Sometimes I'm a bad mom

Andrew's cousin Bethany tagged me to do quirks again, but I just did that tag, so I thought I'd make a list of all the "bad mom" things I've done in the past 24 hours.

• I put Rachel in her room to play by herself while I took a (much-needed) nap yesterday.
• When I woke up we ate a package of cookies together.
• Then I made her unload the washing machine for me while I did the dishes--she did a good job and actually ended up unloading it about three times before I finished the dishes because she kept putting the clothes back in and taking them out again.
  
• I accidentally let her stay up until 10:30 PM last night because I read the clock wrong and thought it was an hour earlier than it was.
• I let her sleep in until 10 o'clock this morning--I slept in, and Andrew slept in, too.
  
• We had cake for breakfast.
• I made her put the cans (that she'd scattered all around the kitchen floor) away while I did last night's dishes.
• I wouldn't let her open the washing machine because it was full of the Schilling's clothes, not ours--she threw a fit.
• I didn't comfort her because it was just a temper tantrum--I said she wasn't hurt so she hit her own head to try to make me feel sorry for her; I said that was a stupid thing to do and still didn't pick her up.
  
• I took her outside on the balcony to hang up our wet clothes (that had been sitting in the laundry basket all night because I just couldn't make myself do it yesterday)--she was wearing nothing but sandals.
• I put her sandals on the wrong feet.
• When we came inside I let her jump on the bed with her sandals on.
• Then we played steamroller, a game where I do log rolls on the bed and she has to get out of the way by climbing over me. If she's too slow I roll over her (gently, of course) but she knows that she "lost" the game and throws a tantrum. I didn't let her win every round (but I only rolled over her twice).
  
• Then we had a shower--I put Rachel in the tub and told her to tell me when the water got hot (because it takes several minutes for the hot water to come through the pipes) only she forgot to tell me so it got too hot and she just started screaming. I felt bad because usually she says "Yeah," when it's starts getting warm but she didn't and it just kept getting hotter and hotter.
• I didn't get her dressed until 2:00 today.
• When we were coloring I told her that she couldn't have the crayon I was using. She cried. I gave her a different crayon to color with. She threw that one so I made her put all of the crayons away.

So sometimes I'm a bad mom. But I think it's ok. Because some of the things on the list are things that are fun, like eating a whole package of cookies together. I suppose that's technically a bad mom thing from the perspective of an adult, but it's a great mom thing from the perspective of the child.

I even let her open the cookies, lick the frosting, stick them back together and put them back in the package.

That's definitely a bad mom thing; but also a good mom thing.

Making her do chores is probably a good mom thing from the perspective of an adult, but from the perspective of a child it's a bad mom thing. Rachel loves to load and unload the washing machine and I think that's fine. She likes taking the cans out of the cupboard but she doesn't like putting them back. I made her do it, anyway. So I was a bad mom in Rachel's eye, but probably a good mom in yours.

Child labor

It's hard to be a good mom all the time because someone will end up thinking you're a bad mom, anyway. I think it's important to balance being a good and a bad mom. If I was a "good mom" from a grown-up's view all the time, Rachel and I would miss out on a lot of fun. But if I was a "good mom" from a baby's view all the time, Rachel would miss out on a lot of discipline and work. So I think I'll just be a bad mom.

Leprosarium

About one month ago the sisters met to learn how to use knifty knitters so that we could teach some more needy people how to use them. In theory, they would sell the things they make and use the money to buy more yarn, in addition to necessities, so that they could have a self-sustaining source of additional income.

At first there was some discussion about teaching the lepers at the Abu Zaabal Leprosarium how to knit, but then we figured that it would be too difficult for them, given the parasthesia and the fact that their skin is sloughing off. I was wondering about that because I know when I use yarn for too long my fingers start chaffing and I do crazy things like poke Rachel in the eye with my needles.

Further more, although I've never actually had leprosy I have periodically had my skin slough off. Usually it's just the palms of my hands that suffer. I start getting little air bubbles, as far as I can tell, and then those pop and peel off and I have young skin exposed underneath and everything cracks and bleeds and it's terribly painful, making both dish doing and viola playing very difficult.

It's happened every time I've made a major move, from BC to Alberta, from Alberta to Utah, from Utah to Russia, and then from Russia to Utah, and from Utah to Jordan. And once just randomly when we lived in BC. I think it might be stress-induced or something. It hasn't happened here, which is really too bad because when we lived in Jordan Andrew had to do the dishes for like 2 months, which rocked.

So I was glad when we decided not to have the lepers learn and instead have some women at the sewing school in the village learn.

There's a village by the Leprosarium where the families of the lepers live and work so that they can support their families members going through treatment. Most people who contract leprosy are rather poor, so although the Leprosarium wasn't much to look at, it's actually probably better living conditions than they had when they contracted the disease.

Leprosy isn't actually very contagious and most leprosariums have been shut down. Most experts believe that the "leprosy" talked about in the bible was probably syphillus because syphillus is way more contagious and the social stigma associated with syphillus would make sense since it's an STD. Leprosy isn't.

The reason the Abu Zaabal Leprosarium is still accepting new patients is because most people who contract the disease are a) rather poor and can't afford to get treatment or b) wait until the disease has progressed too far and amputation and other extensive procedures are necessary. It has about 850 lepers.

We toured the leprosarium and taught some girls in the village sewing school how to use the knifty knitters. I taught about 6 or 7 ladies and was particularly impressed by Samia. She caught on so quickly and was so patient with the whole language barrier thing. Sadly, I can only remember her name because the other ladies weren't willing to repeat everything they said 20 times for me.

Samia showing another lady her first bootie

I liked seeing the Christians and Muslims working so closely together. There was absolutely no prejudices among them; they sat together and helped each other figure things out. I suppose they all have victims of leprosy as a family so they have something in common. That, and they all spoke Arabic and very little English so they had to band together to understand what we were trying to say, I guess.

Samia shows a nun her handiwork--her second bootie

They were so excited for us to come--there were the Lindsays (the missionary couple here), 3 other ladies from the branch (besides me), and Elder Lindsay's niece and two of her friends. The sewing room was packed full! It was fun to hear all the chatter going on in broken English and Arabic.

I learned a new word: scissors, or مقص. In Egyptian Arabic they say m'ass because they don't pronounce the 'q.' Over the chatter we'd hear people calling out for the scissors. We all started using the Arabic word because we were outnumbered by Arabic speakers at least 3 to 1.

"M'ass! M'ass!" we'd hear shouted over and over again. We only had two pairs of scissors for everyone to share.

I think that is the only new word I learned today.

Me with Samia and some other ladies I helped to teach

When we'd been there for a number of hours and felt that at least some of the women had gotten the hang of it, we left to tour the leprosarium.

The leprosarium is divided into three different areas, I think. There are two men's dormitories and one women's dormitory. There are 10 kitchens, five of which were provided by LDS Charities. There is a bakery, which was rather interesting.

Sister Linsay said that there was a man mixing dough in a bathtub. I thought she meant to say that he was mixing dough in a vat as big as a bathtub, but no--he's actually mixing the dough in the bathtub. And he's smoking. And barefoot.


Obviously they don't have a health code here.

We got to go in the bakery and see them make the baladi bread--which is, essentially, pita bread. They just don't call it that.

Once the smoking bathtub guy has plunked balls of dough on these big boards, a young man carries them to the oven, which is equipped with a conveyor belt. Then this man kind of flatten outs the dough and sends it through the oven where it's fired up.


It comes out the other end nice and puffy and steaming hot.


Then they are laid outside to cool off. The man in the picture below is a leper. The bacteria isn't active because when they first come to the leprosarium they are quarantined for 2 weeks while they receive the inoculations, then for another 2 months while they undergo a series of tests to see if the inoculations worked. They have to have three negative tests before they are allowed out into the colony. This man lost most of his fingers.


We didn't see many people with horrible deformities. There were no doctors on site today and we didn't want to go into the dorms to visit unannounced. But apparently there is this one man who has been at the colony for about 50 years. He lost both of his legs and is blind, due to leprosy, but is the nicest mot positive man. One day I hope to go back and meet him.

At the very end of our tour Elder Lindsay took us to see the water purification system that LDS Charities helped revamp. The watershed used to only have sand filters, and those hadn't been changed since the start of WWII, so only like seventy years! Elder Lindsay said that that type of filter probably needs to be changed at least every decade, so a change was well overdue. In addition to changing the sand in the filters a chlorination system was installed.

The pump house

A plaque was put up in honor of latter-Day Saint charit, how sweet!


There were also signs all over the place promoting good hygine, something that is really lacking in Egypt. This sign is reminding patients to dispose of their used bandages in the incinerator bins instead of regular rubbish heaps.


There were other signs as well, reminding patients to bathe and wash their hands and their food. One gal that went with us is a dental hygienist and she was just going crazy looking at everyone's teeth.

"That man has advanced periodontal disease!" she'd declare, "If he'd just floss and brush..."

I have a feeling she's going to single handedly try to supply every Egyptian with a toothbrush.

It's so hard to know what to do, though. As my friend Shallee so aptly pointed out, if not given properly, aid can do more harm than good. When she got home from going to Ghana the first time, Shallee started taking classes in African studies and devoted all her spare time to NGO's (and Danny, a little), so she knows much more what she's talking about.

I've experienced some similar things here, with Egyptians trying to rip me off just because I'm American (and therefore am loaded with money that I just am dying to give away for nothing). Andrew is reading a book about USAID right now and a lot of the information in there is rather startling, specifically how Africa has become such a pawn in foreign hands because of all the aid given them.

Some aid is good and necessary--like providing clean drinking water. But some aid just is not. It's hard to know how far to go and how much to give, without enabling people or creating too much debt on a country's government.

The Relief Society has helped the Lindsays assemble hygiene kits (including toothbrushes) and school kits to give out, but I think it will take a lot of education before the majority of the population understands hygiene and knows how to achieve good hygiene.

Education can do so much for people.

I was talking to Sister Lindsay about the Young Women in our branch who are looking for service projects to do. Sister Bestor (yes, Kurt Bestor's sister-in-law) brought her serger to Egypt so I mentioned to her that Sister Lindsay mentioned wanting cloth diapers. She mentioned that she thought that making cloth diapers would be a perfect project for the Young Women. So I mentioned that to Sister Lindsay.

I then mentioned to Sister Lindsay that if we gave out cloth diapers, which hypothetically would be more useful than disposable diapers, we'd probably have to teach the women how to use them. Trust me, there is a generation gap. My generation does not know how to fold cloth diapers. I had to have my mom teach me, and then I tutored a few girls in my old ward. Everyone just uses disposables, but cloth is much more practical.

Perhaps that will be the next project we'll do. Skills are such a better thing to give as aid than material things. Teaching the women to knit will enable them to be independent. They will be able to make their own socks and hats, sell their own socks and hats. It's a marketable skill. I doubt they'll get rich, but at least they'll be able to help themselves.

The Tree

There are a variety of fruit stands in our neighbourhood, several of which are on Road 9. Before the Masons got here we'd been going to a fruit stand that was nice enough, but we weren't entirely pleased with the "customer service."

Melissa asked if we'd been to "The Tree." She described your typical fruit stand, mentioning specifically that there was a tree, too. Since Road 9 is lined with trees, as most streets in Maadi are, I wasn't sure what she was talking about or why her fruit stand was peculiar.

I was still clueless when we'd finished breakfast--the Masons were kind enough to take us and the Sharps out to breakfast when they returned to Cairo as welcoming gesture--Melissa invited us to follow her there. And thus we became faithful customers of The Tree, so called because of the tree growing from the inside of the building right out of the roof.


We are friends with a few of the workers there, Hani in particular, who is always sure to give Rachel a banana (or two). Most often the workers are quite charming, will select the best fruit for you and charge you a fair price.

"When are you going to eat this?" they will ask. And then you'll say when, whether it be that night or in three days, etc. Usually they pick very well.

They package everything up nicely and deliver straight to your door. Everywhere delivers, which is nice because we don't have a car. Or a bike equipped with cartons to haul groceries. Or a bike at all. We only have the stroller and we can only fit so much in there.

Rachel and I went to the tree together last week and Hani wasn't there, but there were some other nice workers there, which I was glad about because sometimes when Hani's not there things go less smoothly. These workers were all falling head over feet for Rachel. They gave her two bananas, some French fries, and even a sip of pop.

When it was time to go Rachel ran away from me and jumped in the arms of her new friend, whose lunch she had just helped eat.

"You want to stay with me?" he asked her. She nodded, "Okay, say bye-bye to mama."

She waved goodbye.

"Alright, see you later, Rachel," I said, playing along, "Just deliver her in a half hour with everything else."

"Sure," he said, "Bye-bye mama!"

He and Rachel waved and giggled. Rachel only realized she'd taken her joke too far when I started walking away. Then she decided that she wanted to come home with me afterall.


She loves going shopping because she usually ends up with some sort of goodie from the bread store, and a banana from The Tree, and sometimes even a chocolate from the confectioner's. Everyone seems to keep a lookout for her.

She keeps a lookout as well and always gets excited when we get close to The Tree, or any other of her stomping grounds.

Those darn mosquitoes!

This morning I was rudely awakened by the baby monitor, that sits right by my head, going crazy. Rachel was squawking and screaming. I went to her bedroom and peeked inside.

She was sitting up and throwing a terrible tantrum--at her feet. They'd somehow offended her. She was pulling wildly on her socks, then screaming at her feet, then kicking them, then pinching them, then screaming, then kicking, then hitting. She was pretty much furious.

I picked her up and brought her to our bed and peeled off her socks to reveal two very swollen and mosquito-bitten feet! She'd been pestering the bites for so long that they were all swollen, even the ones from yesterday had flared up again.

She wouldn't calm down for anything until I offered her a shower. Thank goodness for that! She's always willing to take a shower. Or a bath. Or go swimming.

The water seemed to help her forget about her itchy feet and we went out and had a great time being girls with the sisters in our branch. Rachel was the perfect baby while we were out. She only threw one fit (when I took her off the wall she'd been walking on), let anyone hold her, and told me, truthfully, when she had to go potty. She even nursed to sleep in the taxi and didn't pee on me in her sleep (which I was obviously very afraid she would do but apparently she has more bladder control than I thought. Maybe I should start putting her down for naps in underwear instead of a diaper...).

When we got back home she started scratching again, though, and soon she'd made herself bleed and was all upset again. I sat her down on our reading chair so that I could bandage her up and then I remembered that she was wearing her cute, new sweater so I thought we'd take some pictures.

She kept goofing off and whenever I asked her to smile she would fold her arms and squint instead.


She thinks she's so funny! She kept laughing at herself in between squinting her eyes.


I asked her to show me which mosquito bites hurt her the worst and she started to point them out to me. Apparently that one, there, was a pretty bad one, although I think the one on her toe that had swollen up so much that she could hardly bend her toe was worse.

This picture does not do justice

I put band aides on the ones that were bleeding and then did my best to distract her. Because Daddy still wasn't home from school and Mommy was too scared to actually make dinner because of the spider lurking in the kitchen, Mommy decided to just pop some popcorn and have a movie party with Rachel instead of making dinner.

Sometimes I'm a responsible mom like that.

Besides I knew Andrew would help make dinner when he came home so it was technically I was only stalling, not neglecting. And Rachel acted so maimed after I put band aides on her that I didn't think she'd be able to walk all the way to the table, so we just had to eat our popcorn in front of the (portable DVD player) screen (since our TV doesn't work).

Here's Rachel stumbling along. She couldn't keep her eyes off of her band aides and had to keep bending over to touch them while she walked.



I distracted her from picking off the band aides by letting her wear her other new shirt while we watched Over the Hedge. Her attention span lasted as long as the bowl of popcorn did, and since we both only take one piece of popcorn at a time, she sat still for quite a while. When we started getting down to the unpopped kernels she put one in her mouth and started chomping on it. I made her spit it out and told her to only eat the white, fluffy ones. She is very obedient, but such a tease. After I told her that she kept periodically picking up kernels and holding them in front of her mouth while she danced in front of my face like, "What are you going to do?"


We sat on my Winnie the Pooh yoga mat. I had to get it because I had to start doing yoga again but my poor bony butt can't handle doing yoga on the wood floor. It's actually been a pretty good investment so far. Somehow Rachel knows all the Winnie the Pooh characters; don't ask me how because she's never watched Winnie the Pooh. I'd like to know who's secretly, and successfully, teaching my baby Winnie the Pooh characters when I'm still struggling with color recognition.

She'll say "Pooh!" when she points at Pooh, but Eeyore is her favorite. She just can't say his name yet. It comes out more like "Eeeeeerrrroght!"

One day I asked her where Eeyore was and she ran into her room and got a little toy that our crazy Polish neighbor gave to her back in September. I had totally forgotten about that. I don't know how she remembered, but I don't really care. She loves Eeyore and I love that she loves Eeyore.

Now whenever she's running around and driving me crazy I say, "Go sit on Eeyore!" in a fun, sing-song voice and she'll run over to my yoga mat and sit on Eeyore like it's the funnest game in the world. It's awesome.

Oh, and I can do yoga now, besides.

...Back to mosquitoes.

Andrew stopped by the pharmacy to get some calamine lotion (3 LE for a bottle!) before coming home from school. We made and had dinner, and then got Rachel ready for bed. That was quite the process.

I put on her diaper and jammies, which was normal, and then basically lathered her feet in calamine lotion. Then I put thick slippers on her feet, and sprayed the remaining exposed skin with bug spray. We put a treated mosquito net by her bed, but we don't really have any way to hang it, so it's just sitting there (hopefully) repelling mosquitoes.

I hope they leave her alone tonight or that she starts to understand the concept if "itching makes it worse." Either solution is fine. We're a versatile family; I have a Winnie the Pooh yoga mat.

Princess for a Day

Since marrying a man dreaming of becoming a university professor my aspirations of princess-hood were pretty much shot. He treats me like a queen, though; that much is true. Today I went out with the Relief Society and Andrew did the dishes, took out the trash, scrubbed the tub, and hung the laundry out to dry. Clearly he's amazing. Clearly.

I took Rachel with me because Andrew had to go meet with some classmates to work on a group project later in the day (grumble, grumble). We caught a cab with Linda and Lora and headed out to Zamalek, one of the "rich" districts of Cairo. There are a couple of sisters (Tasi and Deneece) who planned a shopping trip for us so that they could show us some of their favorite stores, and let me tell you, Zamalek has way better shopping than Maadi!

We met in front of the Tueller's house, which might more appropriately be called a mansion, where we were invited to have some goodies before hitting the shops.

Rachel, Me and Lora in front of the mansion

Apparently Deneece's cook was just hankering to cook for more than just just the Tuellers and their son because our "goodies" ended up being more of a well-balanced meal than a light snack. We had fresh orange juice, fresh lemonade, and cold water to drink. Our snacking started out with a huge tray of cookies, both peanut butter and chocolate chip. Rachel was eating those like it was nobody's business and was getting crumbs all over the place. I felt kind of embarrassed, but not as much as I would have if I thought Deneece would have to clean up after her. Since I knew she had someone do her cleaning for her I didn't feel as guilty. Is that bad?

Then they brought out some crackers with cheese and olives.

Rachel wanted one of those, but only one. Then she wanted more cookies, which was fine since there were still plenty on the table in front of us.

Just when I thought we were finished eating the servers started bringing out gold-leafed plates with delicious quiche! And when we were done with that they brought around a ring-cake of the most delicious apple-cinnimon goodness!

Rachel eating a cookie

And then we sat there and ate more cookies. I was stuffed by the time we were ready to tour the mansion.

Brother Tueller is a diplomat--a pretty high-up-there diplomat, to be honest--and they host all these fancy parties, so they live in this huge mansion. Deneece took us down the "servant's staircase" to see the kitchen. It's huge. There's even an elevator in there to transport the food up to the serving room. Amazing!

She showed us the storage room for the dishes. All the American diplomat residences have the same dishes: gold trimmed plates and crystal stemware.

When she told us we had just eaten off of golden plates I just about choked. Apparently she has to file reports everytime something gets broken at a diplomatic party--who broke it, what was going on, etc. Melissa and I joked about filing reports when people trash our styrofoam plates.

After touring the kitchen, Deneece showed us the pool and the guesthouse and the grounds.

It's an amazing house, almost like a museum. I'll have to borrow the book she has about it because it sounds really interesting. It was built in the late 1800s, I think, and it has some original furniture from that time--tapestries and things. And then with all the trinkets Deneece has from her travels. You could stay there all day just looking at things.

Deneece is on the far left. You can see a tapestry in the background

Sadly, the neighboring buildings aren't as well kept. The mansion nextdoor is owned by the minister of fianance and he can't afford to maintain it, so he has some maids living there but he doesn't. It's just crumbling to pieces.


When we'd seen all there was to see, Rachel had to go potty (for the second time), so Tasi and Deneece pointed the other women to the shops and waited for us while Rachel went. Lora also hung back with us. I suppose we were the lucky ones because we got to walk around with Tasi, who knew exactly where she was going, instead of wandering around being lost!

We had a great time shopping. Rachel and I got some cute shirts at an outlet store in preparation for winter. I wasn't planning on buying anything more than a few sweaters--one for her and one for me--but then she spotted this shirt and fell in love with the animals on the front. It's actually very "her." She loves running around and growling at people, so...why not? Just because it has random English all over it doesn't mean she can't have it!

College for the Boys like an artist street 28?

And then I fell in love with this shirt right at the cash register (which comprised of a man and a calculator and a pocketful of cash) and it was just fate.


Luckily I thought the jacket I picked out for myself was 75 LE but it was actually only 25 LE, so even with the extra shirts for me and Rachel I ended up spending less than I expected to.

Besides getting new clothes and eating a never-ending supply of cookies, two things she really enjoys, Rachel's favorite part of the day was walking on the wall. Rachel lives to climb.

Inching along

Getting braver

It was hard to face reality when we came home, after our hard day shopping and being pampered and waited on hand and foot. There was a bee in Rachel's room. A spider on the dishes in the drying rack. And I could hear our rat Templeton running around in the ceiling. And there was no cook to make dinner for me.

Thank goodness Andrew did all that work around the house before he left for his meeting or I might have cried. I might not be a real princess, but I'm his princess and that's good enough for me.

Flashback Friday: My time as a chemotherapy patient

Because of my insane schedule at AUC this semester I haven't had time to wander around Ma'adi to find a barber. My hair kept getting longer and longer until it was crazy long and unmanageable. I refused to comb it or put gel in it, probably as a form of subconscious protest against its length. In the states when I refused to do anything to my hair Nancy would eventually give in and cut it short with our cheap Walmart clippers. We didn't have clippers here so my protests went unanswered.

Until yesterday.

Before...After

We finally caved in and bought some clippers from Moudy's, the same store where Nancy bought UNO and where we buy toys, dishes, laundry detergent, candles, ribbon, super glue, clocks, and telephones. They have everything in that store! The clippers only cost LE 45; since a typical barber visit costs LE 15-20 here in Ma'adi, our investment will be remunerated soon.

Supper Cut

Armed with our new "Supper Cut" clippers, Nancy finally cut my hair. It took a while to get through the thick mangy hair but she finally got it all down to 1/4th of an inch on top, 1/8 on the sides and back--nice and short.

However, she missed one spot on the front, which I pointed out as she was cleaning the clippers. Nancy quickly fixed the one spot and then ran the clippers to the back of my head for good measure, only realizing after that she had the 1/8th attachment on. I effectively had a trench running down the middle of my head. We had to cut the rest of my hair down to 1/8th, which is surprisingly short.

Coincidentally Tanner, who goes to AUC with me, had his hair cut at a barber yesterday and ended up with an all around buzz. People at church got a kick out of our matching haircuts. Josh got such a kick that he actually convinced Carolee to let him do it to. They spent the evening at our apartment today and borrowed our Supper Cuts. Josh's mom almost died in horror when they e-mailed her the pictures.

Matching hair

Currently every male Mormon that attends classes at AUC has buzzed hair (I think Abe does at least). We just need to get Patrick on board next...

Fortunately it wasn't that shocking of a change for me since I've had this same haircut for as long as I can remember, which brings us to this week's flashback (time for me to jump onto the Flashback Friday bandwagon...)

In 1985 my dad was accepted to graduate program in history at the University of North Carolina (UNC) in Chapel Hill. He moved our entire family (consisting of my mom and me, aged 9 months) out to the green land of Raleigh/Durham. After a semester or so (details fuzzy here), he decided that he had had enough grad school (some days here I totally understand why). He found a job at the IT department at the Duke University medical school and worked with their fragile network for 8 years until we moved to Utah in 1993.

We would often go meet him at his office/department at the hospital when we was done working. I still remember his dark office full of ancient coaxial cables, with a forboding sign depicting a skeleton declaring "Abandon hope all ye who enter." My 4-7 year old mind couldn't catch the literary significance of that Dantesque phrase, which he still has in his office today.

When I was around 5 or 6 (fuzzy details again...) my mom decided to try her hand at cutting my hair. She apparently had a miserable experience and ended up buzzing it all off extremely short in fierce frustration. All my blond hair, which already did little to cover my scalp, was gone, leaving me virtually bald with a layer of 1/16th of an inch long hair poking up.

Shortly after that haircut we went to visit my dad at work. Nurses and doctors swarmed us, showering me with lollipops, candy, and deeply compassionate sympathetic looks. They would urge my parents to "keep fighting it" and whisper hushed words of concern for me and my progress.

Apparently Duke was renowned for its pediatric cancer unit. I had become another suffering chemotherapy patient at the hospital because of my haircut.

Since then I've pretty much always had buzzed hair. I actually had to grow it out for my mission since it had to be partable (although I was often tempted to ask the barber to just cut a part line into my hair, saving me the hassle). I hate long hair; short hair makes life so much easier. One less thing to worry about.

And thanks to our Supper Cut clippers I can keep that tradition going out here in Egypt, although I don't think I'll be getting any sympathy candy from people on campus on Sunday. Rats.

Almost...

I just left a comment the Schillings' new blog. Remember that CAPTCHA word verification thing that we turned off on our blog a while ago? Here's what their blog gave us (they're getting a lot more readable now, thankfully):

So close!

Flashback Friday: She once was lost

My mom has been writing some posts about all the times she's lost her children and suggested that I write about "the time Josie got lost." I had to clarify which time she wanted me to write about because Josie went missing a lot when she was little. There was the time she and Charissa went missing and we found them in the creek behind the Rec Plex. Then there was the time she and Charissa went missing and we found them in the fireplace covered in soot. Obviously those two were quite the pair.

Josie went missing by herself quite frequently as well. I babysat her everyday, all day, for two years while I homeschooled myself. I don't think I could count the number of times I phoned my mom at work and wailed, "I lost Josie again!"

She went missing so frequently that our neighbours would be out looking for her before we even noticed that she was gone. "I saw a flash of pink run this way just a minute ago," they'd say when we finally caught up with them checking the alley...or the park...or the lake...or wherever.

This particular instance, however, was an especially interesting time Josie got lost.

I was in grade nine at the time and, having recently reassimilated into mainstream education, was attending Highwood High School, which was a ten or fifteen minute walk from our house. Josie must have been at Karen's house, but for some reason my mom ended up picking Josie up when she brought Patrick home from Spitzee, the elementary school he was at.

Since neither David nor I were home from school yet and weren't available to babysit my mom had arranged for Josie to play at the Little's house with her friend Dana so that she could go back to work. Patrick was going to play at the the Dupuis' who lived in the same co-op complex as the Littles. My mom stopped by the complex and helped Josie and Patrick over the fence by the Little's house and told Patrick to drop Josie off and then go straight to Tyler's.

When Dana opened the door, my mom drove off, trusting that Patrick, who was around 10 years old, could get to Tyler's by himself since it was just across the parking lot.

So she left Patrick and Josie standing on the Little's doorstep while she sped off to work.

Patrick was eager to get to Tyler's house so after greeting Dana he left Josie at the doorstep and ran off to the Dupuis', trusting that Dana would let Josie inside since he had heard our mom talk to her mom and things were all set up.

Dana, however, had not heard this arrangement being made and was very perplexed.

"But Josie!" she said, "I already have a friend over and I'm only allowed one friend over at a time! I can't play with you!"

"Well, what do I do?" Josie asked.

"Run home, Josie! Run home, quick!" Dana suggested.

And she closed the door on my baby sister, who hadn't even started kindergarten yet.

When Sister Little heard the door close she asked Dana who was at the door.

"Just Josie," Dana answered, "But don't worry. I told her to go home."

"You did what?!" asked Sister Little, heading for the door. She was now the one perplexed since she was supposed to be babysitting Josie for my mom.

"I'm only allowed to have one friend over," Dana explained.

"We're supposed to be watching her!" Sister Little said frantically.

"Oh," Dana squeaked guiltily.

Within minutes a search party comprising of Sister Little, Patrick, and Tyler was composed. Time was of the essense since Josie had this habit of heading to the lakes whenever she got loose and at four and five years old she wasn't the strongest swimmer.

They were looking all around for Josie in every hiding spot they could think of--they checked by the lake, behind the fence, by the dumpsters, in the bushes, and everywhere a little girl would think of hiding.

Meanwhile, back at Highwood, I was hanging out with my friends after school when I had the feeling that I needed to get home right away. So I left, and didn't dawdle on my way home. In fact, I hurried, although I didn't know why.

When I reached home, however, the answer was staring me in the face; my terrified little sister was sitting, sobbing, on the front steps.

"Hey, JoBo!" I said cheerfully, before I noticed she was crying, "Oh, no! What's wrong?"

"Mom took me to play at Dana's house but Dana said she couldn't play and told me to run home so I did and I've just been sitting here all alone and I'm scared and I prayed to feel safe but I don't!" she blubbered through her tears and ran into my arms.

I let her inside the house and we phoned my mom at work to tell her that I was home and that Josie was with me. My mom told me that I should go find Sister Little and Patrick, who were probably still desperately searching for Josie--my mom had recieved a phone call from a desperate, pleading Patrick.

"I lost Josie, but it's not my fault!"

We got it all straightened out in the end. Josie and I found Patrick, Tyler, and Sister Little still dilegently searching for. Patrick and Tyler went off to play. Josie ended up playing with Dana. And I went home to do homework, because I'm a nerd like that.

A lot of prayers were answered that day. Those of Patrick, Tyler, and Sister Little while they searched so carefully for her. Those of my mother, stuck at work worrying about her baby girl. And those of Josie, feeling so scared and alone.

I hope that Josie understands now that Heavenly Father listened to her prayers. He didn't want her to feel afraid anymore so, even though he didn't send down concourses of angels, he sent me to comfort her.

I have spoken here of heavenly help, of angels dispatched to bless us in time of need. But when we speak of those who are instruments in the hand of God, we are reminded that not all angels are from the other side of the veil. Some of them we walk with and talk with—here, now, every day. Some of them reside in our own neighborhoods....Indeed heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind.

-Elder Jeffrey R. Holland

I am so very grateful that I was living my life in a way that allowed me to recieve promptings from the Holy Ghost. I bear testimony that the power of prayer is real; Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers. I have had so many of my own prayers answered, more often than not by ordinary people acting as instruments in the hand of God. I have felt the calming influence of the Holy Ghost in my life. I hope that we can all live our lives angelically.

Poppy Pins

My cousin Eric posted on his photography blog about Remembrance Day, which got me thinking about Canadian traditions surrounding the day. My friend Bethany asked about poppy pins, so I think this will be the perfect way to answer her question and share some of the traditions I grew up with.

Poppies are sold by the Canadian Legion every year around Remembrance Day. To my understanding it's more of a donation-based program. When I was little it was only a quarter to get one at school but now I think it's more like a dollar.

In elementary school everyone brings their quarter (or dollar) to school and gives it to their teacher. Their teacher then goes out and gets the poppies. Or members of the Legion bring them to the school. Either way, school children magically end up with a poppy to put on a few minutes before gathering in the school gym for the Remembrance Day assembly.

Why only a few minute before the program you're asking. The answer is simple:


The poppies are on a straight pin. Who in their right mind would want a class of 20 to 30 grade school children to be armed with straight pins the whole day?

As much as our teachers encouraged us to act respectful the whole day long, we were prone to goofing off more than occasionally. Canadian children are normal children, after all, and we came up with several ways to use the poppies that were not part of the original intended use. Besides the poke factor, we'd fold the poppies in half and stick them in our mouths, pretending they were our lips, among other nonsensical things.


The month of November, however, always focused on Remembrance Day and eventually we grew to hold the same respect for the day that the older kids had. We began to understand the seriousness of the holiday and stopped wearing our poppies disrespectfully.

The poppy became the symbol for Remembrance Day way back in in 1921 due, in large part, to Flanders Field, and a poem written about the blood red flowers by Lt.-Col. John McCrae. Off the top of my head, I can't think of one Canadian who cannot recite this poem by heart.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Every year each school and community plans large-scale commemorations for both world wars, and other subsequent wars. The school and community events are typically separate because Remembrance Day is a government holiday in Canada, so there isn't any school on actual Remembrance Day.

I'm not kidding when I say huge productions, either. There are plays, choir numbers, speeches by veterans, a bugle call, and, always, a minute of silence.

For me, these events were highly impactful, culminating all the study we'd done in our classrooms. Learning about the wars and the people behind them, and then listening to real people describe their experiences of the war was always so amazing and so surreal.

We were taught to have grave respect for soldiers, veterans, and the victims of war no matter which side they were on. I must say I have to agree with Eric when he says that is lacking in America--we are much more formal with our celebrations in Canada and Europe than in America. Thanksgiving Day is wonderful and I that opportunity to be thankful, but I also really enjoy Remembrance Day. I think it is very appropriate that Rachel and I made a poppy for our thankful tree because we are very thankful for the soldiers who give their life on behalf of our freedom. Maybe one day I will be able to attend another real Canadian Remembrance Day. Until then I will continue to wear my poppy each year out of respect for those who lie in Flanders Field.

Remembrance Day Ramblings

Remembrance Day was on November 11, as always. Rachel and I made a little poppy out of scrap paper, wrote 'soldiers' on it, and put it on our Thankful Tree. I forgot that I brought poppy pins with me; I found them today when Rachel and I went to do our hair. I've worn a poppy every year since I can remember and this year I forgot.

Luckily, I don't need a poppy to remember.

We went to the CSA Library and got some books about monkeys for Rachel and A Thread of Grace for me.

As gruesome as the Holocaust was, it's always been intriguing for me. I actually like the whole wartime scene. I love the Andrew's Sisters. They're one of my favorite music groups. I love literature about the era. I love the music and the clothing and just about everything.

Except the war.

It would have been a great era without that big smear!

History can't change though, so I embrace the war as well. I love to read stories of struggle and survival. I don't know if this book ends with survival yet or not. I'm not that far. But so far I am liking it.

I find it interesting to be reading about the race laws--somehow Hitler convinced a large chunk of the world that Jews were a separate and undesirable race. Neighbours turned against neighbours, friends against friends. All because someone said they were superior. All because someone said they were inferior.

As I've mentioned before, we have ancestors on both sides of the conflict. Technically just Andrew does; my ancestors were Swiss--famous for their neutrality--which is probably why I am as indecisive as I am today. Thank you genetics!

The war was long and awful. The Holocaust was a nightmare. My Grandma Conrad's brother Leo fought in the war. I believe he helped open a concentration camp towards the end. He rarely talked about his experience and turned away from God; he didn't understand how God could let this happen. Several years ago he was flown to Austria, I believe, to participate in a Remembrance Day of sorts over there. He did not enjoy himself. He was too flooded with horrible memories to be able to enjoy himself or trust God.

He was fun enough, though. He came to visit us once after my family had moved to Utah. He kept making me do things for him saying he was too "old and decrepitated" to do them himself. I really wanted to interview him about his experiences in the war, but as I said he didn't like to talk about them.

He died the next year and that opportunity was gone forever. It would be interesting to know more about the role he played.

Sometimes I have terrible nightmares. If Uncle Leo dreams anything similar to how I dream, it is no small wonder he didn't like to talk about his experiences.

I've never experienced war firsthand, but a few years ago I had a terrible nightmare, involving monkeys. It was a horrible dream. Some strange sect had taken over the government and were conducting raids and killing people at random. They all had monkey hats on their heads.

(My little brother is afraid of monkeys. If this is the same dream he had, I totally understand how that could be.)

My whole family was hiding in the bathroom by the laundry room in my parent's house. More precisely we were all hiding in the shower--it's a pretty big shower but I still don't know how we all fit inside.

We could hear people yelling and screaming and running in the street, but we couldn't see what was going on because the only window in the bathroom faced the backyard and not the street. I was sent out to see what was going on. I crept out to the living room and peeked outside.

The riots in the street were terrifying. Men I didn't recognize were swarming all around, holding up bloody hatchets, knives, and swords. One blood-covered sword was hoisted high in the air. On the tip was a little stuffed monkey, completely gutted through by the sword, dancing above the angry mob, looking very out of place and not the least bit comforting.

It was the same monkey that my little brother had always been so terrified of...and which mysteriously went "missing," probably so that we, the older kids, would quit taunting him with it.

I don't remember at what point I woke up, but I still remember how petrified I was when I did.

Earlier this year, Andrew suggested we watch Hotel Rwanda, which was an amazing movie but scared the living daylights out of me. I was so shocked to see, in the movie, a teddy bear dancing on the blood-drenched sword of a young man. Truthfully the movie terrified me, but it also spoke to me, and, as I did with the Holocaust in years past, I got a little obsessed.

I will admit that I still have scenes from the movie pop into my head, especially with all the road blocks here, and the military police lolling off to sleep, resting their foreheads on their rifles. I feel as nervous as Annemarie and Ellen from Number the Stars when I walk past them, when really I know that the likelihood of that happening here isn't very big. Even though that is happening now in both the Congo and Sudan doesn't mean it will happen here, right? Right? RIGHT? I tell myself I am right so that I don't sprint past the guards. Besides they like to wave at Rachel.

Soon after watching the movie I devoured Rusesabagina's autobiography, the details of which chilled me to the bone.

I still don't understand how people can hate so passionately, so blindly, so hungrily.

There isn't much I, as one person, can do to stop the wars. But I believe that I don't have to fuel the hate. I don't have to hate.

Jews are equally human as Christians. Muslims are equally human as Jews.

It was wrong for Hitler's Nazis to target Jews, to paint them as an inferior "race." It is just as wrong for Israel to maltreat the Palestinians living throughout the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. It is just as wrong for America to call Muslims and Arabs terrorists.

It was wrong to divide the Rwandan people into the "races" of Tutsi and Hutu. It was wrong to place one "race" above another.

I think it is interesting that we have so many sayings pleading us to "remember."

Each year I celebrate Remembrance Day, honoring the soldier who fought for my freedom, and the freedom of others. But I, myself, hold no memories of WWII. They are all just stories, and I think they need to be told, but I think we need to spend a little more time focusing on recent events as well.

We remember so that we don't let it happen again. And yet we are letting it happen again. We let it happen again over and over.

Rwanda's genocide is being repeated in the Congo--the same "racial" conflict between the Hutus and Tutsis. It makes me sad when I read about it in the news because Rusesabagina's story gave me so much hope. There is so little I can do. How can I make the world respond? How should the world respond? Do people that angry stop for anything?

I see so many people angry at Muslims and Arabs and that also makes me sad. I feel that hate is propagating in America as I speak. So many people are afraid of Arabs and Muslims, thinking they are all terrorists and want to destroy America. And that just isn't true, but it sure does make it easier on our conscience to think that when we bomb them.

And I think it's ironic that Jane Goodall mentioned in one of Rachel's monkey books, that "these amazing creatures [chimpanzees]...are so nearly human" when the human race has trouble enough accepting its own as human.

I like Remembrance Day--I enjoy celebrating my freedom and honoring the brave solidiers who fought for it--but it makes me sad to remember all the wars and hatred alive in the world today.

And that's what I thought in my minute of silence at 11:00 AM on November 11th. Lest we forget, lest we forget.