Dinner Conversation

Dad, what does sexy mean?

Visually stimulating in such a way as to elicit a positive visceral physical response.

Mom, what does sexy mean?

New Normal

Family dynamics have been, um, quirky since my return from Pakistan.  A work colleague the other day invited me to bear in mind that it takes two months to recover from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.  It had not even occurred to me to consider my family's psychology in that light.  But it is probably at least a little bit accurate, not so much for me but for the kids.

Last week I was doing something on the computer and Henry approached me and quite unprompted said, "Dad, I hated you when you were in Pakistan but now I don't hate you anymore."

And they have all had their moments (weeks) of regressive behavior.  Add in moving to Egypt and not having any of our stuff (our fingers our crossed for delivery this week....please) and it's a stressful time.

But I think things are calming down.  For the first several days here, Henry would exclaim in genuine surprise, "Daddy, you came back!" when I returned from work.  "I always come back, buddy."

Yesterday, he made no such declaration.  Still an enthusiastic hug, for which I was grateful, but no surprise at my return, for which I was also grateful.

I think this helped the adjustment:

Who could resist a bouncy house birthday?

The Situation in Maadi

This was the first week we were able to arrive at church without spending 15 minutes lost with a non-English-speaking taxi driver.  So progress there.  We have now mastered three words in Arabic: shemel (left), yameen (right), and alatool (straight).  Add a few numbers and we're all set.

We went to Luciano's this morning for family haircuts.  Quintessential Egypt.  We stepped off the sand-filled littered street and descended broken stone steps to a beautiful wooden door lined with gold.  Inside, a barber shop straight from The Country Club.  It was visually luxurious, all dark wood and gold with black leather seats.

The barbers, all toothless, wore handsome red jackets and there was, what to call him, an apprentice, I guess, who wore a yellow jacket and moved about brushing hair from noses, fetching scissors, holding mirrors, etc.

They were great with the kids, both in handling their weird fear of haircuts, and with the actual hair cuts.  They look great.  With me, they made the classic blunder.  I do not have normal hair.  Thinning shears must not touch my hair or I will look ridiculous for a month until everything can grow back.  Before I warned and before I noticed, my do was thinned.  It will now require a pint of tar every day to prevent my hair from standing straight up.

Then we headed to the "shopping district" to explore.  It was 100+ degrees.  We didn't really know where we were going and somehow we had not paid attention to the footwear the kids had shod before departure.  They were all in flip flops as we trekked the rolling hills of garbage and broken glass that are the sidewalks of Maadi.  Fail.

Before the day was over, however, we located a movie theatre and thoroughly enjoyed Madagascar 3. Alex and Marty redeemed the day.  You might say it was crack-a-lackin.

Pyramids and Other Pics

Cairo Time

The house is big, at least by the standards of the places we have lived so far: five bedrooms, four bathrooms.  Our stuff hasn't arrived yet so we are living with the so-called "welcome kit" which is much better than nothing but somewhat incomplete.  Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, three pillows and two towels.

Maadi is south of Cairo and has trees.  It also has rabid dogs.  Sometimes city officials deal with the dogs by placing strychnine-laced meat in the streets.

We have a few cockroach friends.  Well, you know, the kind of friends you swat with a shoe.  (Friends?  Friends slow down.  Friends stop. [Just move on if you didn't catch that]).  Unrinsed dishes left in the sink overnight will bring ant friends.  These are not ants I am familiar with from the United States.  These are pyramid ants.  And they're mad.  I can't really defend the statement that they are mad, I just assume that being big, and an ant, and in my kitchen sink means you're mad.

We hired help.  Freed from cooking and cleaning obligations, adjusting to overseas life is a breeze.  Also, while we're waiting for our car to arrive, we've hired essentially a chauffeur service to drive us everywhere, which feels kind of better than having a car to me but I think it is driving Katie a little bonkers.

The kids go off to the Maadi House to swim most days.  This club for diplomats (I get lumped in with this group even though I hardly consider myself diplomatic) has a nice pool, tennis courts, super cheesy pizza, and a giant bouncy house slide thing.  Unfortunately, they just started summer camps there.  Our kids are not in the camp and thus cannot enter until camp is over.  Next week, the kids start their camp at Cairo American College, so take that Maadi House. 

The Journey

The brilliant travel agent gave us 33 minutes to get off the plane in Salt Lake with three kids, four carry on bags, five backpacks and three pillow pets and transfer to the flight to Paris. So we were trying to go double time. We made it and all the kids did their share pretty well.

The first real glitch of the trip was the revelation once on board the international flight that there were no TV screens. I especially enjoyed Katie's exchange with a stewardess:

There are no TVs?

No, ma'am.

Seriously?

Um, yes ma'am. Seriously.

For a twelve hour flight with three kids, you're telling me there are no TV screens?

Um, yes ma'am.

Anyway, I've never been so grateful for the legacy of Steve Jobs. IPods to the rescue. And Benadryl may have been involved somewhere along the way.

Then we arrived in Paris. Turns out it's charming. Who knew?

We just walked around a little and did double decker bus tour from Notre Dame through Champs Élysées and then past the Invalides. Maddie and Caleb mostly enjoyed pretending they were launching missiles from the top of the bus.

Then we slept for a long time and went to the airport.

The Same Sociality

I am home.  Much is different but most of the material things are the same.  Katie and I are still in love and we still bicker over everything.

I never thought this would be true before getting married, but my perfect marriage includes abundant arguing and I love it.

After expressing some emotional pain too personal and sacred to share here, the kids seem to be more or less adjusted to my return and recovered from my absence.  Four days in, Caleb concluded: "It's like dad never left."  Perfect.

The Help

It did not take me long to ascertain that there are quite a few folks in Pakistan looking for work.  That's what they call "situational awareness."

So that keen insight met up with a sort of double indemnity moral obligation that I feel quite deeply every day:  First, it is by the grace of God that I have anything at all; second, it is by the hard work of U.S. taxpayers that I have a job.

Thus I found myself praying for God's will regarding how I might serve a community that is nearly impossible for me to interact with in a normal way.  It was strange to me that what I felt in response was to hire help.

I'm an Idaho boy.  I wasn't raised on a farm or anything but still, growing up in Idaho unavoidably brings certain guilts, such as the shame of not being able to cook one's own food and wash one's own laundry.  Second, it seemed selfish, not unselfish to hire household staff (especially with Katie suffering as a single mom).  Right?

But it was what I felt.  Sure I can do my own laundry (at which point Katie rolls her eyes and thinks, Prove it!).  But there are a lot of street beggars in Islamabad; a lot of homeless folks; a lot of people looking for work.  And then I had a new and strange insight about the morality of being frugal and the economics of so-called self-reliance.  Cheap is the greedy version of thrifty.

"They did not set their hearts upon riches; therefore they were liberal to all (Alma 1:30)."  I had previously been inclined to perceive the hiring of household staff as having one's heart set upon riches.  Now I see that it is quite the opposite.  If my heart is set upon riches, I will not be liberal to all but will retain my riches and perform these tasks myself, selfishly.  My heart is not set upon riches and therefore, within the bounds of prudence, I should liberally purchase the goods and services of all.

I hired the president of the local LDS branch and his wife as housekeeper and cook.  At first it was a cultural adventure.  I gave instructions that I thought were super specific only to learn that mopping is not intuitive to someone with a dirt floor.  And it was a little weird the first morning when they brought me a bowl of Cheerios with warm milk.

In due time they figured out the cultural quirks of persnickety Americans.  I found them others to work for in the diplomatic community to increase their income and enable continuity of work upon my departure.  I coached them in dealing with their other bosses.  And we became friends.

They have suffered much.  I cannot tell their stories here for they are not mine to tell.  My life is easy.  In their eyes, I am wealthy beyond measure.  Yet I allow myself to feel poor.  How foolish of me.

No Justice for My Favorite Author

Orson Scott Card is my favorite author.  Ender's Game is my favorite book.  So it was wicked awesome when I found out the movie version will be released in 2013 (Harrison Ford, Hailee Steinfeld, Ben Kingsley).  I have never been so geeked out in my life.

Then I saw a release date for a movie entitled The Seventh Son, which is the title (minus the "the") of my second favorite book, also by Mr. Card.  Could it be?  I read the plot summary for the movie.  It is the general idea of the book by Mr. Card.  But then it said, based on the novel by Joseph Delaney.

So I looked up this Delaney loser.  And indeed he is a book idea thief.  I know all writing is derivative, but come on, same title, same plot outline.  How can this be legal?  And how could he get the movie deal before Prentice Alvin?  I call foul, to all five of you reading my blog: Foul!

Yesterday at Our (Former) House

The van that will carry our stuff to Cairo?

His Father's Son

My mother has often lamented that there are no straight-faced photos of me until about age 25.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.