One week home (Merry Christmas)

First, Merry Christmas.

But before I get to all the Christmas morning photos, videos, and gift summaries, a little recap of my week home.

It is a psychologically messed up thing to come home after so long away. For one thing, I was the only one on vacation for the first five days. Katie was working and the kids were in school, so I was mostly in the way.

Which gets sort of to the heart of the funny psychology going on. Everyone is happy I'm home, but everyone has defense mechanisms and rhythms to deal with my absence. Upon becoming not absent, I mess up those mechanisms and rhythms, everyone becomes confused and frustrated, sort of wishes I weren't here, feels guilty for having such feelings, and everything just gets, well, weird.

Not to mention I have become quite accustomed to not having anyone ask where I'm going or what I'm doing. So this sudden barrage of inquiries is disorienting.

Katie, for her part, especially enjoys the parenting and house keeping tips I have picked up by not doing any parenting or house keeping for eight months. She says something like, "Wow, thanks. I never thought of that." Then she hands me a diaper and wipes and goes in the bedroom (which is now hers, not ours) for an hour. Kind of a mixed signal if you ask me. Is she really thanking me for my wonderful insights about her parenting?

I can't read minds you know.

Home Early (Katie's Mixed Bag)

I was scheduled to come home on Tuesday. When I Skyped Katie Friday night at 8:30 p.m. (Islamabad time), I was greeted with, "Why aren't you coming home tomorrow?"

I'm sure I had some reason for scheduling my travels as I did, but suddenly I couldn't remember them and it seemed silly to wait all weekend just to leave Monday night. So I went to work. I had two hours to get the ticket changed and pack. Flurry.

How I got the ticket changed is quite an adventure but I will make the long story short: I got on the flight and am currently in Arlington, VA.

Good decision. It is great to be home. The look on the kids' faces when they saw me at the airport was magical. But then I told Katie that I was not too tired for her to go shopping by herself last night. I really have no recollection but apparently I slipped into a coma shortly after her departure and she returned to find her husband asleep on the floor and three guilty-eyed children sitting around a table covered with every sugared food in the house.

Sorry, Katie.

A Victory Worth Waiting For

Couples only fight about the really important stuff, like the appropriate color of Christmas lights.

Katie holds the clearly wrong, bah humbug, boring, 1984 view that Christmas lights should be all-white. What? A string of white Christmas lights? That's not Christmas. That's the illuminated path to the airplane's red lights which indicate the exit, which indicates that you're about to die as the aircraft disintegrates into the ocean. So of course, for the last eight years, I have thought only of death when I have seen our white Christmas lights. Not the Christmas message I was hoping for.

But I'm a choose-your-battles kind of guy. I let Katie have that victory so I could fight and lose the other battles.

Every parent knows that marital spats are best fought by proxy through the children. And Caleb is a mighty weapon, striking blows of irresistible charm.

"Mom, when are we going to get real Christmas lights? Real Christmas lights have colors."

I always said I would never have a favorite. Forget that. He has given me my first win. Caleb the Conqueror.

Not a Competitive Bone in His Body

 

Observe Caleb the Barbarian near the end of the clip

Caught on Video

Caleb does the robot:

Caleb-In-The-Box

On Skype:

Henry: Look! Spiderman! (Sound effects and saliva)
Dad: Wow, buddy that's awesome.
(Caleb's head pops up from below.)
Caleb: Hey, dad.
Dad: Hey, buddy. I didn't know you were there.
Caleb: I know.
(Caleb's head disappears. Enter Maddie.)
Maddie: Dad, when are you coming home?
Henry: Dad never coming home.
Dad: No, I'm coming home in 20 days.
Henry: 20 days is never.
(Caleb's head pops up from below.)
Caleb: Hey, dad.
(Caleb's head disappears.)
Maddie: Dad, can we play games when you come home?
Henry: No. Dad is wrestle me when he home.
Dad: Yes, we'll play games and wrestle. Whatever you guys want.
(Caleb's head pops up)
Caleb: Hey, dad.
(Head disappears)

The Madeline Dossier

Last I heard, Maddie wants to be a teacher. I say she was born for the fashion industry:

Heart Breaker and Heart Throb

Katie says Maddie's reading has exploded. This is good. For me, that didn't happen until I was 25, so she has an 18-year advantage on me, and I turned out all right.

Madeline has discovered self-consciousness. When we Skype, she looks at her image, not mine (of course, so do the boys, but they do it to make silly faces), and poses and brushes her hair. She wears lip gloss but not yet full make up, though I suspect it's coming. She has requested to have her ears pierced. Katie opposes. I support.

"It'll make her that much older," Katie explains.

True. Though that will happen regardless (per the above photo, I'd say it has already happened). My zen parenting philosophy is that the right time to address this or that right of passage or essential conversation, is whenever they ask about it. I suppose there are some obvious limits to this, but when they ask about where babies come from, regardless of their age, that means it's time to talk about where babies come from. And when Maddie requests to have her ears pierced, that means, by virtue of her asking, that she's old enough to have her ears pierced.

The 4Runner Update

I really wanted a decked out 4Runner. Egypt has very high import tariffs on automobiles. Diplomats can import new cars tax free. We cannot sell them for more than the original purchase price, per U.S. policy, but because it is so expensive to buy imported cars, I am told that selling them for exactly purchase price after four years is quite common.

So I was all set to get the fully loaded 4Runner, finance it over six years, and then sell it like it was brand new. I have been dissuaded (sigh). Too much risk of policy change on the Egyptian side. Also, I am told, too much risk of having the car totaled in the wild driving. No four-digging in the desert for me.

Just Found Perfect Christmas Gifts For Kids

Doggie Doo. You feed it, squeeze the leash, and it poops. So simple. So funny. This will entertain kids and dads for hours.

Ant Farm Revolution. I have three words: Hyp. No. Tized.

What to Buy for Your Hubbie (I Believe in Shopping)

I have decided that I believe in shopping, as a core value. You know, honesty, hard work, learning... and shopping.

No really. Though it is important that I also believe in thrift and industry. And it is important that I say "shopping" instead of "consuming." I believe that having a "shopping" mindset about choosing a college (or whether to go to college at all), choosing a major, choosing an employer, choosing a spouse, is a moral good. When you are shopping, you are seeking value and quality. You want to know how it fits, how long it will last. You are skeptical of the sales person's unproven claims, until proof is provided.

I believe in shopping.

That said, for wives reading my blog, here's a Christmas shopping list for men:

The Compulsaries

1. Brooks Brothers Non-Iron shirt (if its not Brooks Brothers, it's a dish rag)
2. REI smart wool socks (for dress and casual, comfort rules)
3. Tie (don't buy a tie)
4. A casual watch (Timex--cheap, but good)

It's a Guy Thing

1. Big belt buckle (Ladies, you have to suck it up on this one. Sometimes guys just need a big belt buckle with a duck on it. We think it's awesome. You don't. Deal with it.)

A Little Luxury

1. Money clip (The giant butt-bulge wallet A) looks ridiculous and B) is filled with things he will never actually use or need again, he's just a crazy wallet pack-rat)

The Full Blown Luxuries

1. Mont Blanc pen (Men on the move feel cool when they sign things with a classy pen. Silly but true.)
2. A not-so-casual watch (Bond. James Bond.)

For The Traveler

1. Fragrance pellets (Keep the locker room out of the luggage)

Where are you, Christmas?

Where are you Christmas? Why can't I find you?

There are no Christmas lights in Islamabad. No fragrant evergreens. No mistletoe. Not a wreath nor an ornament.

I shop the markets--drab, broken cement on the outside, ornate spectacles on the inside. Shopkeepers serve tea as they rehearse the benefits of wool from this part of the goat's neck and that part of Uzbekistan. I crease carpet after carpet to inspect knot counts.

I lean in close, evaluating claims of natural dyes and seeking design asymmetries that will convey authenticity. Instead, I see Katie and kids. The quest for quality, I discover, is the essence of love. 

How can I know, dear shopkeeper, for myself, whether your claims are accurate? No. This won't do. I'm looking for Christmas. Next shop please.

My world is changing. I'm rearranging. Does that mean Christmas changes too?

I have touched a hundred pashmina scarves by now. Two-ply. Four-ply. I ask about their supply chain. I ask about their design. But I don't know. What is real? What will last? Which one is worth the price?

I know what looks good. I know what feels good. Alas, I have been deceived by those impostors many times. I want to follow it from it's source. Let me see the goat, watch it sheered. Let me observe the loom, the weaving, the extracting of dye from pomegranate and saffron. Then I will know.

But, says the shopkeeper, you would still have to trust us that we have the best goats.

Where are you Christmas? Do you remember the one you used to know?

I hold a scarf to my face to feel the texture. Something about it reminds me. Almost, I feel Christmas. Almost, I am eight years old, sitting under a blanket early in the morning staring at the lights on the Christmas tree. I squint and blur them into eternity. It seemed Christmas would never come. Yet it also seemed it would never end. 25 days until I see my children. Once again, I am waiting for Santa.

At length, I make purchases. A leather bag. A scarf. Carved jewelry box. I still don't know. I won't know until I have experience. I inspected. I probed. But I still didn't know. I won't know until I live with these products for a season. The purchase is the final research. The leap of faith.

Christmas is here, everywhere. Christmas is here, if you care.

Black Friday, Islamabad

Texture matters

Crease to inspect knot count

Custom-made genuine leather carryall: $70

High-end pashmina

Inspecting the tailor's fabric

My Pakistani Thanksgiving

Giving Thanks

U.S. Taxpayers, thank you for my job. Here's what I'm doing with it: link

See the Nov. 23 report.

Powam, by Madeline Hart (age 7)

I will show my self wher I want to be
and then I will know what to do in my life
to see the world and peac of love
I will stand throu the life of me

She wrote this a few months ago, unprompted, uncoached. I love it.

A Dad and His Finances

I used to be real tight wad (Katie rolls her eyes). My answer to all economic questions was "spend less."

Katie's "earn more" response was foreign and at first struck me as born of questionable morality. So I set about spending less. Less and less and less. Ever less. This made it ever more difficult to earn more. I didn't understand investment. I didn't understand value. I didn't understand abundance.

Katie and I collided magnificently. We were like The Bonfire of the Vanities version of "Tastes great!" "Less Filling!" I demanded less spending. She demanded more earning.

Eventually I came around to her side (Katie rolls her eyes). In some respects, I saw her "earn more" and raised it a "spend more."

My children profoundly changed my spending philosophy. I started thinking things like, We don't get a mulligan on first grade. (Katie says, "You just started thinking that, or did someone explain it to you?") And immediately my sense of an appropriate housing expense tripled.

At times we have been faced with such trade offs as: dance lessons or retirement savings? To my surprise, the decision was easy. I can work until I'm 80 if that's what it takes to get these kids to their potential and to have experiences with them.

I recognize that the slope is slippery. But at the same time, I just keep thinking about the meaning of "rich." I don't want to be rich so much as I want to live richly. Money is just a worthless piece of paper unless you buy something with it. Unless you spend it, money will not help you live richly. Money must be exchanged for value. Value is the thing, not money.

So I believe not only in earning more but in spending more. How's that for moral depravity?

But you must spend on the right things. Buy value. Beware diminishing returns. Invest heavily in human capital first. Despise waste.

I will admit that for me the line between ambition and greed, investment and indulgence, is often blurry. My earlier answer to this dilemma was to shun ambition so as to never be faced with such moral ambiguities. Alas, this is its own form of immorality.

I want nothing like I want my children to be happy and productive. This desire has made clear that there is no moral triumph on the sideline.

For me, there is this strange truth: My children need me to make myself successful. How shall they know the way, lest I should show them?

Hairy Men Used To Be Cool

Now I'm supposed to wax my chest? My commitment to fashion goes only so far. I'm bringing back the Chuck Norris Lone Wolf McQuade look.

That does force me to reconsider my Chuck Norris/Katie analogy. My psyche can't handle it. Nope. That's a bad analogy.

If Selene from Underworld gave up killing Lycans in favor of raising three kids, she'd try to be like Katie.

That's better. She is almost as pretty as my wife.

Christmas Agenda

Yes, it's that time. Besides, I've been planning it for months.

When I get off the plane we are racing directly to Maddie's dance recital. Then to purchase a tree. Then I'm going to eat a lot of Trader Joe's pumpkin ice cream. Seriously, get some.

Pumpkin is sort of the perfect food. Take anything, add pumpkin, and you'll have something delicious.

Decorate the tree day two. Ginger bread house (we buy the kit--did you think I was going to make ginger bread?), baking and delivering "crinkle cookies" day three.

Christmas to New Year's is filled with ice skating, Christmas light hunting, and Egypt preparations.

Yesterday, I informed Caleb and Henry that I called Santa's "Moms and Dads Only" hotline. I spoke with the Head Elf and, so far, all systems are go for everything they requested. They are confirmed on the Nice List. This elicited leaping, and then a request to reprise our "Juice Box Hero" jam session.

Obliged.

Easy For Me To Say

You may recall a few blogs ago when I got kind of "Good Morning America" about my kids hanging on every word of my letters. I may even have used the phrase "like a treasure."

It may be that Katie is just very generous in reporting the facts on the ground. I'm like CENTCOM and she is Delta Force. Katie is the mom version of Chuck Norris (the cool 1980s pre-Mike Huckabee version), but with Meryl Streep's looks (again, the 1980s version). I know Meryl Streep is not always considered a sex symbol, but a) Katie really looks like her, and b) go watch some old Streep films; she's hotter than you remember. And the CENTCOM analogy implies that I'm in charge of something while clearly I'm not, OK, so just calm down and stop reading so much into this, other than that Katie is busting out the parenting equivalent of roundhouse kicks to face while I watch from a distance.

Anyway, I may start including more drawings and photos in my letters so as to move toward a reality in which "like a treasure" is a remotely plausible phrase.

Pakistan Saved My Life

I have written, complained, waxed about the loneliness. Strangely, I have grown accustomed to that, just like everyone said I would. I was afraid to get used to being away, but it happened.

Part of getting used to it was exercising to relieve the stress. My resting heart rate when I arrived in Pakistan was 84. It is now 64 (give or take a few palpitations). I have saved my heart 10 million beats a year. This has to have extended my life expectancy.

On a spiritual level, I have internalized what I have long claimed to know: that my primary opportunity for joy comes from my role as husband and father. All this other stuff--the SUV, the Allen Edmund shoes, iPads, professional achievement--is cool and worthwhile, but only as a derivative of building relationships that facilitate growth, teach values, yield charity.

With 10 million beats, perhaps I am adding more time with my family on the back end than I am losing in the present. More time to continue teaching and building. Alas, the time is as a dream.

A former boss often commented on the "apparent acceleration of time." The future is racing toward me. My Nike Vomero's and I are taking it head on. Running to live long. Running to live well.

The Wisdom of ZZ Top

I wore my new suit today. Sorry, Katie, but every girl is crazy about a sharp dressed man. As are most of the men, by the way, though differently. Either they admire you, in which case you have a new friend. Or you intimidate them, in which case you have someone you can manipulate. Either way, you win.

Seriously, though, I carry myself differently. I believe, though like "jobs created or saved" I have no actual evidence, that had I this suit when I interviewed for the private equity gig, we'd be living in Manhattan right now. Not so much because they would have been impressed by the suit, but because I would have behaved like a man wearing a killer suit. Nothing can intimidate me in this suit. Fashion matters.

Which then got me thinking about that strange line between investment and indulgence. At $600 I was unwilling to buy the suit, perhaps at the expense of job offers (though perhaps not). At $185 I was happy to buy the suit. But $415 more for 5x income for the rest of my life is probably a good investment.

(On the other hand, I am incredibly happy with my life right now, despite present loneliness, so I no longer look on any past setback as a disappointment. Would I be this happy without those setbacks? Maybe, but I'm glad I don't have to find out.)

I'm just saying, conceptually, spending on some luxuries can be a good investment in human or material capital. But where is the line across which it becomes irresponsible opulence? After all, there are still those $400 Allen Edmond shoes pressing relentlessly upon my brain's gratification center.

Tiny Dancer and the Superman Squares

Just completed Sunday evening/morning Skype with the kids. We did a Skype dance party.

Madeline switched from ballet to jazz dance this year and it shows. Her spontaneous choreography is joyful.

We used to swing dance to Billy Joel before bedtime. As I watched my tiny dancer, I felt like the banished villains in the first Superman, trapped in those glass squares. I am aware, but not fully human since I cannot touch, hug, smell.

Then we rocked out to "Juice Box Hero," as they call it. That was the only thing to finally get Caleb to put down the iPad. Who can resist air guitar?

Joy.

Sunday in Pakistan

I hiked the Margala Hills yesterday with Angel, proven herewith:

 Supposedly Islamabad is in the distance below, but it's still garbage burning season, so there is a bit of a haze.

Hit the office for a few hours. Abused the treadmill for 6k (personal best 25:45, by the way). Then came home and watched blog visitors accumulate.

Now that I'm public and learning how to use all the gadgets, I'm feeling very competitive about my blog. I want to have lots of readers. So the movie review was down about 33% against the new suit entry. That may say something about the topic or the day of the week.

Give me some comments on what, since I can't really write about my kids as I would prefer, would be interesting. I can give details of Islamabad but I don't really want to go too much into things I know specifically because of my job rather than just by virtue of being here and reading some books and stuff.

I don't work with anything classified, I just feel weird about it.

Sundays are typically low-key. Church in the morning; two hours instead of three (Mormon readers will appreciate, and be jealous). Singing hymns with five guys around a coffee table is an adventure in tonal mathematics.

Then I busted out some religious writing and a letter to Katie before watching lousy television. I get the middle-of-the-night stuff during the day. Justice with Jeanine. Really? Am I watching this? I suppose I am.

A Movie For the Weekend

I was reading through my old blog posts. My kids are funny. Unfortunately, I don't hang out with them lately, so I just have to blog about the ADD-riddled synapses of my lonely brain.

I read a book review (here) that says my brain only becomes a mind when it interacts with other brains. So, separated from my family, I have literally lost my mind. Or at least the most important part.

My reference to Ryan Gosling got me to thinking I would recommend a movie for the weekend: Crazy, Stupid, Love. It is kind of like a modern, funny, male response to The Feminine Mystique mixed with Three's Company.

The Baby Boom/Gen X tweener male, Cal (Steve Carell), became nice at the expense of assertive. The Gen Y male, Jacob (Ryan Gosling), reminds Mr Carell that everyone is happier when men act manly, which includes sharp dressing. Clearly I was inspired by the line, "Be better than the Gap." Thus, two new slim fitting, European-ish suits.

The film also includes a great homage to Dirty Dancing, so there you go.

I Feel Like Ryan Gosling in Crazy, Stupid, Love

I picked up my two new suits today. I love them. Well tailored clothing makes me feel like a better man. But they weren't kidding about slim fit. Sorry, I'm not going to publish the photo of my butt.

OK, the hair needs some work. One fashion hurdle at a time. Of course, that's the thing with style, it's an addiction that feeds on itself. That's why, just when you thought it was like any other herring-bone gray suit, I pop open the lapel to reveal:

Pow! The inside of my suit is a bright purple eyeball extravaganza. All this for $185 bucks. Pakistan is not all bad. I also got dark blue (some might say navy, but they'd be wrong, as it is not that dark). It has a similarly psychedelic lining.

Of course, the addiction refuses to be satisfied. After all, with such suits, one sort of needs something like this:

McAllister by Allen Edmonds