On Being a Stay-at-home Mom'Me' ...

It's not easy to describe the last week --- this much anticipated transition from executive to stay-at-home mom.​

It's not been particularly interesting ... not much craziness going on in our household right now.

Oh, wait.  There was the unexpected memo from school to parents that led to an intense and panicked research project on lice infestation and delousing.​  

It's not been particularly exciting ... though I did 'high-five' myself when I managed to unclog the kitchen sink on my own.  ​Amazing how much one can get accomplished with a bottle of Drain-O and zero beaurocracy.

Light reading ... ​

It has been relaxing ... I read something cover to cover other than the Daily Mail for the first time in a long time (granted, it was more of a beach read than a literary classic, but still ...).  I've even joined a book club; our first meeting's in May.  Which reminds me, I must go buy Life After Life, by Kate Atkinson.​

It's been productive.  IKEA shelves for the laundry room got bought and installed on the very ​same day ... compounds that provide carpenters are a definite reason to consider moving to the ME.  Not a single expletive was uttered during the entire installation process.

It's been different, definitely different.​

For starters, I drop kiddo off at school every morning.  She is at that great age where she is young enough to still want me to walk her to her cubby, but old enough that I really appreciate it.  I love this part of the day.​

Except for last Sunday.​

That was the day I didn't use the crosswalk to get back to my car (parked in the lot across the street).  The cross walk monitor called me out in front of the entire lower elementary.  ALL the first and second graders eyeballed me.​

That sucked.​

Secondly, I come home every morning and do pilates on my living room floor.  

Actually, I come home and watch Karen Karter do pilates on the flat screen; I mostly lie on my yoga mat wondering if it's trick TV.​

Come on.  Surely she jests when she tells me to transition from a lying to a sitting position with ​'abs taught, arms straight out', rolling back down disk by disk, pushing navel to spine?  And breathing all the while.  Yeah, right!  I think there must be an invisible wire tethered to the back of her Lululemon crops.  I reach for another bon bon.

The latest in 'kitty cool'.​

Thirdly, 'helmet head' is my shadow, my new constant companion.  ​Having overcome the initial discomfort and humiliation of her cone, she seems to be embracing her 'Jetsons' style and is back to overturning the potted plants, knocking puzzles to the floor and chasing madly after pencils (???  don't ask - her little pink catnip-scented toy mouse has been virtually relegated to a dark corner ever since she discovered the fun to be had rolling an HB2 Faber Castell around the house).

Through all the excitement, I've tackled spring cleaning with a vengeance; out with the old!  The household purge strategically follows the professional purge.  I am secretly ridding our house of all McDonald's ​Happy Meal toys and Budweiser shorts whilst kiddo and Smilin' Vic are off at school/work.

It feels great, liberating.​

Well, if I'm being completely honest, the cleaning's not going as well as I'd anticipated.  Our maid's annual leave just happened to coincide with my first month off.  

So I've wasted a lot of time this last week scouring the deepest recesses of the laundry room in search of toilet cleaner and reacquainting myself with the mop.  I'm having a hard time with the temperature settings on the washing machine (the Turkish instruction manual doesn't make it any easier).  Smilin Vic's underwear has not been ironed in over a week (I swear, our maid irons EVERYTHING!).  And only today did I learn that plants need watering.  Seriously, moment of silence ... "Sorry about that, little dead plants."

​Last Thursday, people from work threw me a going away party which was really nice.  I got three watches.  Apparently someone thinks I've got time management issues.

Anyone have the time????​

And I got a LOT of flowers.​

These died too ... :-(​

Now that that page is completely turned, I'm trying to refocus, make our home the priority, throw my energy into that.

I'm trying to be more creative.  Unfortunately ​the organic blueberry and tuna wraps with pesto sauce did not go over well in kiddo's lunch.  (Just kidding ... there was no pesto sauce!)

I'm trying out new things, like going to the grocery store in the middle of the day.  It wasn't quite a 'shoppers of Walmart' experience, but I was quite amazed at the number of people from work who seem to enjoy the mid-morning shopping experience as well.  Apparently the weekly HR meeting is now taking place at Carrefour.​

I'm trying to be more frugal.  I'm thinking next week I might try a kitty litter facial.  Don't believe me?  Youtube it.  Folks, believe me, there are people out there with time on their hands and ​some weird initiative.

I'm ​trying to socialize more.  This week alone I've gotten to know Abdul Rahman the compound gardener, Abdulrahman the compound garbage collector, Abduraman the compound carpenter, and Abdalrahman the compound plumber.  (I hope I got that right.)

All in all, it's been a fairly smooth, uneventful transition to stay-at-homedness.  And don't let my glib tone fool you into thinking I'm not appreciating every single moment.  I'm a happy camper right now.  Stress-free and loving it.  ​

I think I'll hold on to that feeling for just a little while longer ...​

"F" Me in the ME! ...

No need for a disclaimer on this one ... bear with me and you'll decipher it soon enough.

A few weeks ago, Smilin' Vic, Kiddo and I were seated at an upscale restaurant, enjoying a leisurely and rather costly meal.  We had fibbed to get kiddo in ... minimum age is 10.  On our way to the restaurant we grilled her mercilessly:​

Us:  "How old are you?"​

Kiddo:  "Seven."​

Us:  "No, you're not seven.  You are TEN.  Do you understand?  Anyone asks, you are TEN.  Let's try again.  How old are you?"​

Kiddo:  "Seven."​

Us:  "For goodness sakes, you are TEN.  Just for tonight, you are TEN!"​

Kiddo:  "But that would by lying, Maman, and you said I'm never supposed to lie."​

Me:  "I lied." ...

"Just bear with us, ok?  It's a white lie. If we don't lie tonight, we can't get into this place, and that would be horrible.  So 'how OLD ARE YOU'?'"​

Kiddo:  (Crosses her arms against her chest, extreme look of disappointment as she tries her best 'I expected better of you' look on me) "Hmmmmph.  Ten, I am ten years old."​

Us:  "That's good, better, now let's practice a few more times ..."​

Anyhow, we made it in, and no one bothered to ask her age.  Once she got over her initial disillusionment at being born to lying, scheming, conniving parents, she was actually quite stoked at her newfound maturity.  She spent the evening trying to do things that made her more "ten-like", leaning in to me and quietly asking "Is this how a 10-year-old would hold her fork?" and "Since I'm 10, can I go to the bathroom on my own?" and "I don't think 10-year-olds have to eat what their parents tell them to."  ​

But the reality is a 7-year-old can only fake it so much.  So as kiddo was enjoying dessert and Smilin' Vic and I were finishing off the last of the wine, she suddenly gasps and exclaims "That man over there just said the "C" word."

Now just stop for a minute, and picture Smilin' Vic and me simultaneously spitting out our finest red ...​

Smilin' Vic:  "Shhhhhhhh!  Where did you hear that word?"​

Kiddo:  "Well, you say it all the time Papa, but you told me not to say it."​

Now don't get me wrong, Smilin' Vic's repertoire is occasionally peppered with profanity, a throwback to his years in the barracks.  But some words he has forever relegated to the literal battlefield, the "C" word which immediately springs to mind being at the ​top of the list.  So Smilin' Vic is visibly flustered.  "I DO NOT, nor have I EVER, used that term in our house."

Kiddo:  (loudly enough for fellow diners to hear and cast disdainful glances our way)  "But you DO, Papa; you say the "C" word all the time.  You even said it about another driver when we were coming to the restaurant."​

Smilin' Vic:  (well, at this point he's not actually saying anything out loud ... he is silently, mentally going through his entire collection of curse words, spewing them in his head, where only he can hear them and appreciate their true significance ​... he does this regularly ... it is a kind of mantra for him in those moments where he is particularly flustered - but I can almost hear the expletives myself, so loudly is he thinking them).

I have never heard Smilin' Vic use that particular term; I'm thinking we may be on the wrong track and I need to diffuse the situation.  I lean in to kiddo.  "Kiddo, can ​you whisper the "C" word into my ear?  I promise I won't tell anyone."

Kiddo leans in, cups her little hand around my ear and whispers softly:  

"Crazy."  

"That man said "crazy" maman, and he said it two times, and Papa's not telling the truth, because he says it too, he does, I swear."

And this folks, is what you get when you try to do the right thing by teaching your child not to use certain words.  We should have known; this isn't the first time this has happened.​

There was the time kiddo announced to her nursery school teacher that her nanny uses the "F" word all the time.  

While the "F" word can be considered offensive in North America, it is brandished quite liberally, and more often used as a common adjective than a curse.  But here in the ME, it is construed as extremely offensive.

Our poor nanny used to pick up kiddo at daycare every day, and really couldn't understand why everyone was looking at her funny.  

When her teacher brought it up ​casually one morning as I dropped kiddo off, I had to explain that the "F" word in our house is actually:

"Fat."​

Our nanny is Philippina, and like most Asians we've met here, has no compunction whatsoever against using the word; going so far as to gleefully tell me or Smilin' Vic we've gotten very "fat" upon a return from Italy or Switzerland or another of those indulgent countries that serve up the most delicious, unctuous, cheesy, and creamy of dishes.  We've had to explain a few times that while it may be quite normal in this culture to tell someone they're fat, most Westerners tend to find it rather offensive, actually more offensive than the 'other' "F" word.

We also have the "S" word:​

"Stupid."​

The "D" word:​

"Dumb."​

The "H" word:​

"Hate."​

But yesterday, I heard kiddo conspiring with her two friends by the pool.  They asked me to pretend I didn't know them, to pretend they were just teenagers enjoying a day out.  I thought it was the cutest thing ever.  

They lounged in their chairs, taking in rays.  They introduced themselves to me, explaining that they were triplets.  Their mother had a very difficult birth, so they had to take the bus straight from the orphanage to get money and jobs.  One was an artist engineer.  The other was a doctor who cleans beaches.  The last went to beauty salons, but was also an artist.  

Then a little boy walked by with his mom.  I heard kiddo exclaim to her friends: "Hey, I know that guy, he's my friend."  The second girl answered: "Yeah, he's in Grade 1, my mom was his substitute teacher once."  The other girl whispered:  "Your friend's HOT."​

Once I had recovered from falling off my own lounger, I realized that

"HOT"

is now the new "H" word in our house.  ​I watched the three girls (who I did not know) saunter over to the boy and his mom.  They engaged him in a few moments of 7-year-old flirtation as he looked at them eagerly as only an oblivious 6-year-old boy can ... he was obviously thinking that since there were four of them, they might be able to play a game of chicken in the pool.

So I'm reconsidering our strategy.  Kiddo's seven, going on ten.  Perhaps it's time to let her expand her repertoire and welcome her to the real world.  ​We've introduced the white lie, we've taught her that she actually can point as long as she's pointing at something, not at someone.  So maybe the time has come to introduce her to the concept of "term appropriateness based on context".

Or we could ​shelter her for the next twenty years and do our darndest to hold on to the toddler forever.  I like that option, I like it a lot.  

Fortunately, I love kiddo more.  And I want her to lead a productive life in society, be able to mix with the masses without coming across as a complete dork (though in fairness, I've made it this far with a fair amount of naïveté to my credit).  So chances are I'll start letting "stupid" slide into conversations, as long as it's directed at things or situations, not people.

I will say this:  the ME has been a blessing to us and to her as far as allowing her to be a kid.  She is probably enjoying her childhood innocence a lot more here than she could in the West.  Kids here get to remain kids here a lot longer ... remaining blissfully oblivious until now to the "F" word of my forefathers.  

And now you know.  "F" me in the ME is all about weight, folks, not about getting screwed (oops!  is that the new "S" word??????).

​7 going on 10 ... the artist engineer, doctor beach cleaner, beauty salon artist ... and HOT is the new "H" word ...

I Failed Me a Little Today ...

Every day, I'm confronted with something I've failed at.  My days are filled with mistakes and failures of varying degrees.  Some days it's something small, like failing to remember to put the water bottles out for the water delivery truck on Wednesday.  Some days it's something big, like failing to read the e-mail from kiddo's teacher reminding me that today is "Crazy Hair Day" at school.  And some days it's something monumental, like failing at my job.

But one thing ​I've learned from failure is that 9 times out of 10 it teaches me something.  I like to believe I've actually grown from my failures, that I've become a little bit better at some things.  It might be that I've only become more accomplished at failure itself, but I'll take any success I can get.  Surely my failures have made me somewhat smarter than I once was?

For example, I once ran freely through my mom's yard wearing jelly shoes.  We had a huge Husky/German Shepard mix back then.  I failed to realize there was a chance I would collide with one of the doggy land mines littering the yard.  I realized my mistake as soon as the poo started seeping through the gaps in my jelly shoe.  I've learned not to run through open fields wearing jelly shoes.

I once rubbed my eyes after basting ribs in hot sauce with my bare hands.  I failed to heed the warning label that said "Avoid contact with eyes.  If product comes into contact with eyes, immediately flush liberally with fresh water."  Lesson in self-macing quickly learned.  Tabasco BURNS!

​I failed to wait until AFTER pulling a shirt over my head to apply lipstick ; I learned that you can remove a lipstick stain with hairspray.  

I failed at freely acknowledging a mistake; I've learned that you can avoid a lot of pain with a sincere "sorry".  

I failed at admitting that I didn't know what the hell someone was talking about; I've learned that you can avoid a lot of frustration by just admitting that you don't have all the answers.  

I failed at telling a lot of people exactly how I felt; I've learned that when you stop pretending, life becomes a lot simpler.

There are always exceptions; e.g.  ​I repeatedly fail to get to work on time.  That is the 1 time out of 10 that I just can't seem to learn from.  I figure I more than make up for it on the one hand, staying late on the job more than my turn.  However, this usually perpetuates the cycle of failure, with me arriving consistently three minutes behind the school bell most every day as I rush for after-school pickup.  On good days I convince myself that one could consider my tardiness a success if measured in terms of consistency.  

Then there are other failures, bigger failures, monumental failures, that make me rethink the implications of my actions on my life and that of others.

Yesterday I failed at sunscreen protocol.  Up until then, I could boast almost eight years of immaculate protection of kiddo's pearly-white skin in the ME.  I started off well, immersed Kiddo in spf 50 as is custom.  But then I let her swim and play in the desert sun for just a little too long without re-applying.  Her red shoulders and the pink hair part on her skull were the first indication that I had failed.  Her desperate attempt to rouse us at 1:00 a.m. by vomiting profusely over Smilin' Vic and I and our bedding was ​the second sign.  Her dry sunstroke heaves throughout the early morning hours lent credence to the epic proportions of my failure to protect this amazing little translucent being.  (I'm happy to report she's back to running about care-free as I type this post.)  I consider this a MONUMENTAL failure.  I am supposed to keep her safe.  Safe from the bad guys, safe from harm, safe from the elements.  Lesson learned: Failing my child is not an option. 

Recently, I admitted to failing at my job.  This hasn't been my biggest failure ever, but it's been a really hard one to admit to.  Me, who has always prided myself on my ability to 'get the job done'.  But I finally found a job I just wasn't willing to invest any more of me into.  So I quit.  In case I forget how massive a failure this one is, kiddo has been running around telling everyone for the last few weeks "My Maman quit her job!'  Funny thing is, I feel ok about it.  Lesson learned:  There is sometimes victory in failure.      

Years ago, I failed at marriage.  This one nearly killed me.  Slowly.  The failure dragged on for years, and it hurt - not only me, but many around me.  But then I succeeded at divorce.  Life has a way of throwing curve balls like that.  Lesson learned:  Sometimes success doesn't look quite like we expected it to.

For over six years, I have been failing my family back home.  As an expat, I just don't think there's any way around it.  I am not there to listen to them, to help them, to wrap my arms around them, to comfort them when they most need it.  Lesson learned:  Sometimes failure is the only option ... and it sucks.

Yup, every day I fail me a little.  But as they say in these parts, "What to do, yannih?"  I take the good with the bad and move on, and hopefully a little growth will come of it.  Hopefully the multitude of failures accumulated over the years will help define a successful lifetime.

May we all fail a little so that we may grow a little, and ultimately emerge triumphant.

"You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space." - Johnny Cash

Dear Daddy, These Are a Few Things You Taught Me

Dear Daddy,

I know your memory's not quite what it used to be. I know some days you are tired and it's hard for you to remember all the fun times and the hard times we've shared. But that's ok.  Because what you've taught me, I can never forget.

These days, when I talk to you, you ask me where I'm living now?  

"You're in China, aren't you?", is what you ask me on a good day.  On a bad day, you just ask me "Where are you, are you coming to see me soon?" 

I always answer "Qatar, Papa, je suis au Qatar."  And you always say, "Yes, yes, Qatar.  It's late over there, isn't it?"

And you usually say, "I'm so happy to hear your voice.  You know, you're all special to me.  All my kids.  But you, you were the baby.  And I can't forget holding you.  You were my baby.  You're still my baby.  I'll never forget you.  You're special, you know?"

And I don't know what to say.  Because my heart is breaking.  Because I know that eventually, you will forget me.  And I curse myself for hoping the cancer takes you before you lose the memory of me. 

Some days you forget my kiddo.  Some days you mistake Smilin' Vic for my first husband.  But I guide you slowly back to the pictures on your wall of my family today.  I give you their names.  And then you remember how much you love kiddo; how she sings to you sometimes.  You remember how good Smilin' Vic is for me.  And I laugh with you as you remember.  And a little part of me dies inside.  Because I know when I hang up, you will forget again.

Then you recall that I still have to be in the ME for a few years.  You recall that you lived your life as an expat.  The other night, I said "I'll see you soon Papa, real soon."  And you replied "No, no, you don't have to come.  I know you're doing what you need to do; you're making a life for you and your family.  I've been there.  I did that.  It's ok; you're like a recording of me.  But you know, sometimes in life you realize that it's harder to be the one receiving than giving." 

And I was crying inside, Daddy.  My heart was breaking.  But we both managed to laugh out loud. 

And that's one of the things you taught me.  

To laugh even when it hurts.

 Because usually when it hurts, it means we have the memory of something good.  We have the memory of something better.  You always told me that there was a balance in life, a full circle, that a loss meant you actually had experienced something great.  And that I had to learn to appreciate what I had lost.

You told me a story once.  About how as a young boy, you rode to the "city" with your father.  You and your brother, seated in the back of a horse-drawn sled, with hot bricks to warm your feet and a woolen blanket to stave off the cold.  As you rode into the "city" (a Northern New Brunswick town of about 6,500 pop. in 1935), you marveled at the homes of 'rich folk' built on foundations.  And you told yourself that if you ever had a foundation on your house, you would be a rich man.  And you told me that you'd been a rich man from the moment you built your first house and home, because you built it on a foundation.  You never wavered from that conviction, no matter what riches or temptations came your way.  And that's another thing you taught me.  

Realize what's important, and stick to it.

When I bought my first house, you said something scary to me.  "The happiest days of my life were when I had a mortgage with the bank, mouths to feed, bills to pay.  I had a reason to get up every day, a reason to go to work, a reason to come home."  And I thought "How very depressing, that these are the best days of my life, worrying about the bills."  But I've realized since that you were teaching me something very different.  

Understand your reason for being, embrace it, and live up to it.

After my first husband asked you for my hand in marriage, he told me that you had said this to him:  "Son, I know you love her for her qualities, but can you live with her faults?"  When I told you I was divorcing him, you listened to me quietly.  You didn't judge.  Even though I know it made you sad.  Even though it went against what you believed in (though in fairness, you hadn't been successful in the relationship department yourself!).  A few months later, you said to me "Well, if you ever remarry, make sure you get a diamond big enough to skate on before saying yes!".  And years later when I told you I was getting remarried, you said to me "Make sure he's not marrying you for your brains."  You left me totally confused.  Surely I didn't want to marry a man who loved me purely for my feminine wiles?

I only pieced it together a few years later.  I think I know now what you wanted for me.  Someone who would take nothing from me.   Someone who would love me because of, not despite, my eccentricities, my failings, my shortcomings.  Someone who would protect me.  Someone who would keep me safe.  No matter what.  No matter if I had nothing to give back.  Like you had done.  You wanted to be sure I would always have a safe place.  And what did I learn from that?

Always have a safe place.  And if you can, learn to BE that safe place for someone who needs it.

When I got my first job, you congratulated me, encouraged me, told me:

"If you find a job you love, you'll never work another day in your life."

 No truer words have ever been spoken.  

Here in the ME, I have struggled with my job.  For the first time in my life, for the last two years, I have gone to work day after day, hating what I do.  Three weeks ago, I handed in my resignation.  There may or may not be other opportunities out there, but for the time being, for the sake of my family and everyone I love, it is better to forsake the salary in the hopes of something better.  For a while, at least, I know I can turn to a job I love:  being a mom and a wife.

You have taught me so much.  

You have taught me that

silence shared with someone you love speaks to the heart.  

You have shown me that

there is merit in a hard day's work.  

You have shown me that

loving someone is truly letting them go.  

You have shown me that

laughter IS the best medicine.  

You showed me that

the best qualification for any job is "desire".  

You showed me that

the best way to live is without regret.  

You taught me that

all the degrees in the world don't compensate for lack of common sense.  

You taught me that

disrespecting my mother is unacceptable.

But the biggest thing you taught me was to enjoy the moment.  No matter how big, how small.  Enjoy the moment.  Don't ask for more.  Don't curse its passing.  Don't question it.  Simply enjoy the moment. 

Enjoy the moment. 

And tonight, as I think of you, trapped in that veil of forgetfulness that clouds your days and nights, I think it's appropriate that you should have been the one to teach me such a valuable lesson.  Because today I know that moments are all that remain.  Moments of pleasure, moments of pain, moments of anger, moments of sadness, moments of joy ... but all moments. 

There is no more continuum, no more sequence of events leading up to the end of your day.  Every moment you experience is a gift; every moment you experience is instantaneously forgotten, magically trapped and stored in a vault.  A vault to which no one has a key, not even you.  And I pray, I pray with all my might, that every moment you have left is a good one.  That you may experience only good moments from this moment on.  That at this very moment, as I write, as my heart aches for you and tears stream down my face, you may be experiencing an amazing moment of joy and love and rapture.  I pray that you may have peace in every single remaining moment; peace, laughter, joy, and rapture.

I pray that in those moments there is an occasional flash of all that you have taught me.

I love you Daddy. 

GyspsyInTheME

​Images fade ... memories fade ... but everything you taught me Daddy, will be passed on.

So Many Options ... One That Pleases Me ...

So I was asked to attend a Qatari wedding again this weekend.  Truth be told, I'm actually starting to enjoy them!​  (Check out the post on Weddings in the ME.)

I was a little disappointed.  Because I can't attend.  

Why?  Because my weekend schedule is fully booked.  

My 7-yr-old is registered for a triathlon tomorrow.  Entirely non-competitive, confidence-boosting, socially-energizing and self-validating experience for a 7-yr-old.​

For a 42-yr-old mom this translates into energy-sapping, frustrating, early-weekend wakeup.  I hate that good things have to happen so early on a weekend morning.

But my fun doesn't end there.  Nooooooo.  

Immediately following the triathlon I will embark onto a fun-filled Brownie overnight camping adventure in the desert, filled with all the requisite camel spiders, hard sleeping surfaces, boiling over toilet facilities and  para-military moms (not all of them, but there ARE a few).

I wish I could fake excitement.  I wish I could feign enthusiasm at braiding a friendship bracelet, leading a scavenger hunt, saluting the Brownie flag, taking on latrine duty on the 11th shift, scalding my hands as I scorch wieners over the campfire, wrestling with tent pegs and struggling to drown out the snores coming from Brownie moms who have managed to fall into a deep, dark sleep on the cold, hard ground.

But the truth is I will be out there with a few likeminded peers craving a gin and tonic, wishing I could sneak away for a smoke, dreaming of my bed and my Soldier's arms around me.​

I liken the Brownie camping weekend to Hell.  That probably makes me decidedly unworthy of anything worthy.  But it REALLY does suck.  

Yet my daughter dreams of it all year long.  It is a definite highlight.  She hyperventilates just thinking about it.  And the most amazing thing is ... she STILL WANTS ME TO GO WITH HER.

Other girls her age are quite offended to have their moms tag along.  My daughter begs me to.  She says it won't be fun at all if I am not there.  Check my blog next year to see if this still applies.  I am one of the lucky ones.  

And so my HELL becomes my REDEMPTION.​

I am faced with so many options this weekend ... yet only one that pleases me;  the one that displeases me the most.  To spend some quality time in the stinking desert with my totally amazing daughter.  To get to build some memories with her that will last a lifetime.  If not for her, at least for me.  

To watch her as she participates in something 'bigger than her' (see "Something Bigger Than Me"), and watch her eyes grow wide in amazement as she sees the older girls perform a skit around the campfire.  To see her eyes light up with wonder as we walk through a desert trail in the night, observing the constellations, wondering what lies out there in that vast unchartered landscape.  To feel her joy as she joins in in sing-along's she's practiced all year.  To sense her contentment as she lies down next to me at night, safely ensconced in her sleeping bag, head nestled on her princess pillow, knowing that she is surrounded by friends of all ages, all races, all cultures, all religions, all nations, knowing that they are her peers, her equals, her sisters from different mothers.

And I will spend a torturous and sleepless night.  And I will gripe about it; probably all year long.  My fellow cool Brownie moms who don't attend will thank me for it.  My husband will owe me for it.  My ​daughter will love me for it.  But in the end, I had an option.  And this was the one that pleased me.

In the end, we always have a choice.  And the choice makes the difference.  I've chosen to live my life with no regrets ... this always makes me think about my options and the choices I make.  One choice may give me immediate gratification and leave me with nothing in return.  The other choice may give me pain and hardship in the short-term, yet leave me with a lifetime of happy memories.  When you look at it that way, it becomes much easier to sort through your options.

Thank grodness I've got a galss of wine tonitgh!  It's the shrot-temr gartification that'l cronvince me that tomorrow's hrardship will leaf me happy!​  LOL!

Cheers!​

Crossing the Finish Line - Triathlon 2012!​

​Daisy Scout Campout 2012 - Al Shahaniya

​Setting up the tent ... Al Shahaniya 2012

​Daisy Scout Fun ... 2012 Al Shahaniya