Frequently Asked Questions About the ME ... Part 5

The Riddle of Strider

 

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

(J.R.R. Tolkien)

Ramadan is a time of reflection.  So even though I am a non-muslim, I felt compelled during this month to write a reflective piece on the Islamic State that has graciously accepted me as a resident for the past (almost) seven years.

Every once in a while, someone asks me what I think of Doha, what I think of Qatar.  It's never an easy question to answer.  

On the one hand, there are so many things that I love about this country.  Oddly enough, it's not about the amazing architecture, the endless and sumptuous culinary feasts or the incredible wealth that literally seeps from every grain of sand.  While these initially piqued our interest and brought us here, they're not what have kept us here for close to seven years.

No, at the top of the list is that it's probably one of the most child-friendly places in the world.  Our friends and family back home are always a little skeptical when we say that, particularly those who still refuse to believe we live in anything other than a bedouin tent and ride on anything other than a camel.  But ask any expat family who's lived here with young kids; they'll all say the same.

When we first moved here, I suffered numerous panic attacks as restaurant servers and shop keepers would reach out to touch Kiddo, to take her in their arms, even to whisk her away to parade around to their colleagues or patrons.  My skeptic's head was filled with visions of child nabbings back then;  I didn't realize that many of the people working in the service industry here had left little ones like her back home, that they wouldn't see them for two years or more.  I couldn't initially fathom that they just genuinely loved kids.

We would go jogging with her in the jogger stroller on the Corniche on weekends, and laborers would stop us to ask if they could get their picture taken with her.  Our North American mindset would raise flags immediately, until we'd realize that these men had nothing to fill their one day off a week but a game slightly reminiscent of hopscotch.  The sweet giggles of a child were likely a balm to their calloused bodies and minds.  They would gather 'round her, each making funny faces in an effort to get her to focus her bright baby blues on him.

The attention didn't stop there.  I remember walking through the shopping mall and having fully veiled Qatari ladies stop me so they could kiss the top of Kiddo's 14-month round head and give her a hard candy.  Qatari men would lay a hand on her head and utter a small blessing.  At airport customs, we would get whisked to the front of the arrivals line as soon as she got spotted.  The one time I lost sight of her in a grocery store I panicked, and then found her sitting contentedly at the produce weighing counter, munching on the contents of a fruit bowl given to her by the clerk who had seen her wandering alone.

Second on the list would be the surprising acts of kindness, generosity and compassion that we have experienced when we least expected it.  A few weeks ago, I was leaving the grocery store and a Qatari man stopped his truck to let me cross to my parking spot with my trolley.  My trolley got stuck on the curb, and I signaled him to drive on; it was the start of Ramadan, and I didn't want to be contributing to the impatience that sometimes comes during the initial days of fasting.  But the gentleman didn't move.  He put his truck in park, opened his door and got out, and came over to help me lift my trolley off the curb.  Such a small act of kindness, but for some reason it really stood out.

Smilin' Vic once had a minor accident on his bike, nothing major but enough to get him to pull over to the side of the road to recover his bearings and sort himself out.  A Qatari man who saw the incident pulled over and offered to assist.  A slightly embarrassed Smilin' Vic smiled, told him all was fine, and waved him off.  The gentleman drove off, only to return several minutes later with his young son, some water and a first aid kit in tow.   Such a small act of kindness, but never to be forgotten.

I worked with one particular Qatari lady who was fully veiled.  The only thing we would ever see of her in public were her eyes.  But she had the most amazing, expressive smiling eyes I have ever seen.  I will never forget those eyes, not even if I live to be a hundred.  Everyone was drawn to this woman with the smiling eyes.  You would walk up to her and her joy at seeing you was palpable, even though she wore a head to toe cloak of black.  You didn't need to see the smile.  You felt the smile.  You felt the compassion, you felt the humanity.  Such very small crinkles at the corner of each eye, yet they spoke of a lifetime of kindness.

Third on the list would be the rediscovery of the true meaning of some of our most commercial Christian holidays.  Every year spent here for Christmas and Easter, we have opened our home to near strangers less fortunate than us to partake in a traditional North American holiday meal, a prayer of thanks, and a laugh with us.  We've gotten to know some amazing people from the Philippines, from Ethiopia, from Sri Lanka, from Nepal.  While we miss our family so much, we've been so blessed to have these people come into our lives.  Kiddo always looks forward to the "after festivities", when we pack up containers of food and sweets and go visit compound security and maintenance staff.    

Fourth would be a deeper understanding of other faiths.  I am so grateful that we have had the chance to meet people of different cultures and religions who have been willing to share with us the meaning behind many of their practices, holidays and beliefs.  I really do feel like I've grown into a much more respectful and reflective human being by living here.

Fifth would be the understanding that at our core, we're not all that different after all.  The last company I worked for employed more than 80 nationalities.  While we might differ on work ethic, or procedure, or approach, there were always similarities (whether or not everyone would admit to them is another matter!).  But I have sat in a room and shared a laugh with Syrians, Egyptians, Columbians, Venezuelans, Americans, New Zealanders, Iranians, Qataris, Pakistanis, Philippinos, South Africans ...  I have commiserated with Scots, Australians, Indians, Nepalis, Malaysians, Sudanese, Spaniards ... I have shed tears with Ukranians, Brits, Dutch, Lebanese, Iraqis, Palestinians, Jordanians ... at some point in time, some or all of us have managed to find some point of commonality, some common bond.  The differences aren't so scary once you've gotten past the similarities!

So I guess that would be my long-winded partial answer to a question that I find so very hard to answer:  "What do you think about Qatar?"  

But the full answer is really hard to pin down.  What I'd really like to answer is closer to Tolkien's poem above.  And that's not really an answer.  More an impression, an interpretation:  

What would appear to impress us most in this land somehow leaves us rather indifferent.  What impresses us has nothing to do with glitter.  I am no more attached to Qatar for its architecture or its wealth than I am to Canada.  

My Canadian roots are strong, and I am an expat, not an immigrant, so I naturally find myself longing for my culture and my heritage. 

And one day, inevitably, I will return to the land that beckons.

We really are grateful for the opportunity to be here, and there are so many experiences to be had.  It's different for everyone I guess.  For us it's not the massive crystal chandeliers, the sky scrapers, the Versace boutiques, the Dammas jewelry shops or the multitude of Bentley's and Ferraris cruising the streets of Doha.  It's simply that we've built a life here for now, and collected the most amazing moments and friends and memories along the way.

 

Believe in Me, Beliefs in the ME ... (Rod Stewart - It's Over)

As we often find ourselves doing on many an expat weekend night in Doha, Smilin' Vic and I sat f2f across the kitchen island, sipping on wine, gabbing, and "YouTubing" for a laugh, an inspiration, and a touch of home.

We caught up on some funny parodies of Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know", a few flash mobs (including one in City Center Mall, Doha) because they're always fun, and some awesome old and new Bruce Springsteen tunes (check out "Death to My Hometown" about the 2008 financial crisis if you haven't already ... awesome celtic stomp tune).  

By chance, Smilin' Vic clicked on a video by Rod Stewart, for old times' sakes.  We didn't even know he'd released anything recently.  Giggles stopped, conversation ceased, we couldn't do anything but watch and listen.  

"It's Over" ... Rod Stewart ... 2013 ... 

How the f*@& does a 68-year-old maintain an almost 50-year career music high?  Competing with 18-year-old hot bods with techno voices and choreographed routines.  Seriously.  How does he do it?

I'm a child of the 70's.  Smilin' Vic was born in '61.  We both grew up listening to 'Maggie May', 'Sailing', 'Do Ya Think I'm Sexy' and so many other Rod Stewart tunes that we sing to this day a cappella in the car, the shower, when dusting and whenever we think no one's listening.  We keep on thinking his last hit is the last.  

Yet somehow he always bests himself and stumps us. 

He always seems to manage to capture something that really speaks to the soul.  From a good place.  There's no anger, no regret, no bitterness.  He sings about moments in life, captured in their beauty and their unsightliness, simple fragments in a journey.  And he puts music and magic to it, in a way that simple words cannot.

I ache to capture that symphony of words that conveys the voice of the heart.  What a gift he has.  His gift is his talent - what he gives to us.  His gift is his prize - what he's been blessed with.  The ability to speak to nations of souls who simply want to be reassured that their pain and their joy is not their's alone.

As we watched and listened to this latest video, both Smilin' Vic and I once again found something in his voice, his lyrics, his music, his imagery that touched our souls.  

It's Over ... 

Listening to the song, memories come flooding back.

Our union is not the first for either of us.  Thankfully both of us have turned the page, finished that chapter, closed the book.   

All of us come with a past, with regrets, with doubts.  But we both look back and wish our former spouses nothing but the best.  Looking back on the past is almost like watching a movie, where you can love the cast of characters (of which you are a part) while calling them stupid, where you can curse the plot (reality) while relating with the storyline (emotional journey), where you can actually cry for the villain and curse the protagonist.

I use this forum to talk mostly about moments.  Which is why politics, religion and sex rarely rear their head in my discourse.  

But sometimes reality is more than a moment.  It is an accumulation of moments.

You come to realize that society is judging you on a moment, when in fact what you should be judged on is what came before, during and after that moment.  All of it.  The sum of all the parts.

Sometimes I want to scream out to this society that I am not 'loose'.  I am not a 'ho'.  I am not without values.  I am not without faith.  I am not without regrets.  And I am not without feeling. 

I did not take my vows lightly.  Not the first time.  Not the second time.  

I am a Western woman who cried and struggled and screamed and lost her mind as she saw her first marriage and her world collapsing around her.  

I am a Western woman who tried and cried and prayed to find the strength to make things right.

I am a Western woman who rebuilt her faith, her beliefs, her self-worth, her self-confidence, her love for life by renouncing the one person she'd built her life around.   

But she didn't stop loving him.  She didn't stop wishing him the best.   

She stopped living with him.  She stopped enabling him.   

She stopped letting him define her worth.

She walked away in the hopes that both he and she would find peace, fulfillment and redemption.  Because what they'd become together was toxic and painful. 

I am an Expat woman.  One who struggles with the adulation and judgement that comes when this society discovers that I am a Divorced woman.  One who struggles with the pain and self-reproach that comes from failing at what I'd committed a lifetime to.

I am a Human woman.  With feelings, and regrets, and memories, and hopes and dreams.   

I am a Human woman who is proud to call herself an optimist, a survivor.  I am a Human woman who is strong in her faith, in her values, in her beliefs.

I am a divorcee.  I am a wife and a mother.  I am a believer.  I am a sinner and I am repentant.  

I am a woman filled with dreams and hopes and desire.

I was married for the first time in the Catholic church.  Which meant I entered into a covenant wherein I would honor my husband 'til death to us part.  Breaking that covenant broke me for a while.  Made me question my ability to honor my faith.  Made me question my strength in the face of adversity.  

Until I realized that my faith and my strength could not be broken unless I chose to let them.  Until I realized that sometimes loving someone does not mean living with them.  Until I realized that sometimes alcoholism, mental illness, anger and despair can poison even the strongest person.  Until I realized that a covenant is not one-sided.  

And I walked away.  

"I don't stand here trying to focus the blame ...

It's over

What's the sense in pointing fingers? 

Who's the Saint and the Sinner? 

There ain't gonna be a winner. 

It's over ... "*

I don't believe I negated God.  I believe I honored him.  I believe I redeem myself every night as I kiss Kiddo good night, as I hold Smilin' Vic tight, as I thank God for all he's given me, as I pray for those in my past whom I may have hurt or who may be hurting.

I am a Believer.  I believe that I am worth believing in.  I believe that my beliefs hold true.  Here in the ME, there in the West, anywhere.   I stand firm.

I am not just a divorcee.  I am not just a mom.  I am not just a wife, a sister, a friend, a co-worker, a neighbor. 

I am a Believer.  I believe.   

Thanks, Rod Stewart.  Sixty some years old and you actually made me reflect on 25 years of internal struggle.   

It's over. 

P.S.  How the hell can Rod still be so sexy? 

*Lyrics from "It's Over", by Rod Stewart. 

Order 'Time' on iTunes: http://smarturl.it/dlTime Order 'Time' on Amazon: http://smarturl.it/BuyTime Official video for Rod Stewart's "It's Over" off the album 'Time' out now worldwide. Don't miss Rod Stewart on the worldwide Live The Life Tour 2013! TOUR DATES: http://bit.ly/LiveTheLifeDates Follow Rod: http://www.RodStewart.com http://twitter.com/RodStewart http://Facebook.com/RodStewart For tour information: http://www.rodstewart.com/events/

The Pilates Roll Up ... I Did It!

Incremental moments measured through small successes and occasional letdowns. 

After literally months of trying, struggling, agonizing, beating my fists and sometimes even crying in frustration, I was finally able to complete not one, not two, but THREE successive roll ups the day before yesterday.

I was even able to squeeze out a fourth when Kiddo and Smilin' Vic got home that afternoon. 

I can't explain the science behind it, but I can attest to the fact that for the first time I could actually 'feel' my ab muscles, my breathing and my body alignment all connecting, just like my video instructor kept telling me I should.

I can't explain the rush I got when I was actually able to roll up smoothly (fairly) off the ground with my legs straight out and my heels firmly planted on the floor.  It was such a small movement, over in about 8 seconds, but that tiny blip in time encompassed months of effort.  

It wasn't that different from so many life moments.  The birth of a child as the result of years of praying for what you thought you'd never have.  The first kiss that you've imagined for so long.  The conferring of a degree after years of studying.  The completion of an actual 10 km run after years on a treadmill.

You may be thinking that comparing a simple roll up to these life events is a little crazy, and there's merit to that.  But the fact of the matter is that achieving anything you work hard towards, no matter how big or how small, can change your outlook, improve your mood, boost your confidence and generally make life seem that much sweeter. 

I'm a big believer in objectives, big and small.  I think there's value in always having something to work towards, rather than something to run from.  Life is made up of incremental moments measured through small successes and occasional letdowns.  The thing is, if you can find the strength to push through the failures and temporary setbacks, the success at the end becomes all you will have to measure your life by.  

If you've got a goal, don't give up on it.  Keep on keepin' on.  You'll get there. 

I did a pilates roll up! 

 N.B.  Hard as I tried, I couldn't do a proper roll up yesterday.  That's ok.  I'm headed back to my mat to give it another try today.

Sign Me Up for that Reverse Culture Shock Workshop ...

Sting's "Englishman in New York" played on a constant loop in my head for the first few days after I landed in Canada this past June ...

So many things about this "home and native land"* always seem so foreign and/or striking upon returning to my homeland after months in the ME.  

"I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien, I'm an expat in Canada." 

There are the obvious differences:  

• the clash of an abaya-clad lady standing shoulder to shoulder with a granny in a fake tan, stilettos, leggings and a tube top in the Customs line.  
• the welcome being broadcast over the airport PA system in French and English - "Welcome to Montreal", "Bienvenue a Montreal".  Not a single "Marhaba".  
• the absence of 300 listless laborers disembarking a single flight from Sri Lanka with nothing but a plastic grocery bag as a carry-on.

Then there are the more subtle things.

Still no fast-pass for me

One thing that surprised me is that there is now a "National queue" for Canadians at passport control/customs.  In the past, Canada has likely prided itself on political correctness by excluding everyone from fast-tracking customs.  Nonetheless, Pierre-Elliott Trudeau Airport now boasts a "Canadian Residents" line.  

Fat lot of good that does me.  I am a citizen, yes.  A resident, no.  My chances at ever making it into one of those fast-track lanes seem to have been foiled again.  I WANT a fast-pass lane!!!!!!

I wind my way slowly through arrivals with an army of in-transit passengers, vacationers, business travelers and newly landed immigrants.  I show my passport to the customs officer ... He asks me what the purpose of my visit is; I explain that I needed a breath of fresh air, a reconnection with family, a proper fix of Tim Horton's.  Judging by his flat expression and blank stare, my attempt at levity has gotten me exactly nowhere ... some things are actually quite similar no matter where you're traveling to.  

"I'm on vacation", I retract ...  He writes a code on my immigration card.  I can never remember which code will get me directly through the arrivals gate and which will get me frisked.  I find out soon enough that today's code is a pass.  I am off to meet my family!

Porters  ... a thing of the past

But first I must collect my bags ... not a porter in sight. Unlike Doha where there are dozens of porters standing by the luggage belts actually anticipating carrying your luggage with glee.  I WANT a porter!!!!!!

I wait 45 minutes for my bags to come around on the carrousel.  It is about 1.5 hours after landing that I finally get to hug my sister and gulp in as much fresh Canadian air as I can before stepping into the car for the ride downtown.

Pedestrians on sidewalks ... 

I'm coming from a country where sidewalks are for parking and cycling (not the leisurely kind of cycling; the laborer on a banana bike type).  Nary a pedestrian to be seen.  People just don't 'walk' to get around in Doha.  

In downtown Montreal, the sidewalks are teeming with folk of all ages, all walks of life.  Here a teenager jogging in short shorts and a t-shirt; there an elderly couple taking a leisurely stroll; across the street a few smart-dressed professionals having a smoke the obligatory 10m away from the front of an office building.  The bustling, the vivacity, the eclecticism of it all is enough to give me a feeling not that unlike brain-freeze.  It is truly, truly invigorating.

A clear head ... 

You'd think I'd be used to the dust, the stuffy sinuses and the mild yet ever-present cough after seven years in the Land of Sand.  I guess in a way I have become acclimatized to a degree, because as I head out to pound the pavement that first afternoon, the fresh air is like an assault on my system.  I swear, it's almost like I can think more clearly, despite coming off a 13-hour sleepless flight and having been awake for close to twenty hours.  The rush of oxygen to my brain those first few days seems to ward off the jet lag remarkably fast.

Where are all the beads and sequins? 

Even though the national dress in Qatar is the abaya (traditional long black gown worn by women over their clothing when going out in public), many of these are festooned with beads, pearls, embroidery and sequins.  Women who don't wear the abaya tend to wear bright colors, sparkly tops, leopard print skirts and the like.  Montreal, while extremely cosmopolitan, is a much more 'muted eclectic' on the fashion front.  Note that this is not necessarily a bad thing.

Is wearing shoulder blades, bare knees and pierced navels in public actually legal? 

You just can't help it.  No matter how overtly liberal you may consider yourself in the ME, no matter how emancipated and moderate the ME country you are living in may seem compared to others in the region, after a few years as a ME expat you will become overly sensitive to the sight of exposed flesh striding down the street in broad daylight.  Crop tops, tank tops, tube tops, hot pants, barely there skirts and crack-baring jeans are a visual onslaught.  The desensitization only takes a few days, but it the meantime it can be highly disruptive when driving or trying to hold down a conversation.  

Did I actually just pay taxes on picking my nose? 

EVERYTHING is taxed in Canada.  Sometimes the tax is built-in (e.g. for gas), but sometimes it comes as a big fat surprise.  (I know, I know, it's not like I've never lived here before, but it still comes as a shock when you've been away for so long.)  You will be charged a provincial and a federal tax on pretty much everything you purchase, from that takeaway pizza to that early-morning coffee to that trip to the salon.   

I could go on forever:  the assault of green on your senses when you've become acclimatized to beige, the thrill of rain drops replacing dust particles, the sound of church bells ringing in the distance, the surprise and slight discomfort at understanding every single conversation going on around you, etc.  The But my point is simply that cultural adjustment is not a one-way trip.   Just when you think you've got the expat acclimatization halfway sorted out, you realize you will likely one day have to make the return journey and start all over again.

Reverse culture shock 101.  Sign me up now ... 

Below are a few images of some other differences spotted while on our last trip.  Hope you enjoy. 

 *Reference to "Oh, Canada", the Canadian National Anthem. 

Rainbow over Montreal after a downpour.

Blue skies over Qatar.  The sky is usually more beige than blue. 

Decidedly unhealthy "poutine" in Quebec.  (poutine = french fries, gravy and curd cheese).

Getting fish ready for a healthy meal in Doha.

A bottle of water costs about 0.33$ in Qatar.  In Canada it costs as much as a coffee ($1.40 + tax).  You'd never think Canada is listed 3rd on the world's renewable fresh water reserves list.

Stop sign in English and Iroquoi (on the Kahnawake reserve).

Stop sign in French only in Quebec.

Stop sign in Arabic and English in Doha.

Maple Bacon in Canada.  Words truly fail me (this stuff is sinfully delicious).

Bacon in Qatar (yes, we can actually get pork products now, but once this stuff is done it basically just tastes like fried salt).

Cycling in Canada ... (teehee!) 

Cycling in Doha ...

Cost of filling up an RV (3/4) in Canada.  Yikes!!!!!  (gas is about 0.30$/liter in Qatar, it would work out to about 45$ Canadian here.) 

Church steeples in Canada.

Mosque in Doha

Road in the Cape Breton Highlands (Nova Scotia, Canada) 

Road leading from Dukhan to Doha.

Rugged Cabot Trail coastline.  (Nova Scotia, Canada)

Fuwairit coastline.

Warming up to a roaring Canadian campfire!

Chillaxin' by the pool at St. Regis Hotel, Doha

And last, but not least, Canadian Tire money!!!!!  

Still Trying to Learn the Parent Two-Step ...

The country/western two-step, often called the "Texas two-step" or simply the "two-step," is a country/western dance usually danced to country music.

As with other country/western dances, there are different versions of two step. Even the same dance may go by different names depending on the area of the U.S., and even in the particular dance hall. There may be no one "correct" way to do a particular dance.

 From Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia @

Country-Western Two Step

Sometimes the greatest prize for dancing is the sheer enjoyment it brings. 

I've come to believe that parenting isn't that different than dancing really.  Everybody has their own unique style; no two people do it exactly the same.  Some parents just jump onto the dance floor and the moves come naturally.  Some simply have no interest whatsoever.  I think most of us kind of just shuffle at first, but keep on trying to get better at it.  Hopefully the beat kicks in and we all end up a bit more coordinated and graceful by the time the dance is over.

There is a never-ending debate on who's actually getting it right.    The judges will never see eye to eye.  So even though most parents start off trying to learn the basic steps to please the judges, a lot of what comes later ends up being very much an improvised and personal interpretation.  In the end, most people realize that dancing and parenting is not anything they're ever going to get paid or recognized for; you simply have to do it for the sheer love of it and enjoy the simple pleasures it brings.

I'm not a great dancer, but I love to dance.  I'm not a great parent, but I love being a mom.  I don't always get it right.  I fumble a lot.  Sometimes I trip up.  Other times I'm just grooving away, then looking back I realize I was probably completely off-beat.  Even when I'm gliding across the dance floor oblivious to the judges, there is a seed of doubt in my mind that I've missed a beat.

Right now, I'm trying to capture that fluid motion I so appreciate in natural born dancers.  I'm watching Kiddo grow up; it's a new tune for both of us, and we don't yet really get the tempo changes.  We know the mood is changing, but we're not yet really sure how that translates onto the dance floor.  We do know the moves are a lot more complicated.  We know there are a few aerial flips involved, where I actually have to let go of her a bit, and these still require a lot of practice.  We're fumbling a bit. 

The last few weeks, she's been attending a summer sports camp.  She loves the social interaction, and I think she's starting to enjoy the actual "sports" component, but she's facing issues that are new to her.  She's not yet into her groove, and I can't help but think I'm failing as a dance coach. 

The children in her group are all different ages, at all different levels of sporting skill and sportsmanship.  Some are sociable little beings like her, mostly there to make new friends and giggle and have a bit of fun playing dodgeball and swimming.  Others are fully engrossed in the athletics and the activity.  And finally there are a select few natural born competitors, out to prove their prowess both on the floor and off.

It's the latter that are causing the real issue for me as a mom.  I'm really fumbling as I try to figure out how to even step out onto the dance floor.   

You see, Kiddo's been coming home telling me about this particular child who is two years older and "not nice" to her.  Kiddo doesn't get it.  She wants to play with this kid, and can't understand why this kid is constantly pushing her away or ridiculing her.   

I'm so torn.  On the one hand, I tell myself that this is life, and that Kiddo's got to learn to stand up for herself and simply ignore anyone who can't appreciate her.  Better that she get strong now.  So I tell her to play with the friends she's got, stop trying to engage that kid in conversation or play, and simply ignore the kid or anyone else who doesn't treat her right.  I tell myself that teaching her to stand up for herself and to alienate the "bad guys" is responsible parenting on my part.  I tell myself this is how to take to the dance floor like a professional.  I tell myself that she's growing up, she's changing, her world is changing, and she has to find her way.  

Love this song as sung by father-daughter.  Old dance moves aren't that easy to change, but I think it's possible if you try.

But then the novice dancer in me, the kid in me, chimes in.  Whispers in my ear "Is it really about getting the steps right, or is it about feeling the music?"  And that's when I want to burst onto the dance scene with Kiddo.  I fight the urge to bust a move on the 10-year-old bully.  I have to resist challenging her to a dance-off.  Because even though in my mind I could really humiliate her with my amazing mother-daughter dance routine, I think my pre-historic dance moves would probably end up being more of an embarrassment to Kiddo than anything else.

So I stand back; watch Kiddo as she flails her arms at the back of the dodgeball pack, determined to stay away from any incoming balls.  Watch as the other kid tries to goad Kiddo.  Watch Kiddo ignore the kid, just like we talked about.  Watch the other kid poke Kiddo in a further attempt to grab her attention.  Kiddo stands firm, ignoring this kid.  It takes everything to keep me off the dance floor; I have a really good idea where my dancing shoes would lead me, and it's not a good place.  I tell myself this is Kiddo's dance challenge to win or lose.

When the game is over, I walk over to Kiddo.  She's surprised to see I'm still there, but happy.  I tell her I'm proud of her.  Tell her to make sure to let the other kid know not to ever touch her again.  Then I stare the other kid down.

Hard. 

I know what you're thinking.  I'm 43.  The kid is 10.  But I warned you in the beginning: I'm not a great dancer - I'm just trying to get better at it.  I don't know this dance so well, and I'll certainly never be a world-class champion.  But as long as Kiddo never doubts that I'll be there to catch her on that aerial flip, I think we'll do ok.

Some people say this song by Dave Matthews Band is about lovers ... I've always thought about it more as about celebrating the moment and recognizing that change is unavoidable.  It's called Two Step by the way ...