin~~ enhance her life. This story of her reactions to Rome is no different!

We've been in Rome for 3 days. Meaning, we're almost halfway through our vacation. And in this short time, I've had some important revelations.

I NEED my children to nap.

My children NEED to nap.

My marriage REQUIRES that my children nap.

My husband can drive into, out of, and through Rome, in the dark, without the aid of a GPS or an iPhone. I watched this firsthand, no thanks to our dead electronics, shitty maps, and the poor signage that seems to characterize these parts of Italy.

I'm a terrible navigator. If you find this shocking, please read this post.

I like dessert better than dinner. And I've passed this gene onto my children, much to husband's chagrin. Tonight, our four year old happily mixed his chocolate gelato with his chocolate mousse. Yes, in Italy, there are no holds barred.

Two year olds like to repeat themselves. Over and over and over. (“Where Miss Sujo is, Mommy? I want Miss Sujo. I don't like Miss Sujo, Mommy. Where Miss Sujo is, Mommy? This broken, Mommy. I broke it. I broke it, Mommy. Where Miss Sujo is, Mommy? That plane, Mommy? Where that plane go? This broken, Mommy?”)

Small children don't dig “spicy water” (a.k.a seltzer) and would prefer to die of thirst than to drink it.

“If you have to go poops, you go poops. If you don't have to go poops, you don't go poops.” - my four year's explanation as to why he never has to go when I ask him to, but has to go as soon as we're acres deep into the magical ruins of Hadrian's Villa.

My two year old who doesn't eat ever, eats ham, pork, prosciutto, and cheese puffs in Italy. He also drinks Italian juices. Out of open cups. And thus, successfully weaned (wahoo!) from the horrid sippies that we “forgot” to bring along. Oops.

Tomorrow, we head to the Villa Borghese. You know, where the zoo is. Because we don't have animals where we come from. We also plan to eat the crap out of some Italian pastries. We seem to keep passing them by in favor of gelato (so far hazelnut has kicked all ass, although coffee and caramel are tied for second), but I did enjoy a most amazing tiramisu tonight.

See? I'm totally branching out. I can also speak Italian now. I'm a real quick study. Watch this:

Ciao. For now.

Happiness in Photos

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 11:24:00 +0000

Today at Mama Kat's, we are talking happiness, specifically the 10 things that create happiness. Easy for me, I keep a running tally of my happy things on Facebook in picture form. So glad I can share some of these with you.

Happiness is...

1. Baby Feet.

small, red, yummy

2. Sister(s)

classic, beautiful, full of spirit

3. Little Boys in Hawaiian Shirts

cool, calm, ready for trouble

4. Potato Latkes

lard, potato, 'nuff said

5. Taking Time to Smell the Roses

fresh, clean, perspective

6. Family

we love you

7. My Girls

strong, beautiful, forever

8. Vacation

relax, revitalize, fun

9. Friends and Adventures

we miss you

10. Discovery

i might cry

Where I Talk About Boobs

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 09:24:00 +0000

Starting next week, when I am ~~hoping~~ crossing my fingers that we will be moving, you will be treated to some GREAT guest bloggers blogging on the subject of travel. But in until then, you are subject to my occasional rants, one of which is up today. Because I am in a ranting mood, and that is how I roll.

I realize that I am lumped into the "mommy blogger" category by virtue of the fact that I am a mom, I blog, and I do tend to talk about the Great Potato and parenting him.

But sometimes I don't feel like I really fit. I don't really enjoy talking about diaper brands and songs I sing, or toys I love, or even places I take him ~~so he doesn't annoy the piss outta me~~ so he gets real world experience. But mostly, I don't relate because my son never breastfed, and to many, that makes me an outcast.

I have a total appreciation for lactivists, those who lobby the medical profession for better communication regarding the benefits of breastfeeding. I also applaud those who take a stand against formula companies, for sticking up for what they believe in.

What I don't appreciate is the fact that when I question their beliefs and say, "breastfeeding isn't for everyone," they read my blog and say, "well, I didn't mean you." WHA? Why the f*** did you not mean me? If you are going to stand up for your beliefs, stand up for them. Or else, start preaching about the fact that while you believe breastfeeding is good for everyone, you actually mean, breastfeeding is good for you and you alone.

I can tell you the story about how I pumped solely for the first 6 months. But my son never actually touched my breast.

Or I can recount how my son was born at 1 lb. 8 oz. and I wasn't able to hold him for 2 months. He had a vent stuck so far down his throat for 3 months and wasn't able to suck on anything save for his own spit in that time. So while I cradled him to my chest, it was through layers of germ-resistant gowns that he even could feel my skin.

Or we can laugh together about how during month 5, when the lactation consultant came to try and help, his suck was so weak that he nearly passed out from at least trying to get any sort of nutrition.

So that now, at 16 months, he often laughs when I say the word "boobs" simply because he has never met the twins, and probably won't, unless he happens to pull my shirt down in Walmart as he likes to do.

The fact of the matter is that when I had dysentary for 10 days and had to pump and dump, or when I was pumping at 32,000 feet, trying to shield my goodies from a plane full of Hassidic schoolgirls craning their necks for a view of the poor baby in an incubator, I was not having fun. It wasn't rewarding, it was stressful. But I did it because I thought I had to.

In month 6, as we prepared to take him home from the hospital, the doctor finally told me that I wasn't producing enough milk to keep up with Potato's caloric needs and that he would have to be on a special formula designed to beef him up. I looked at him in the face and said, "you mean, I can stop pumping?" and he said, "I would advise it."

And that doctor wasn't being paid off by formula companies. That doctor wasn't talking in his own best interest. That doctor had seen me crying on and off for a month because the strain of pumping every hour just to get enough milk to line the bottom of a bottle and knew that I wasn't going to fare well when I took a very fragile, very ill baby home from the hospital if I didn't regain some of my strength.

I am sure that all the lactivists reading my blog are saying, "well we didn't mean you," right now as they peruse my experience. But you do mean me. When you make blanket statements like, "Breastfeeding is the only way," you alienate a whole population of people who choose differently or have no other choice.

I appreciate those that have a point of view and those that stick by their guns. But, when you start making concessions for people whose situations go against the rules, your argument breaks down.

Will I try and breastfeed any make-believe, subsequent children? Probably. Because I have always wanted to try it, but also because I have super boobs that tend to produce a lot.

But will I do it because someone tells me its "the right thing?" No.

Because the right thing is a personal preference, and I'm certainly not going to let anyone tell me any differently.

A Tribute to an Angel

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 12:47:00 +0000

Have you ever known one of those people that is just so honestly and beautifully sweet that you don't believe they are real? But when you really get to know them, you realize that they are just one of those genuine people that you will always and forever have the pleasure of knowing.

I met one of those people this past December. Her name was Teresa. She was quiet and unassuming, with a staunch faith in God and a beautiful spirit. Sometimes, you thought she was just shy, but sometimes she would say these incredibly funny things without smile until the very end, where she would flash this beautiful smile.

I didn't know her very well. I saw her in training classes left and right. We ate lunch together and talked about raising kids. We talked about our families, our husbands. She listened as I told about Potato and his prematurity, what terrible concerns I had about his health and how the whole situation made me crazy.

She was so understanding. As if she had reached out across the table and given me a hug. She listened and empathized, and often said that she would want to meet the great Potato if given the chance.

But she never got the chance because last Saturday she passed away suddenly.

And she was 24 weeks pregnant.

Doctors were able to save the baby, who at 1 lb. 14 oz. is in the NICU.

And I wish I could let her husband know that the peace and comfort that Teresa gave me about my own preemie is a sad irony. I wish that I could let him know that if he too needs comfort about this tiny baby that I would be glad to listen and empathize, just like Teresa did for me. But I don't know how. He doesn't even know me and I hardly knew her. I just knew that she was an amazing influence on me.

I try not to think about it, but it often weighs heavily on me, this feeling of grief that I can't explain. How can you love someone you hardly knew? Probably because I know that the world has lost a great presence and that I think on that baby daily, that I will help in any way I can to help her father and to help her share great memories of her mother.

A tribute to Teresa....you will be missed.

Getting Away for the Weekend, June 25

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 16:57:00 +0000

One of the things I miss most about Israel is the food. Regardless of the fact that I got dysentary while I was there, regardless of the fact that I spent Passover there and was forced to find something to eat for 7 days that did not include yeast products. The food was amazing and addicting.

I used to have dreams about the Chicken Schnitzel sandwich from a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Tel Aviv. In fact, when Potato was first born and someone was coming to Jerusalem from Tel Aviv (an hour's drive), I had him bring Schnitzel just for me.

And I am not talking any Schnitzel. This was a breaded/fried chicken breast packed into a pita with Israeli salad (tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley), hummus, and tahini. OMG. The best thing I have ever eaten.

And then there was the shawarma. Or schawarma. Or shawerma. Many different spellings.

Hubs and I used to go down the street to a store-front restaurant that gave you beef, chicken or lamb shawarma in a pita or laffa (pillowier bread). I loved getting the beef in laffa. And then, they gave you your choice of many different toppings that they wrapped up to a Middle Eastern burrito. Which we then ate sloppily on the sidewalk with all the other diners.

My favorite combination was beef in laffa, with hummus, tahini, pickles, israeli salad, and pickled red and green cabbages.

So, I am totally and utterly hungry now. Like from the bottom of my soul.

The thing is, if I wanted to tell you about the dining experiences I had in Israel, I could tell you about the amazing sandwich that I ate with my sister in the upscale American Hotel (where we saw Willem Dafoe). Or I could tell you about the steak and avocado salad from Foccacia Bar, or the amazing ramen miso soup from the River Noodle Bar that made me feel better all during my aforementioned parasitic experience.

But nothing compares to squatting in the dirty street eating hummus burritos. Or Chicken Schnitzel off a cart.

It's the stuff I love about traveling!

Dear Reuben

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 08:50:00 +0000

Dear Reuben Sandwich Combo (that comes with fries and a drink),

I love your turkey meat goodness wrapped in the warm embrace of a piece of buttered and toasted rye bread. I love your sweet yet salty filling, coleslaw with just a hint of vinegar and chunky baby carrots for crunch. And those eyes, those eyes that you stare at me with from the sad cafeteria pan, just begging me to take you back to the office for a nooner.

I have paired you with a chilled ice tea. I have matched you with a bubbly glass of diet coke. But no matter what, you never lose your lusciousness. When I see your name on the menu, I just know that I have to have you no matter what. The anticipation as I walk downstairs to the lunch line is too much to bear sometimes and I often have to taste your companion fries before I have even paid.

And how much better could you be at a low, low, price of $3.99. Affordable, gorgeous, and yummy. It's a triple threat that can't be beat, either by the likes of the beef short ribs combo or the Mexi-Cali bar.

And so, dear Reuben, I think it's best if we go our separate ways. It doesn't mean I won't lust after your name when I spy it on the whiteboard. Or make three passes by the grill on the way to the salad bar in moments of sheer weakness.

But I have to stop our relationship. Because you are making me fat. And really, that's all there is to say about that.

Love,
Me

MamaKat's Writing Challenge this week is to write a letter to the thing that is causing a problem in your weight loss plan. And really, that IS all there is to say about that.

Blog Talk: Guilty Pleasures

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 11:52:00 +0000

Guilty pleasures. We all have them.

I am not embarrassed to admit mine.

The shows on MTV ... to include The City and formerly The Hills. I stopped taping it when LC left. It lost its heart. But a good "reality" drama while laying about in my big bed? Totally guilty.

Teen television. Degrassi? Oh yeah. Any movie on ABC Family starring Amanda Bynes or Lindsay Lohan when she was still cute? You betcha. The only teen queen I can't stand is Miley Cyrus. She and her buck teeth should go back to the hole they crawled out of.

A book with a little sex... or who am I kidding, a lot of sex. With a glass of wine at the beach on a balmy day? My idea of a perfect, and guilty, day.

Blogging in the bathroom. Yeah, I know, total TMI, right? But a lot of the time, I go in there, even if I don't have to "do" something. It's quiet, it's (mostly) sterile, and there is a baby and husband proof lock on the door. Some might see potty, but I see nirvana.

And lastly...

Cuddling with my baby and smelling his hair. Oh the smell of baby hair. He tends to smell like his lavender baby shampoo. Unless he's puked. And then he smells like feet.

So what about you?

What are your guilty pleasures?

Getting Away for the Weekend, The Importance of a Joke

noreply@blogger.com (TravelMommy) — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 22:24:00 +0000

I always used to say that one of the reasons I loved traveling the world was because I could change people's viewpoints.

Not change people's culture, mind you. Because a culture is the lifeblood of a place. And one thing you would never want to do is go to a foreign country and try to change who they are.

But open their eyes? That's a different story.

In Jordan, I used to work with a bunch of bedouin men. They were "old school" Arab, the kind that believe a woman should be veiled and home with the children at all times, not working or having their own viewpoint.

So, working with a strong, independent woman like myself often threw them for a loop. They really didn't know how to talk to me. How to approach me as a supervisor. A woman in a position of power? Wow, what a concept.

But I remember the day it changed.

I was working on a project when they all started laughing. I turned around with my stink eye to let them know that I didn't appreciate them laughing in Arabic, mostly because I didn't know what they were saying, but also because I was always afraid that they were laughing about me, and I wanted no part of that.

The one that spoke the most English told me politely that they weren't laughing at me. That one of them, the one with the grossest mind, had told a dirty joke.

"I want to hear a dirty joke," I replied. Hell, if I was going to work in their hot, dusty, country, the least I could get out of it was a good dirty joke.

But of course they hemmed and hawed. A woman invading their sacred man space? Never.

So I did the unthinkable. I told a dirty joke. And while it wasn't the grossest dirty joke ever, it may have included a few choice words for certain parts of the female body.

And then I saw the looks of shock on their face. Inquisitive eyebrows were raised. And then the one with the dirtiest mind broke out in the loudest and most raucous laughter. One by one, they followed suit until the whole room was filled with hoots, hollers, and cackles.

The thing was, they understood the joke. They understood the words. But for the first time, they saw a woman as someone equal to a man. Someone that was able to tell a dirty joke and be one of the guys. And it changed their view.

Sure, they went home to their veiled wives and believed the same beliefs they always had. But they had a better understanding of the world beyond their huts. And I helped with that.