To Be Grateful for More

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Esme's Mommy here, celebrating with hot chocolate just for the joy of it with Good, True and Beautiful, and waxing philosophical about gratefulness thanks to Scribbit's Write-Away contest...

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The overcast skies didn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd on Wednesday as we applauded the marching bands, the Scout groups, the fire trucks, the branches of services, the veterans, and most importantly to many there, the flying candy. It felt good to be an American!

A year ago, we were in Mozambique. November 11 passed by largely unnoticed by our neighbors. And the fourth Thursday in November was just another working day. Yet despite the lack of Thanksgiving commercialism, we were grateful.

It’s easy to be grateful for rice and beans when your neighbors are starving. It’s not so easy as you peek through the windows and see them dining on steak and wine. And chocolate cheesecake.

It’s easy to be grateful for a bicycle while your neighbors are walking. It’s not so easy when they’re driving a BMW.

It’s easy to be grateful for your kid’s health when your neighbor’s kid is sick. It’s not so easy when your neighbor’s kid is destined for the Olympics.

It’s easy to be grateful for what we have while living in Mozambique. It’s not so easy in America.

Sad, but true. In this land of plenty, of excess, it is HARD to be grateful.

A year ago, I wrote about how glad I was that my baby was growing up in a country where she would realize how blessed she really is. Now she’s growing up in Oregon, and is even more blessed than before in terms of material things. Will she realize this?

Does gratefulness have to be relative?

Or is it possible for us to simply be grateful for exactly what we have, willing to share with those who have less, and happy for those who have more?

This I've found to be true: the more we give, the more grateful we are for what we have. And the less encumbered we are with "stuff," the easier it is focus on the things that bring true happiness. Like family, and friends, and love, and beauty, and quiet moments, and hot chocolate...

So while children draw up wish lists and stores glitter and glisten with merchandise around the country this holiday season, I think I actually wish for less, so that I can be grateful for more. And dare I say I wish the same for my daughter, as well?

Filling the Gap: Time

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“Don't worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.” -- Robert Fulghum

There are so many issues I struggle with that I wish my daughter could avoid somehow. Back in June, I started a series of letters to fill the gap. Things I want my two-year-old to know that she won’t pick up by watching me…

Here's letter #2, long overdue thanks to everything I've been trying to cram into my schedule. It's about time, my FEAR of time, and it's being entered into Scribbit's October Write Away contest on the topic of FEAR.

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Dear Esmé,

I am not a fearful person, I don't think. I like heights, I'm fascinated with snakes, and I still want to skydive some day. Even goblin masks and pumpkin guts don't scare me. But I fear one significant thing.

I fear the passing of time.

I used to anticipate time. Back when age was measured in halves. Back when I loved spring because summer vacation was coming soon, and I loved autumn because school was starting again. I eagerly anticipated the next thing, the next step, the next adventure.

Somewhere in my twenties, that changed. Now I hold tightly onto each moment, fearing its slip from my grasp. I try to pack as much into the day as possible, creating ridiculous 19-hour-a-day schedules that put me behind before I even begin. It leaves me stressed, hating interruptions and begrudging the gift of my time to others.

Oh, I know the importance of quality time with yourself and your family. So I schedule it in. Play with your child. Kiss your husband. Call a friend. Take a photograph. Write in your gratitude journal. Pamper yourself. It's all on the calendar - in 15-minute increments.

And the clock keeps ticking, faster than ever. I fear my time with you being cut short, and I try to cram in even more. The harder I grasp, the faster it squeezes through my fingers.

I watch you, little girl. You're eagerly growing up, anticipating the next privileges and the next heights. You stand on your tiptoes, straining to see over the fence to the other side.

And a part of me wants to hold you back. Because then time might stand still.

Last week you asked the age-old question for the first time: "Are we almost there yet?" We were just seven minutes into the 30-minute trip to daycare, and you didn't accept any of my answers - for the rest of the trip.

It made me think about how tough time is to understand. A 30-minute car ride can feel interminable. And an entire childhood can pass in the blink of an eye.

Like you, I keep badgering God about the length of the journey when I have NO comprehension of what time really is. It's my prayer that I'll get to spend an eternity with you. So I should stop stressing about the moments we share right now.

Don't fear the future, baby girl. Anticipate it. Because you can't begin to imagine all that God has in store for you. Keep reaching and striving and growing.

But stop and snuggle with me every now and then, too. Let's treasure time for the gift it is, rather than wish it away or fear its passing.

Here's loving you all the time, my growing little one...
Mommy

Filling the Gap: Food

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“Don't worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.” -- Robert Fulghum

Oh, this worries me! I am so not perfect. There are so many issues I struggle with that I wish my daughter could avoid somehow.

So I’m starting a new series of letters to fill the gap. Things I want my two-year-old to know that she won’t pick up by watching me…

And in honor of Scribbit’s June Write Away contest, we’re starting on the topic of FOOD.

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Dear Esmé,

FOOD is not a four-letter word. It may make all my clothes shrink, but it is not in itself evil.

And that maxim, “Eat to live, don’t live to eat”? It goes only so far. There is more to life than food, but food can add a lot to life. The flavors, textures, smells…

I’m an all-or-nothing person when it comes to food. I've been that way since I was about 11. The weight is either coming on or going off. But it doesn’t have to be that way. There is a happy medium, though I haven’t found it yet.

My first memories are of food. Green guavas, ripe jackfruit, and egg curry in Bangladesh.

Food transports me in time.

• Mulberries, rainbow sherbet, and corn dogs (and sunshine): summer camp.
• Alfalfa sprouts (and imagination): Swiss Family Robinson.
• Hot chocolate and oranges (and anticipation): Christmas morning.
• Lentil soup and cinnamon rolls (and candlelight): Friday nights.
• Fried potatoes (and extra place settings): Lunch after church.
• Biscuits and gravy (and bleary-eyed dorm students): High school cafeteria on Friday mornings.

Food transports me in space.

• Dahl (and traffic pandemonium): India
• Smelly cheese (and lush green meadows): Switzerland
• Potjiekos (and cooking fires): South Africa
• Bread and chips (and balmy nights): Malawi
• Habaneras (and blistering hands): Belize

Food and family go together. Food, place, and time are the main topics of discussion when we plan a family event. Our spouses complain that we don’t get to do anything at our reunions because we’re either eating or preparing the next meal. But we're together!

Food conveys hospitality. When you have enough food on hand to feed your guest for the next decade, he is sure to feel welcome.

Food is humbling. When your host offers you lukewarm tea and biscuits as you sit on the only chair in his hut, surrounded by his large family, you’ll feel a connection unlike any other. And you'll feel blessed.

There is something magical about sipping cinnamon hot chocolate while watching the sunrise. Sitting down as a family to a colorful, hearty plate of food. Snitching a too-hot cookie from the pan. Drinking ice-cold lemonade after a jog. Stealing ripe juicy berries while picking in the patch.

Food is meant to be savored and enjoyed. It’s not simply a tool to maintain health.

Esmé, as I watch your love affair with fudgsicles and ketchup, I see you’ve got this figured out. You eat what you love. When you’ve had enough, you walk away. Or dance, or tiptoe.

I’m scared to death of messing things up with my example.

Live, laugh, and love, even when it comes to food. Enjoy the variety God has gifted you with. And I’ll try harder to join you.

Love,

Mommy

Riding Tandem

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My Dearest Not-So-Little Esmé,

You’re on your first bike. No training wheels, of course. You’ve got your Papa to keep you upright.

At 22 months, you barely reach the downstroke pedal with your tippy toes. And you hit the back pedal brake as much as you pedal forward.

I think you’re a bit young to be riding, but I know better than to interfere. You’ve proven that with your Papa, you’re capable of anything, from sitting on a moving skateboard at 3 months to solo boarding down a long, long ramp to entertain your 1st-birthday crowd.

I think back to my first bike, a used but functional blue specimen I got when I was around 8. Getting my balance was tough. Smooth sailing once I got that downpat, right?

But I quickly realized I also needed to steer around obstacles when I made slow contact with a giant pine tree in our front yard.

I figured out how to go straight, and off I pedaled down the sidewalk, hair flying in the wind! Magic! Until I got to the end of the block and realized I didn’t know how to brake. I still remember the panic in the driver’s face as a car screeched to a halt just in time.

When I felt comfortable with all the necessary skills, I developed my favorite route. I’d break through the snowflower border bushes, spraying minute white petals everywhere, into the churchyard next door, then down the churchyard slope at top speeds, onto the sidewalk and back into our yard. The lawn soon began to show evidence of my great skill.

Until the front tire of the bike met a misplaced root on that downward slope and came to an abrupt stop. I crashed into the handlebars and landed on the ground. I couldn’t breathe. I thought for sure I was dying.

I didn’t die, and I got back on that bike again.

Esmé, I watch you ride round and round the house, dolly ensconced between the handlebars, and smile at your sweet giggles. And I think that your Papa won’t always be around to keep you upright.

You will experience obstacles that you need to steer around in order to reach your dreams.

You will barely miss oncoming vehicles and be grateful to be alive.

You will fall and even think you are dying, wondering whether you can go on.

Baby girl, not-so-baby-anymore girl, your Papa may not be there, but you do have a Father who always will be.

Let Him ride tandem. He’ll do all the work when the hills get high. He’ll guide you through the obstacle course called life. He’ll create an invisible barrier between you and oncoming danger. And when you do fall, He’ll cry with you and then gently pick you back up.

Ride with God, my not-so-little girl.

With love,

Mommy

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This post has been entered into Scribbit's February Write Away contest.

Choosing Happiness

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Esmé's Mommy here.

“I choose joy.” I’ve been telling myself that. That it’s not a question of circumstances that determines our state of mind, but rather the attitude we choose to put on each day, each hour, each moment.

And the facts seem to support this. Check out the photos of the orphans in Zimbabwe. They have far less than I do. They’ve lost loved ones. They have no guarantees of their next meal. Yet most of them are smiling.

Compare to some of the rich and famous I know who have suicidal tendencies.

So the evidence is that having the best of everything doesn’t bring you happiness.

On to the next step in the journey to happiness. Can I find happiness simply by focusing on the things that make me happy? Things I already have? Things like hot chocolate and baby giggles. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Surely I am surrounded by things that make me happy if I just look closely.

So I focus on these things. I make a mental note of them throughout the day. And at the end of the day, I truly am grateful. I’ve had fleeting moments of happiness throughout the day.

But it isn’t enough. I keep searching for more. Something with more meaning.

Could it be that my focus is on the wrong thing? That rather than pursuing happiness, I need to pursue the Creator of happiness?

So let’s take the focus off the pursuit of happiness. Take the focus off me, whether I’m happy or not. Focus instead on making others happy. On listening to the Creator’s voice. Responding to it. Doing His will, even if I don’t see immediate happiness in sight.

At the end of the game, will I have chosen the path to happiness? It’s worth checking out…

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Submitted as part of the MamaBlogga Group Writing Project.

Ghosts of Mozambique

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I glance through the doorway of the dimly lit hut, observing her shallow breathing as she sleeps on her floor mat. Her head is covered with crusted sores, hair falling out in patches. A ghost of who she once was.

Turning back to the courtyard, my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight. Our brothers toddle in the dust among the chickens and goats, giggling and discovering stones. I half-smile at the sight and then check the position of the sun. Soon a group of neighbor kids will be rushing by, squealing and chattering and gossiping and playing pranks, as usual. And I'll try to wake Anna so we can join them.

Normally I would be in school right now, but Anna was feeling too weak to go this morning, and I decided to stay with her. Anna is my best friend.

We learned to walk and talk together while our mothers carried water and cooked over charcoal fires and scrubbed clothes together. When our baby brothers were born, we quickly mastered the art of carrying them on our backs as we played.

Then Anna's mother and father both got sick and died. She and her brother moved in with us. We learned how to cook and clean for ourselves when my mother got sick, too. Soon my mother was gone, and my father died not long after.

Some neighbors from church offered us a spot on the floor of their hut to sleep. The lady was happy for our help with the housework, but she soon made it clear that there was barely enough food for her own family to eat. Anna and I snuck portions from the cooking pots for our brothers. We climbed mango trees for green mangos, checked out trash heaps, and begged food wherever we could.

Then a man came by and told us about a center opening up for AIDS orphans, where they would provide food every day for lunch! We ran to the site and found men working on an unfinished cement block building. Some of the village ladies there who knew us signed us up on their roster and told us to come back the next day after school for a meal.

So we've been going there every day. We sing songs and pray. They serve soup and bread and fortified pap. Some days they give away used clothing or school supplies. And so we survive, unless AIDS takes us away.

I think Anna will die, just like our parents have. Many of our friends at the AIDS orphan center are sick, and some have died already. I've been watching both of our brothers by myself, and I think my brother is getting sick, too.

I'm one of the lucky ones. I don't have any symptoms. Since the orphan center has opened, I've been feeling stronger and more energetic.

And I wonder why. Why me? Why not Anna? Why not my mother? What am I supposed to contribute to this world?

The group of chattering orphans comes by our hut. They call for Anna and me. I quickly rouse her, helping her up and staying close by to support her. If she can get some food today, she will feel better. For a little while. Our brothers toddle behind, some of the other kids prodding them in the right direction when they get distracted.

At the center, we sit in orderly rows as the village ladies start the songs. I look solemnly at the cold, unfinished walls surrounding us, at the other orphans. This room is haunted, filled with memories of lost fathers and mothers, broken homes and wounded hearts.

Filled with the ghosts of Mozambique.

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This post has been submitted to Scribbit's Write Away contest. The characters are fictitious, but based on reality. Come back on Wednesday for the story behind the story in our Wordless and Wordful Wednesday posts.

Colorful Souls

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The year: 1991. The place: Helderberg College, South Africa. The students congregating in the Student Centre were Black, Coloured, White. As we looked out over the rugby field and vineyards in diminishing daylight, we sang to the accompaniment of guitars and piano:

All the colors of the rainbow,
Skies are blue and forests green.
Red and yellow flowers on the hillside grow . . .
Children laugh and play together.
They don’t know what’s bad or good.
They don’t understand there’s a wrong neighborhood.
But Lord, what color is the soul?

I felt a little smug in my colorblindness. I was just here for a year of African adventure. I grew up in post-civil-rights-movement Long Island, NY, where my home church was made up primarily of Jamaican blacks who were far more civilized and successful than I ever would be. We Americans, we knew better than to judge by skin color.

Red and yellow, black and white shall join to know
That there’s no color to the soul.

As we finished the song, there was a sense of history in the making. And indeed, only three years later in 1994, two events made history in South Africa. #1 – I married my South African man. #2 – Nelson Mandela became president following the country’s first free post-apartheid election.

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Fast forward a few years. I’ve learned that there really are colors to the soul – colors much more important than skin. And once again, I continue in my smugness of colorblindness. It doesn’t matter what kind of music you prefer, where or how often you go to church, or what you believe about end time events. You may love a good beer, live in a convent, give all your money to charity, or be covered in tattoos. That’s not important. I won’t judge whether or not you’re good on the basis of those things.

Yet I constantly find myself tripping up in this global society we live in. I question people’s goodness on the basis of so many cultural values:

• When employees steal from our project here in Mozambique, I wonder how they can steal from all those little old ladies donating their $10 each month so we can build churches and schools and wells here. How can they steal from the children who would be educated in those buildings; who would drink from those wells? I can’t fathom a society where “good” people simply take what they need, with no sense that it belongs to someone else.


• When parents watch their child suffer and possibly die rather than seek medical treatment because it goes against their religious beliefs, I can’t stand the insanity. Or when parents see a physical deformity in their child as a blessing to celebrate rather than a problem to be fixed (when it can be fixed), I question their logic.


• When people just happily accept their lot in life instead of fighting to change it, I cringe. They could be so successful and even wealthy if they would just work a little harder, stress a little more, show a little more ambition.


• When people refuse to be tested for HIV, preferring to live in ignorant sickness and pain rather than to know they have a death sentence that could be delayed if they would just be tested and treated, I shake my head in disbelief.


• When people constantly ask for handouts, I get irritated that they can’t just find something productive to do instead of being dependent on people like me.

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Some things aren’t black and white. Some things aren’t gray. Some things are vivid, vibrant, crazy colors that don’t make any sense to me.

God loves color. Not just color of skin, but color of soul, also. He is not colorblind – He created colors to enjoy.

God, open my eyes to Your colors. Help me to see through Your eyes and celebrate the diversity You’ve put into Your colorful world.

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This post has been entered into Scribbit's Write-Away contest.

One Word

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No awards to pass on today, but I do have a meme to play with, thanks to The Scholastic Scribe. It is a tough one . . .

The simple rule of thumb is that you have to answer each question with one word, and one word only. So lots of this doesn't make any sense, because I can be a rather wordy person at times. Not intentionally, of course. I always try to get right to the point, of course.


So enough already. Here we go.

1. Where is your cell phone? Diaper
2. Where is your significant other? Watch
3. Your hair color? Notblonde
4. Your mother? Rose
5. Your father? Herb
6. Your favorite thing? Baby
7. Your dream last night? Cake
8. Your dream/goal? Joy
9. The room you’re in? Dining
10. Your hobby? Reading
11. Your fear? Phone
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? Paradise
13. Where were you last night? Sister’s
14. What you’re not? Blind
15. One of your wish-list items? Decor
16. Where you grew up? Hempstead
17. The last thing you did? Beach
18. What are you wearing? Watch
19. Your TV? Broken
20. Your pet? Peeve
21. Your computer? Bad
22. Your mood? Stressed
23. Missing someone? Cook
24. Your car? Where?
25. Something you’re not wearing? Glasses
26. Favorite store? Grocery
27. Your summer? Mangos
28. Love someone? Uh-huh
29. Your favorite color? Green
30. When is the last time you laughed? Today
31. Last time you cried? Yesterday
32. Who do you want to tag? Commenters

Guess I need to use more than one word to answer #32. I am hereby tagging the first 5 people to comment on my last post. Feel free to play along if you like!

1. Crazy Working Mom
2. Give Me a Second to Think About It
3. Beanish and Other Languages I'm Learning
4. Mrs Mecomber
5. From the Cheap Seats

No Regrets

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My Dearest Esmé,

You were not quite eight months old. We had gone camping at the beach with another family, and 10-year-old Rudolph had been attentive all weekend, helping you navigate the sandy terrain between tents, eating spots, and meeting spots. He didn’t even complain as you dragged him around by the nose.

At the end of the weekend, inspired by who-knows-what, you crawled your way over to Rudolph, grabbed his face with your hands, and planted a big wet toothy smacker on his lips.

We all chuckled at this, your first boy kiss. And Rudolph, normally rosy-cheeked, glowed an even brighter red as he ran from the scene.

You’ve repeated this scenario with other boys you’ve managed to catch, some more willing than others. And we’ve chuckled repeatedly.

As your kisses move from the innocence of childhood to the inquisitiveness of adolescence to the intensity of adulthood, I have many dreams for you. Dreams of scent-laden spots in lush forests with water cascading in the background. Sweet kick-your-feet-in-the-air moments. Handsomeness at its best. Gentlemanly courtesies. Exciting romantic interludes in innovative settings. A prince on a white horse (or in a red Mercedes). Tropical beaches with coconut palms, white sand, and aqua waters. Softly falling snow.

My prayer for you is simple, though.

It’s not that God would protect you from pain, for that would mean a hardened heart. It’s not for eternal innocence, for that would mean a life not fully lived. It’s not even for the perfect man, because no man can completely fulfill you – only God can do that.

My prayer is for no regrets.

Live passionately. Laugh exuberantly. Love wholeheartedly. Be wise, but hold nothing back. You will have low lows, but they will be compensated by incredible highs. At the end of the day, your life will not be perfect, but you will know that if you had to do it all over again, not knowing the future, you wouldn’t change a thing.

You’ll have no regrets.

I love you, baby girl. You are my reason for no regrets.

Your Mommy

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This post has been submitted into Scribbit's Write-Away contest.

Sick Days

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Life is rushing by way too fast! Esmé has been sick with her second cold – I read that most babies have 10-12 colds per year, so I guess I should consider ourselves blessed . . . But it does mean sleep-deprived mommy and baby, unfortunately. I think I got about 3 hours last night, and none on Friday night.

And today we had a minor crisis when one of our bunnies bit Esmé's finger when she was "feeding" it. She was much happier after she had a band-aid on.

On Friday I started writing a post about being pulled over by the Mozambican police for the first time. I was a little jubilant that they didn’t ask me to pay any money for sodas or anything! I just played the dumb American who understands only English, which doesn’t take much acting on my part. They did think I was a Canadian, though, so that Canadian heritage came shining through.

Yesterday one of our expat workers was pulled over and over the course of a long afternoon, threatened with jail and was physically being moved there - for driving without an international driver’s license. I don’t have one of those either. So I’m feeling a little less jubilant now. All ended okay – he was released before they got all the way to a jail cell, and his documents were returned to him this morning.

Scribbit’s July writing contest results are out. If you’re interested in doing some blog hopping and going straight to the best of the blogs, check out the entries! I’m hoping to do so sometime when I have a moment to relax.

Here’s a photo of Esmé (butterfly balloon on head) with one of the Australian short-term volunteers who came over on Saturday night for table tennis & games.
Gotta get back to real life – hope to catch up with you all soon!

Nine Months with The Incredibles

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I’m far more likely to have a supervillain name than a superhero one. It would be something along the lines of "Guilt Complex Queen." I have an overdeveloped guilt complex. You name it, it’s my fault.

• Baby’s diaper is wet? My bad.
• Husband comes down with the flu? I haven’t been feeding him enough orange and green veggies.
• Our Mozambique building project is out of cash? Guilty, your honor. I haven’t reconciled petty cash yet.
• People feel unloved and alone in the world? Guilty again. I love you all, but I have 400 emails and 89 blog comments I haven’t responded to, and I haven’t sent out Christmas cards in two years.
• Government’s budget doesn’t balance? Oops! I haven’t filed our 2007 taxes yet.
• World hunger still exists? I forgot to leave change in my car for beggars. Plus I left the beans out overnight and they spoiled, so I had to throw them away. Think how many people could have been fed.
• Global warming? I drive with the air conditioner on.
• People killing people for political reasons in Zimbabwe? I haven’t figured out the connection yet, but I’m sure it’s my fault somehow.

If it weren’t for God’s Magic Eraser, I don’t think I could live with myself.
But every time I look at baby Esmé, I am reminded that I WAS Wonder Woman. For nine months. Two years ago, my body did this amazing thing. A baby was conceived, and my body became its incubator.
It provided the right amount of padding, fluid, and nutrients. Even when all I could eat during the morning sickness phase were frozen macaroni and cheese dinners, baby survived. And even though I didn’t do my Kegels and never once got through the prenatal exercise DVDs I bought, baby thrived. When I ate doughnuts the morning of my glucose tolerance test and got a false positive, baby did a sugar dance and moved on.
And when D-Day arrived, my body performed exactly as designed. Six and a half pain-filled hours after membrane rupture, little miss Esmé worked her way through into the birthing tub and took her first breath. No pills, no drugs, no interventions, just my body and hers working in harmony. She was PERFECT. All 7 lb, 7 oz, 20 inches of her.
Every woman has her own Wonder Woman story. Esmé is mine.
I am Woman; hear me ROAR!

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This post has been entered into Scribbit's Write Away contest.

Mozambican Heavens

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As daylight breaks, he pedals his bike through the dusty village streets, rushing to get to work by 7 a.m.

Not quite 20, still a teenager, he moved to the city several months ago to further his education. He had brothers here; a place to stay. But it quickly became evident that his sisters-in-law did not want another mouth to feed. So he moved out and got a job at my husband’s metal shop, putting together steel structures for churches and schools.

The lunch provided at work is his one meal of the day. When the shop closes at 4:30, he washes himself in the stagnant rainwater pond and pedals again, this time to class. At midnight, he finally arrives home, only to start the cycle again in five hours.

He’s been investing his hard-earned $100/month. Realizing the chapa (African taxi) was taking a huge chunk of his pay, he bought the bicycle. He purchased a variety of locks and now sells locks during his free time on the weekends. And he borrowed funds from us to buy a piece of property, slowly acquiring materials to build a house one of these days.

He’s going places - reaching for the sky.

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She knocks determinedly on our metal gate at least once a week, demanding an audience. She knows her persistence will pay off here.

She speaks no English, and we speak no Portuguese. But she manages to get across her message. Some days she needs money. Her teenage daughter needs school books. She needs medicine for malaria. Other days she brings evidence of how she’s spent the money: pharmacy receipts; her daughter’s test scores.

We might give her an odd job, we might give her school supplies, or we might just give her money. She always leaves with what she needs. And she will come back again, for her daughter’s sake.

Through her daughter, she’s going places – reaching for the sky.

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By western standards, she looks much older than her 30-something years, but in this country with a life expectancy of 42 years, she IS one of the elderly.

Her four-year-old son had meningitis. And he needs medical treatment. And that costs money. And she doesn’t have any.

So she’s looking for work as an empregada (maid). She doesn’t have the experience, skills, or references, but is willing to do anything. ANYTHING.

It may be hard to see, but she’s going places – reaching for the sky.

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“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp -- or what’s a heaven for?”
- Robert Browning

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This post has been entered into Scribbit’s Write-Away contest.

Honorable Mention

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Esmé's Mommy again . . .

I won a writing contest! Well, actually, I got a “Most” Honorable Mention for my Clean Underwear post. But it was fun – thanks, Scribbit! And if you’re visiting from Scribbit’s page, welcome! Visit often!

Since I got more hits from the link on Scribbit’s page than I usually get in a month, I thought I’d share with any new readers who I am and why I blog.

I’m a thirty-something mom of a one-year-old with an American passport living in Mozambique. My claim to fame is having the youngest skateboarder in the world as my daughter. Serious! If you’ve missed my previous posts on this, here are links to some skateboard videos:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSugV3byMSc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RjHL66Kw3A4

My husband and I work with Maranatha Volunteers International on their project of building churches and schools here in Mozambique. We’ve been here since May of last year. With an accounting and IT background, I work with the money over here.

Combine working full-time with taking care of baby full-time, and there must be a good reason for spending valuable time blogging. Let me say that this idea that being a mother makes you more efficient is totally false advertising. Where do I start? Oh, yes, bullet points! I love bullet points! They make me feel so organized – what disillusionment! So, here’s why I blog:

• I wanted to journal my daughter’s childhood; to keep track of all the milestones and have things documented for my increasingly failing memory. I know someday my baby’s gonna ask me when her first teeth arrived, when she was potty trained, and what her favorite books were. Right?
• By the time Esmé was four months, I was having a hard time keeping up the journal. I figured an online journal would make me a little more accountable.
• Being so far from much of my family, I figured this would let them see how Esmé was growing and make me feel less guilty for not writing personal letters.
• It’s just plain addicting! I don’t have time to keep up with all the blogging jargon and strategies, and I know just enough about statistics to know mine are pathetic, but there’s something oddly rewarding about knowing the entire world can see what I wrote if they so chose.
• “Whatever you do, whether you eat or drink, do it all for God’s glory” (1 Corinthians 10:31). My posts don’t focus on Christianity necessarily, but at the end of the day, if it doesn’t glorify God somehow, I shouldn’t be doing it.

If you’ve read very far back, you’ll see most of my blogs are written from Esmé’s perspective. Here’s why: (Oh goody, more bullet points.)

• This actually started out as a MySpace blog; one of my friends recruited me to sign up with them, but I just couldn’t make myself devote a whole webpage to me. (Yes, I have hookups, as my husband can attest.) It seemed much more reflective of my “humble spirit” to highlight my daughter instead.
• I DON’T have time to proofread my writing and make sure things sound good. People will be much more forgiving of a one-year-old’s writing than a thirty-something’s, won’t they? This allows me to just post, rather than try to be perfect and never get the posting done.
• It actually helps me as a parent to try to see things from my kid’s perspective. Sometimes the things I do just don’t make sense, or aren’t any fun, or have no value from that perspective, so when I see this, I can change and become a better mom.
• Some people actually think it’s cute . . .