Post Exam Torrential

Man!  I was really hoping the content of my post-exam blog would be different than what I've put to the screen. But it isn't. Actually, I can't tell if I am more disappointed with that or the fact that I didn't get the grade I wanted! The good news is, I didn't fail because I didn't need to take the exam in the first place and I still received a score indicating my ability to understand a foreign language. Nevertheless, I wanted to brag about how "I Want To Break Free" was blasting overhead as I exited the building with notes and articles blazing behind my path. I even fantasized about my pithy FB post with tons of congratulatory comments. Instead, I simply left the FSI premises in a mess of tears and shock, completely avoiding FB-land. Now I have "Let It Go" as my go-to song. I might start carrying a boom box around just to play it.

The exam was tough and hats off to those diplomats who subject themselves to the game every few years. For weeks I took heart to some sound exam advice a fellow blogger wrote about and transformed my entire perspective into staying calm, keeping it simple, and focusing on what I knew. (She's good stuff.  Check out Travel Orders).  For me, the calming mantras and game plan worked- until it didn't.  As I've been telling myself: you win some, you lose some and after a tearful weekend, I am ready to move on.  I finished 24 very full weeks of studying Portuguese and after a disappointing exam performance, I am forced to go back and remember why I signed up for language in the first place: to learn and love the language. I certainly can do that now, and quite well in my opinion. According to Mark, I also speak better than he does. So no regrets. 

Work it girl: over 800 sheets of paper, countless flash cards,
five workbooks, five notebooks, texts, magazines...
great catharsis in throwing out all my hard work.

As a side note, I would like to point out a good resource for Foreign Service families: the Employee Consultation Services are the real deal who might actually offer some great perspective on battles we face every day. I noticed early on my anxiety about a dumb exam was infiltrating other parts of my life. So I made the call which was the hardest part, but I was connected to a counselor at FSI who treaded the waters with me. Now that I broached the surface of therapy, I have a mountain of other histories to tackle, but it was nice to have a third party perspective when we get this tunnel vision. And it was free, just for future reference: call them at 703-812-2257 or email: MEDECS@state.gov.

I'm glad it's over. I'm glad I did it. Will I do it again? I will let you know. Do I have any advice? Not a bit. But the great news is in between planning for our Brazil departure, I can get back into my old hijinks again, so stay tuned for more stories and commentary.  

How Do You Make 4 Year Old Pee in A Cup?

You know what's not fun? When you take your four year old son to the doctor for his health check up and they request a urine sample. So, being rather experienced with my personal history of asking people to pee on demand when I worked in a urology department, I don't think much at first-until we walk into the bathroom. I realize there is NO WAY my son would be able to hold two things at once (thank you to my dutiful husband who taught Deets how to point "things" in the right direction).  This, in addition to the explicit directions of: wiping himself with a cold antiseptic towelette, peeing into the toilet first, then catching some urine midstream for a "clean catch." Sure. Thanks lady-nurse.

I ask Deets whether he wants to stand up or sit down. He tries standing first, but then can't pee and switches his strategy. He sits and here I am, squatting close to the toilet with one arm hovering dangerously close to both exit holes, cup poised and ready. It occurs to me at this point, I just might get peed on or worse, because we all know what weird things doctor offices do to us. He takes what feels like for-ev-er to decide that he can't pee. Isn't it amazing the boundaries we share and cross sometimes? That's true love.

I got kicked out of the room for his hearing exam,
 because I was bothering him with my incessant photo taking.
Well played, Deets.

This may sound weird, but it was the first time in a looooooong time that I thought about the various difficulties some of my patients faced when they paid a visit to the urology office: peeing too much, peeing too little, peeing sideways, peeing weird colors... there was always something fascinating to learn working there. It made me think about how what seems like a simple task could turn into a huge obstacle for many people, and at that moment I felt the stress my patients must have felt. It was enough to make ME pee; and miss my job a little bit.

Anyway the doctor continued on with her lengthy health exam: measuring vital signs, vision and hearing tests followed by a scolding for his calcium intake, praise for his nap and reading times, and four vaccinations. My poor kid screamed like a teapot, but recovered well enough to eat two suckers and head off to summer school. It was the moment we arrived there that his bladder practically exploded; performance anxiety in its truest form!

Margo had her health check up last week and it doesn't take much to see how they are two totally different people: Deets at 25% for height and weight, with Margo at 90% & 75%.  Deets only outweighs his sister (younger by 2 years) by 4 pounds! Ah- the list of differences can go on...

Next week is my check up, only mention-worthy because we are in full swing of medical clearances before we head to Brazil. I wonder what fun things I will get to do all in the name of renewing a birth control prescription. Any guesses?! All I can say is, it's not fun.

Great Falls Park: Our 60 Minute Quickie

Maybe I am weird, but there's something quite calming and therapeutic about watching water crash violently over rocks and cliffs, merciless for anything in its way. It's especially weird because I don't generally like water or getting wet.  But perhaps it is because the violence puts me in my place, forcing me to check in with my mortality. I love the intimidation and beauty of it all. Last weekend we went to Great Falls Park for a quick escape from the sludge of suburban life. Like, really quick- it took only a 15 minute drive to get there. After hopping off Highway 66, we gaped at gigantic mansions and their fancy manicured lawns, wondering about the large number of "For Rent" signs, when we found ourselves completely surrounded by thick green forest in a matter of minutes. 

Not pictured: Mom stomping her feet, impatient to see the water. 

We arrived at Great Falls Park shortly after 9:00 am before the crowds rushed in about an hour later. Even at the entrance we could hear the water's roar, which made me extra excited, almost panicky to see what I was missing as if the water might run out before we got there. Now for those not exactly into hiking, there are four observation points of the river, all close to the parking lot. I think the excursion alone to see Great Falls is worth the trip, but the park also has a good amount of hiking trails and a visitor center with (probably) knowledgable park rangers. While swimming is strictly prohibited here, we did see kayakers hanging out at the base of the falls too.  Deets and Margo seemed impressed, but were probably more amused my frantic gestures, pointing out all the cool things I saw: "Look a bridge! Look at the birds! Ooh- check out the flood sign!" I might need to get out more.  Sadly, my oldest turned into a pumpkin quicker than I had hoped, leaving little time to explore the grounds more but at least my curiosity was sated. We left in the nick of time as hundreds of vehicles lined up down the road for entry. Go if you ever need a quickie. 

Overhead with circling vultures, probably picking out their choices of tourists.  

Looking for kayakers.

Feels even more violent in black and white. 

VW: Sold! Mazda 3: Bought

For those who had bets on how long we'd last without a car in the US, it's time to cash in! We made it six months. The beloved VW that was bound for Brazil took a dramatic turn to the US after Brazilian authorities decided diesel cars were un-importable. It came back here instead where it was promptly ticketed by the Falls Church parking enforcers, due to not having plates on the car. Mark decided this $50 dollar ticket was worth the fight and after three visits to City Hall, they dropped the issue. 

The adventure continued as he navigated the vehicular laws of Virginia, three trips to two DMVs and paying $850 dollars in registration/taxes the car was ready to sell.  Luckily, our TDI went to a friend within a few weeks who hopefully will enjoy it as much as we did. Of course, we ended up replacing the missing parts that went in our HHE and will show up in Brazil this fall: a spare tire, jack, floor mats, trunk cover for several hundred dollars more. Meh- what can you do?

That said, the short week of car ownership was quite refreshing. Like awkward teens talking about the prom, Mark and I hid in bed one night and he asked if I kinda-sorta-maybe might be interested in buying a car for the summer. Already feeling like a mountain yeti, herding my children around in the bike trailer in pouring rain and raging spring winds, I was pretty thrilled with his acquiescence. So off to the Internet he went, searching for a new car and with two trips to the car dealership he ended up choosing a Mazda 3. I find this somewhat ironic considering the NYT chose it as a classic hipster purchase. (Mark denies any association with that label- says the man who rides a bamboo fixie with a messenger bag and sports one hell of a beard in the fall and winter...) 

At any rate, we got a car! I drove it to a newly found local beer garden today while reminiscing over 16 hour European road trips with two young children in our wagon. Wasn't it magical when we had to reverse of up a 15% grade incline on a cobble stoned road in Greece? Or how amazing was our VW when we crossed the Hungarian border with four tires on the brink of exploding? I know we will create new memories with this new car, but I think the VW will be hard to match. 

Giving it a test drive. 

Waxing and Waning of FSI Life

More than a few people in my life have shared their advice about managing stress during periods of change or difficulty. The more delicate folks said, "don't make any drastic decisions if you don't have to" while others sensibly suggested "don't do anything stupid." Well, we all know that is easier said than done. 

This past week was a little tougher than usual. Nothing significant happened other than dealing with the elation-depression cycle of seeing friends and family come and go. It's always the feeling of "didn't you just get here?" Class continued on at its usual warp speed but this week we learned the fourth out of God-knows-how-many-Portuguese-verb-tenses and I completed my first evaluation.  Not a super-mega fun time, but also no big deal. I did fine, yet oddly I found myself emotionally overwhelmed. Suddenly I couldn't engage in basic Portuguese or even English conversations; still no big deal-- logically I knew life would go on, but I started crying. I HATE crying. I am an ugly crier too. I get the type of swollen-face-blotch that takes days to go away and with the amount of tears and snot I shed, I also look dehydrated and listless. I will make a great zombie, come the day.

Ok then. I cried at school. I was stressed about small stuff, and even more stressed because I know there's an infinite amount of worse things in this world than stressing about my self centered feelings. So once more felt the urge to make a change; to do something drastic. When I don't feel like dealing with stress, usually the first thing I want to do is get a hair cut. To me, there's something satisfying about the sound of scissors cutting snippets of hair and watching it fall to the floor, and letting go of what little control I think I have. I've had many, many bad haircuts because of this, while knowing full well I shouldn't do anything drastic when stressed.

Did I get a hair cut? Not exactly. In the spirit of pending beach time, tropical weather and Brazilian beauty standards I felt the need to try something new. Knowing full well I could regret my decision, I marched (ok, skirted) into the salon for my first bikini wax. Can't say I felt too great about it as I stared wincingly at the ceiling, with visions of Steve Carrell seared into my brain- but I followed through. It's too soon to tell what my next move might be, but right now I'm thinking a traditional hair cut might be nice. Or maybe a pedicure.

Portuguese Class

To my surprise, the past few months of my life have involved extraordinary amounts of role playing, experimentation, and self study. I've been singing in public, developing intimate relationships with more people than my husband, and working on what I hope to be an improved worldly version of myself: After six weeks,  I'm ankle deep into a full body immersion of learning a foreign language. As many people already know, the Schlink's are bound for Recife, Brazil this fall and I've had the fortunate opportunity to take a full time, 24 week Portuguese class.

When I'm not trying to find my head from my ass, I am genuinely enjoying my time. I have about five hours of instruction per day, sprinkled with several hours of computer lab time.  My three classmates, all officers and all bound for Sao Paulo are remarkably tolerant of my bizarre sense of humor. I might even dare to say they like me. We spend a lot of time together stumbling through the language but what's cool, is how we bring different strengths to the table. One student has amazing comprehension, one has great accent and is very deliberate with speaking. The third has an intense dedication to learning and as for me- I am good at asking interesting questions and I can keep dialogue moving along.  Despite the obvious building of accents, sentence structures, and vocabulary skills, we act out plays, sing songs, play games and drink Brazilian cocktails sometimes. And, because we learn the language by talking about what we know, they know a lot about my family; and subsequently how boring my life has become since starting class.

Caprinhas: made with Cachaça, a distilled sugar cane juice,
açúcar e limão verde. It will knock your socks off.
Seriously. I don't have anymore socks.

In fact, one of the most "exciting" things in my life right now is when I record my voice while reading sentences in Portuguese. The lab is frequently stuffed with students practicing anything from Chinese to Amharic to Italian so it is essential to keep our voices low. We wear headsets that allow us to listen and speak our chosen language, so imagine ME whispering a grocery list into your ear with my husky Portuguese accent. Pretty disturbing isn't it? Every time I play back my recordings, I can't control myself; I feel like a 1-900 girl. Hopefully it will all be worth it in the end.

Making the decision to take a full time class wasn't one I made lightly. For weeks I agonized over education versus a triumphant return to nursing while back in the states. I missed being a financial contributor and wanted to dust off my scrub pants and feel like a real professional again. I missed playing with blood and guts, and taking care of patients. But after looking past the 8-10 month training period, Mark and I agreed language would better benefit my independence in Recife, and with luck I could get a job down there; maybe as a nurse, maybe not. We made our decision, designed a budget and a schedule to keep our lives somewhat in control and went for it. I don't regret it, though the student on the computer next to me might once he hears my grocery list in Portuguese.

Planes, Bikes and a Whiny Mom

Even though I usually enjoy my daily bike commute, for some reason Mark's suggestion to take a family ride simply felt exhausting this weekend. I whined for about 24 hours before I realized how ridiculous I sounded. So on the following morning, after I needlessly agonized over clothing selections (who looks good in cycling gear anyway?) we hooked up the trailer and took the kids down to Gravelly Point. The park, located 400 feet north of Reagan National Airport was once a landfill and is now a hugely popular stopping point along the Mount Vernon Trail. Trip Advisor ranks it 8th out of 32 Arlington attractions, even if there have been rat-sightings near the rocky shores of the Roaches Run Waterfowl Sanctuary.  But the huge grassy field, people watching, and plane sightings more than make up for it. Planes fly directly overhead onto the runway, sometimes as low as 100 feet and as often as every two minutes. 

Deets' reaction was extraordinary. He howled, cheered, and danced around; He climbed onto the picnic table trying to get just a little bit closer. Margo, though slightly confused chimed in too, affected by his enthusiasm. Before long he was mimicking the scene from Wayne's World, laying down on the table letting the planes come to him. I hadn't seem him that happy in a long time. It put my earlier protestations to shame and I resolved to pull my bike shorts out of the tight crevice I stuffed them into. As good as a hiding spot as I think it is.

Okay, okay- keep looking up!

Flag Day: A Story Involving a Vibrating Phone and a Prostate

Last week the latest A-100 group enjoyed a snow packed Flag Day. I spent some time chatting with spouses about their fantasy posts, dreaded posts, and realistically-this-is-what-we-will-get-posts. They shared their strategies on how they ranked their listed countries, many of which were identical to how Mark and I did it three years ago: preference based on job availability, departure date, and whether there would be required use of wearing leotards, fishnet stockings, and pasties.

It got me thinking about my experience with Mark's Flag Day and it occurred to me I never wrote my story. At the time, I was Nurse Manager running busy urology clinic in DC. While it was a rewarding job, it was very demanding and it left me unable to take time off for the big announcement. Not really a big deal in the whole scheme of things, but as we all know, bidding takes an inordinate amount of obsession and strategizing. Even if it makes a difference or not...

The patient obediently laid on the exam table, clothed only in a giant hospital gown and a pair of socks. In the urology office, they always wore socks; as if to retain any shred of dignity during examinations. I can't really blame them considering what little else we had on offer: a crappy paper pillow, a cold uncomfortable exam table that held the bodies of countless half naked men, and an impending anal probing.  Rolling onto his left side with his knees tucked, the doctor snapped on his latex gloves and lubed up the ultrasound wand. I stood there assisting when I felt my scrub pants buzzing. This was the moment of truth: a prostate exam and biopsy would determine the patient's path and the vibrating cell phone would determine mine. I'd been nervous all day, worried about missing the important phone call and stress sweating through my scrubs while I hustled patients in and out of the clinic. Of course my destiny would have to wait a few more minutes.

The doctor did his thing, checking out the patient's prostate and firing off several rounds of the biopsy gun. In less than 10 minutes he was finished, murmuring something about next week's follow up and was out the door onto the next patient. I stayed with my patient helping him get cleaned up and dressed. Bending over to put his pants on, the man sheepishly asked if this was just another typical day for me, manhandling scared men and their prostates? I jokingly told him absolutely, except that I was more gentle. Only after I bagged up the specimens, saw him off safely and sanitized the room did I dare to look at my phone. At first I thought I'd have a terrible time getting ahold of Mark since he was likely in the throes of celebration and congratulatory backslaps. But then I realized he never called me in the first place. I got a text message. A text message, that would reveal our first two year posting in the Foreign Service. I mean, really?! A text?! Jerk.

And so the anticlimactic realization read: "Bucharest, Nov 2011" and nothing else. This meant ten more months of pee soaked stories and erectile dysfunction teaching moments, ten more months of living in DC, ten more months of language and additional training for Mark. Well okay then. It wasn't a bad thing. My job challenged me everyday, our son enjoyed day care and Mark's career was just beginning. It was simply not what we expected since his "people" hinted at our "very likely overseas move to happen in a month or two" and it was "very likely we'd be heading to Algiers." 

It wasn't the first time we'd hear disappointing news and not the last either. All in all, we knew it would be an incredible adventure. What was your Flag Day story?

Schlink Update: VA Burb Living

Earlier this morning I read an email my sweet sister Nettie sent. She was inquiring about our general well being seeing as how DC-NOVA-MD shut down yesterday due to Winter Storm Janice (how long have the weather-folk been naming storms, by the way?) It was reassuring to know my family back in CO continue to think of us, let alone think well of us after 3 weeks of intense, toddler and Beasty filled visitations. Perhaps we are a pretty cool family then.

At any rate Nettie, we are coming along just fine, though at a quicker pace than I anticipated. The children started school less than two weeks ago and despite initial days of tears and clinginess, I am doing much better now. I still throw fits every now and then, but Margo and Deets handle my outbursts with grace and understanding. I'm told Margo eats the most food out of anyone in the toddler group, and particularly loves Nilla wafers. Deets sings all the time and loves to build pretend guns, which is a huge surprise considering he used go to great lengths to keep anyone from carrying a tune, and Montessori school doesn't exactly support that sort of play. Overall I think he is very happy with his surroundings.

My time at home has been a menagerie of writing, studying, doing yoga and reacquainting myself with DC. It's not exciting but Portuguese for me starts next month and I suspect I will yearn for more down time very soon. Mark goes to school, rules the grill and has kept our social calendar packed with friends and beer drinking. With hopes of zoning the kids out yesterday, we invited our friends over for popcorn and a movie. Instead, it was the dads who were enchanted by the Disney movie Tangled.  The men were swept away by Flynn Rider and his rowdy bar crew while the children raged around the apartment, rockin' out to their own world of imagination. At the end of the day, Falls Church collected about 6" of snow and witch's tit cold temperatures.

Coming back to a two hour delayed reality this morning, I was faced with getting my children to school without freezing off any major body parts. This is where I have a newfound appreciation for my mom who took us skiing growing up: long underwear, snow pants, boots, jackets, hats, gloves... UGH. How she managed to get us dressed, geared up and ready for the day in any timely manner is beyond me. It took me a full thirty minutes to get everyone into place and squashed into the stroller with extra blankets for the 1 mile walk to school. By the time I finished, my tomato face glistened with sweat and snot which immediately froze once I stepped outside. The only one happy about any of this was Jim.

Our morning pile of wears. Mark is lucky.
He only had to dress himself. But what a good job he did!

Undeterred, I shoved our stroller through inches of untouched, un-shoveled snow. Deets laughed with each jarring bounce; the Beast merely silent because she no longer had a voice nor will to protest her outing. I slid along with Jim dragging us both up and down the hills. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at school and I began to reverse the process. Making an effort to undress them quickly, I instead clogged up the school's hallway. Annoyed parents tried to step around my dog crowding the entrance, the snow-chunked stroller, and my messenger bag that spewed out lunch boxes, shoes, pants, boots, you name it. It humored no one. Except maybe myself, but that was because the harder I tried to undress them efficiently, the more I floundered in my already sweaty, now itchy long johns.

Of course as all fun things come to an end, I walked back out into the bright blue skies and lung searing cold. In an instant could feel the wind seep under the layers and chill my nether regions. Jim and I dashed for home. My normally snow-loving dog only made it halfway home when he flat out refused to walk any further. Civil disobedience at its best, Jim laid down on the snow unable to lift another paw. Not sure of what else to do, I bent over to pick up my 60 pound dog and stuck him in the stroller. As if I ordered the weather forecast, he just stared at me with his "Are you joking?! Thanks for nothing" look. Jim realized though that he had two options as I began to move: 1. get jacked around in a stroller, or 2. walk home as intended. I'm not sure if he gave me the finger on the way but he did jump down and kept his end of the deal.

After coughing up what feels like a black lung and warming up my now hive riddled body (cold weather hives are the weirdest thing I tell you! I'm emailing you a pic shortly) I thought I might take the time to tell you Dear Nettie, that while we are all doing well, we all love and miss the snot out of both of you.

Whosagoodboy?
Jim, unimpressed.

Espresso Machine and Schlinks Reunited

Bidding the movers adieu, I glanced around the apartment and wondered what I was smoking when I organized our air shipment back in November, bound from Romania to Virginia. Aside from cherished kitchen gadgets, car seats and bicycle parts, I realized the rest of what I packed was total overkill: once loved t-shirts full of holes, 25 pairs of socks and a mess of maxi pads. Why I got them in the first place is beyond me, I don’t even use them! But there they were, scattered among giant Tom & Jerry bandaids and a five pound bag of lavender scented epsom salts. And four different colors of cosmetic blush. Seriously, that was what I packed! Huh.

I resolved to unpack my children’s boxes, only to find they had enough clothes and shoes to outfit the Duggar family. I didn’t even bother to take the lids off for fear of a little girl shoe and bathing suit explosion. Mark didn’t pack any clothes at all. He was trying to be considerate of going over the weight allowance and limited his stash to packing his bicycle, trailer and tools, soon to be our only form of transportation. I am starting to worry I will regret our decision to leave the car in storage, especially as I watch the rain pour down in cozy VA. Ah well. You win some and lose some.