Tiny Moments

The recent death of someone I used to know has me looking at my daughter in a new way. This girl was about 10 years younger than me. I knew her during a very different time in my life. I look back at our interactions and hope I was not a terrible example. I'm not sure how she died, but I have my theories based on what I believe she has been through within the last few years. They are sad theories, involving drugs and/or suicide. I pray that these theories are wrong, for the sake of her family. But as I think about those possibilities, I look at my sweet girl and think, as you raise a child, you never know what their future will hold.

You never dress your tiny goblin in a cute dress and headband and think, "My daughter will likely overdose one day." You never play catch with your little man and wonder, "How many other children he will bully at school?" You never watch her play in the dirt and think, "One day, her life will be so overwhelming that I will find a tear-stained note next to her lifeless body." You just never know what your child will grow into. And while it is terrifying, it forces you to work harder as a parent and give them all the smiles that you have in your reserve.

As my tiny munchkin kept me up from 2:45-3:45 this morning, I looked at her sweet smiling face with loving eyes filled with awe. I kissed her little fingers, and sang her songs that helped her sleep in the earliest days of her life. It felt like she recognized them as her body inclined towards mine after only three or four notes sung. I remembered nights when she was only a few months old and I would stare at her as she nursed, marveling in the curl of her neverending eyelashes and how she would cross her legs at her ankles. I'll admit it was difficult to do during her moments of screaming or when my eyes would just start to shut and her spidey senses kicked in that mommy was getting some rest. But I forced myself to enjoy even the hard moments. Because you just never know.

I'm not sure why the loss of this young girl has hit me so hard. The only contact we have had in the last 10 years was a single comment of mine on a Facebook post of hers where she explained how her life had almost ended because she couldn't find a purpose in the world and could not process her feelings, how she had miraculously come out of a coma, and found a new lease on life. Perhaps it is because she was so young. Perhaps it brings up memories of a loss I suffered about 6 years ago. Perhaps it is the uncertainty of the futures of my own children. All we can really do is love them, support them, and give them the best examples we have to offer. Teach them about God and His love, and hope that they find the same belief.

Every moment has even the tiniest of impacts. It's a scary thought.

Goodbye Puppy

Tuesday morning, I woke up and walked into my living room to let my dog out to use the bathroom. I was not greeted by the usual clacking of his thick nails on my wooden floors. My feet were not licked from the mere joy of seeing me. I stood alone in my living room, surrounded by a darkness attempting to be penetrated by the lights of early morning. He was gone.

For over 10 years, Cole was the only constant in my life. He was the only boy that I kept around for long enough to call mine. After work, he would greet me with large barks from his tiny body and an excited running back and forth that made no sense and had no destination other than me. He would annoyingly beg for food on the rare occasions that we ate at the dinner table. He would vigorously shake a noisy toy as if it was a piñata filled with steak that he needed to release. He sat at my feet as I studied for the Bar. Both times. Quietly encouraging me and comforting me when I could barely believe in myself. He filled my lap and let his fur soak up my tears when my then love lost his life in a horrific way. And on Monday evening, he quietly looked at me from the arms of someone else as I kissed him goodbye and walked away forever.

It’s interesting the habits that we develop without realizing it. Every time I walk into the kitchen, my eyes automatically go to the small space that used to be filled with one of his many beds. So many beds. That lady must have thought we were crazy with giving her so many beds. As I go deeper in, my eyes search to see if he has any food in his bowls. She has those, too.

When I first moved to Ireland, I used to think he was with me. Children would scream outside and I would expect to hear him bark. I would walk around and expect to feel him nip at my feet. I would hear the wind howling and think it carried with it the sound of him whining. He wasn’t doing any of those things. He was here. Without me. Now, he is somewhere else without me.

I wonder if he’s thinking about me. I wonder if he thinks he did something wrong. “Why did someone else abandon me? I thought this one was going to keep me. She loved me for so long. She snuggled me and let me sleep in her bed. She dressed me up in costumes when her silly football team had games. Her sister put sweaters on me when she would walk me in the cold. Why didn’t they want me?” I hope that’s not what he’s thinking. I hope he knows how much I have loved him.

I hope she’s being nice to him. I hope she’s being nice to my dog. I never actually expected that the day would come when he wasn’t running amok around my house (Amok! Amok! Amok!), or licking random things, or driving me crazy because he peed on something. Or standing at the sliding glass doors with his back rigid and his ears perked up and his drumstick legs straight as needles as he barked at a cat that had bravely ventured into our yard.

My dog used to do the funniest things. Although, I guess he’s not my dog anymore.

Nighttime Realizations

It is 10:51 p.m., late in the Tuesday hours. In the corner of my bedroom is a dim light, turning the air into a faded orange against the darkness of this ordinary night. There is a tightness around my eyes that comes from an exhaustion that only a mother knows when vainly attempting to find comfort in her pillow. Three feet away, Little Miss begins to shuffle around in her tiny version of a bed. These not-so-gentle movements can only mean one thing: she needs me.

I get up and reach in gently, smiling at her open eyes that merely look like bottomless black holes in the distance beyond my eyesight's abilities. But I don't need to be able to see to know that she needs me.

As she latches on for the first of many nighttime cravings, I look down at her tiny head with its streaks of black (and hopefully straight) hair. I think of the bewildered smile on her face earlier that evening as I gave her a bath with delightfully warm and comforting water but not yet any rubber ducky. I notice her tiny nose and think of the gargantuan boogers it somehow houses, growing deep in the tunnels of her sweet kissable nostrils. She seems content to keep them and puts up quite a fight at my attempts to free them from their tiny cave. But to get rid of them, to breathe properly, she needs me.

I look down at her tiny hand, spread out on my chest, grasping on to my tired, spit-covered shirt. There is a little dimple at the base of each of her fingers, where they meet that hand that so lovingly grasps onto mine. I gaze at her paper thin fingernails and remember how they were long and razor sharp on the day she made her escape. I think of how I carefully, and apprehensively, cut her nails in her sleep, wondering which movement will rouse her as I try to protect her from ruining her sweet face. I look at the place she had scratched herself earlier and know that, to prevent those red angry lines, she needs me.

My body sustains hers.
My body nourishes hers.

My body produces, on its own, without any effort on my part, all she needs to be properly fed. I watch her inhale this food. I see the milk drip down her face and soak my shirt. I hear her gulping it in and swallowing it quickly and breathing heavily as she takes it. I clutch her as she arches her back to get more or less or beg for a burp. I have finally learned to read her signs. The signs that she needs me.

As she finishes her meal, her eyelids droop, her neverending delicate eyelashes lay for a rest on her cheeks, and her lips loosen. I kiss her head. I place my cheek on her head and realize that this is MY child. For so long, I hugged the children of my friends. I snuggled them for stories. I offered to change their diapers. I even reprimanded from time to time. But this little one is mine. She was made by Husband and me. She grew in my body, stretching it to new capacities, new marks and new pains. She relies on me for so many things.

But as I put her back in her bed, put on a series of lullabies that only I will remember years from now after the batteries in the music player have worn out and rusted over, and gaze at her sprawled out like a starfish escaping into a land of dreams, I realize that I had it wrong. I'm the one who needs her.

The Fear of Becoming a Working Mom

Mothers everywhere do it. They wake up at some unGodly hour so that they can feed their tiny human, wash the smell of spit-up off of their skin (which never truly happens), make themselves look halfway presentable, feed their tiny human again, and then drive off to be in an office for eight hours, realizing that a piece of their heart is still at home. It's not completely impossible to pull off.

But I don't wanna.

My leave ends in 3 weeks. It breaks my heart to think about leaving my little girl and I'm amazed to think of the women around the world who do it. It is an intense love, this motherhood gig. I spend my days watching her sleep, checking that she's breathing, smothering her poor face with kisses, and wondering if I'm doing anything right. I'm pretty sure that I am not. Not a single thing. Even the diapers must be on wrong. It is baffling that one can be covered in spit-up and think, "Okay, throw up all over me if it makes you feel better." And then to prefer that over being at work, earning money, talking to other people. She doesn't talk back yet so my conversations are rather one-sided at the moment. Although I am POSITIVE that she nodded her head in response to my question the other day. She's gifted, I know.

How do women do it? Some women have to go back to work because of money. Others are single parents. And even more just really like working and so they choose to go back. It's a little upsetting to think about how each of these groups judges the others. The happy-to-go-back mom thinks the stay-at-homers are too crunchy and not dedicated to their careers while the stay-at-homers think the happy-to-go-back moms don't really care about their children. The on-her-own mom usually doesn't give a darn because she is too tired to even think about any other mothers. And the desperate-for-money moms sit in a corner crying for whatever reason. Somehow, they all manage. They all get through the day and end up back at home with their babies. How do they do it????

I guess I'll have to figure it out sooner or later. Please pray that it's later. In the meantime, please excuse me while I go watch my baby sleep instead of changing into clothes that do not carry their own distinct scent. Her tiny mouth is so delicious!!!

The Baby That Changed My Life

 

I left Ireland 10 months ago. Last September, we came to the States for a wedding in DC and then to visit the family here in Florida. While here, I was frantically trying to line up interviews so that we could start the process of moving over here. Towards the end of my vacation, I was offered a job! I was finally moving home! After talking it over with Husband, we decided that I would go back to Ireland for a week to say goodbye to the family and our friends, and to help pack up our stuff.

During that week, our lives changed. I had a feeling. A very strong feeling. But I gave it time. You never know when you could be wrong about these things. And then one morning, I peed on a stick. On two sticks, actually. A girl’s gotta be sure. In that moment, my world flipped upside down and tears were inadequate to express my joy. We were pregnant.

Everything from that point was a whirlwind. I left Ireland for good. I came home and started my first job as an attorney. I Skyped Husband as frequently as possible because he wouldn’t be joining me for 2 months. And everywhere in between, I slept. My first trimester was all about sleep and not wanting to eat. I was not one of those girls who threw up 14 times a day, thank goodness. I was the girl who felt nauseated all day, but didn’t throw up. The girl who didn’t want to eat ANYTHING and whose sister, and eventually husband, had to bribe and force her to eat. I was the girl who went to bed at 8pm and was still exhausted for the entirety of the next day. I was the girl who went into bitch mode at the slightest provocation (or Husband’s lack of dedication to engage in a pointless fight), but I’m pretty sure that Husband was used to that after being married to me for 2 years. And then that trimester ended.

The second trimester was pretty uneventful. Kept working. Kept hating my job. Got my energy back. Finally started to gain weight, but very little. Did I forget to mention that I was also THAT girl? Don’t worry. I make up for it in the last month.

At the beginning of my last trimester, I left my job. I was glad to no longer have the stress and to be doing something that I enjoyed more. My energy had again depleted. We had just moved into a new house. But my excitement was rising. We had two baby showers: one thrown by my sister and two best friends, and the second thrown by my parents and aunt and uncle. They were both incredible. We are so blessed. We started receiving amazing gifts from our generous friends, and I started gushing over tiny baby clothes that I thought could never fit a real human being (by the way, one of these ultra tiny outfits was actually TOO BIG for my average sized baby).

I was finally gaining hard core weight. By the time Baby arrived, I had gained 38 pounds! A whole 25 pounds heavier than I have ever weighed in my entire life. Baby was bungee jumping with my sciatic nerve and so I would randomly have pains shoot through my hip and down my leg. Thankfully, this rarely happened when I was driving. My stomach was HUGE. Towards the end, the doctors got a little concerned that I might have preeclampsia. After some delightful testing, they discovered I did not, but ordered me to be a couch potato and work from home. Let me tell you. BOOORRINNNGGG. I spent most of these days on the couch, working, with reruns of Grey’s on in the background. I found I was only comfortable without any pants on. Husband didn’t seem to mind.

My due date finally came. And went. Four days later, my doctor decided we should go ahead and schedule an induction. So on Saturday, June 28^th, we went into the hospital with our bags, nice and calm and laughing, thinking about what would be the best and most difficult parts of having a baby in our lives. We were there by 5:30pm, and by 7pm I was being pumped full of pitocin to start the contractions. I gotta say, I wasn’t in too much pain for about four hours. My friends were not happy about this. I actually told the nurse at one point, “I’m not feeling much. Let’s crank this up a bit!” Yeah, I would soon be eating those words.

Around 11pm, the second my parents and sister left for the night, my stomach exploded in pain. And I spent the next 7 hours trying to avoid an epidural and trying to find a relatively comfortable position for this torturous hell. Nothing worked for too long. Finally, I gave in and got the epidural. The pain was just too much. Thankfully, I went into this process being open to this option and so I wasn’t TOO disappointed with myself. But let’s real, I was pretty disappointed. Unfortunately, it didn’t spread properly. I had one basically non-existent leg and another leg that was sort of numb but attached to a hip that felt like it was being stabbed with someone’s backwoods knife. So they upped the dose and I fell asleep and felt literally nothing (not even the pressure I had come to expect) until around noon.

I was finally completely dilated and ready to push!! It was time to meet our baby! So we pushed. Well, supposedly. I don’t know what I was doing, but I couldn’t feel it, that’s for sure. And after every contraction and attempt at pushing, Baby’s heart rate would drop. This was starting to make me freak out, but I refused to let that fear take over. We gave it some time. Flipped me around to give gravity a chance to work its magic, and tried again. Again, her heart rate was dropping. We tried all kinds of positions. In fact, my doctor told at our appointment this week that I was her most persistent patient in that I wouldn’t give up on doing it naturally and we tried more positions that normal. Her heart rate was still dropping, and now it was starting to get dangerous. This time I was disappointed. We agreed to a c-section, which neither of us had wanted. But we both wanted our little girl and so we moved past the disappointment and prepared for surgery.

It was so weird. I could feel the pressure of them cutting me open, but couldn’t feel any pain. Husband was right next to me the whole time, being just as supportive as he had been through the entire process. I could not have asked for a better partner. And suddenly I heard her crying. It was the most amazing sound. I could not even begin to explain how that felt and there was no point in trying to keep in my tears. She was here. We had been waiting for so long. Exactly 41 weeks. They cleaned her up (after she pooped all over the place on her way to the table) and plopped her right on my chest for some skin-to-skin. I was in awe. Where did she get these amazingly pinchable cheeks? Who is born with such beautiful eyelashes? How can fingers so tiny give me so much joy? Please do not scratch me with your scary talonlike fingernails.

The rest of the day was a blur. Quite literally. I was so drugged up, I don’t remember much else. I can’t really remember if I was holding her in recovery or if she was sleeping. I can’t remember my first time nursing her. But again, I’m the girl that doesn’t care about that. I’m the girl who’s completely obsessed with her baby in the present. I’m sure that will change. At some point, I’ll reflect on everything behind us, and think back to her first steps and words and days of school. At some point, I’ll drop her off at college, and listen to her as she tells me about some guy who has totally stolen her heart. At some point, she’ll marry that boy and pee on two sticks of her own and I’ll think back to the day I found out she would be a part of our lives. But for now, she’s just my little munchkin, sleeping in her bouncer, smiling in her sleep and dreaming her dreams. And I love every moment of it.

Our August of Holidays

 

As August is coming to an end, I am realizing that I have spent more days this month on holiday than I have at work. I’m surprised they are still paying me in real money. Well, euros are weird colors and certainly don’t look like real money, but the bank takes them and so will I.

At the beginning of the month, we took our first coupley trip to Germany, and really, it was my first trip to Germany that wasn’t merely taking a train into Frankfurt on a layover and throwing snowballs at Sister. Two of Husband’s (and now my) friends were getting married. He met them years ago while serving the Baha’i Faith in Haifa, and the friendships have remained so many years later. So I bought a pretty dress, we rented a car with an exorbitant insurance rate we weren’t told about until picking it up, and we made our way into Bad Lippspringe. It was a tiny little town, full of cobblestone streets, old people on bicycles, vibrant flowers attracting buzzing bees, and buildings without air conditioning or people that we could understand. Somehow we had found a country where neither of us knew how to say anything more than ‘Hello,’ ‘Thank you,’ and ‘I don’t speak German.’

We spent the weekend with old and new friends. We ate amazing Brazilian beef fillets, drank alcohol-free cocktails of all varieties, put on crazy costumes for photo booths and danced until the early hours of the morning. We witnessed two lovely people pledge their love to each other and obedience to God, while sitting outside and listening to the loud chimes of a nearby bell tower. We remembered the day that we made these same vows and spoke the same words to each other. And as Husband picked up my hand during the ceremony and gave it a sweet kiss, we watched a new marriage begin.

The following weekend, we went to Irish Baha’i Summer School. The last time I was there was two years ago, my first attendance and about a week before Husband asked me to be his bride. Due to the need to show up for a few days in order to earn those euros, we did not arrive until the last weekend of the school. When we walked into the plenary session, there was a man in his late years sitting at a podium. We had missed about 30 minutes of a talk by a man named Tomi Reicenthal, a Holocaust survivor who was there to tell us his terrible story. His story about being taken away at the age of 6 and not really knowing what was going on around him; his story of he and the other children in the concentration camp acclimating to the horrors around them and playing hide and seek around, and behind, piles of dead bodies; his story of the day his grandmother died in the camp they were in, and seeing her body stripped naked and thrown from a wheelbarrow onto one of these piles; his story that he never even told his own wife before she passed away years ago. He was a boy in Belsen.

While hearing his story, we were reminded of the Baha’is in Iran who are being persecuted only because they are Baha’is, so similarly to what caused these atrocities. That is how these things began. Everyone remained silent. The Holocaust did not start with gas chambers. It started with whispers. Something he said when he brought up these poor Baha’is really resonated with me. He said, “We have to shout. They have to know the whole world is watching.” That was how our weekend began.

The rest of summer school was just as wonderful, though less sad. As someone who has been singing my entire life, I was extremely excited to hear that Tom Price would be conducting some courses that week. What I had not realized was that he was also going to conduct a choir! He has conducted choirs all over the world, including at the Baha’i World Congress in the ‘90s. Singing with him is something I have always wanted to do. I knew I had to be in this choir. And when he said there were still solos available and asked if anyone was interested, I have to admit that my heart jumped into my throat and threatened to fly right out and hit him in the face while my hand shot up in the air like a 2^nd grader who knew the answer to a math question for the first time ever. And two days later, where was I? Standing in front of the entire school, singing an intense solo in a beautiful and heart-wrenching song written by none other than my conductor, about the Baha’i Faith’s prophet founder, Baha’u’llah, and the trials and tribulations He went through in His lifetime. I’m not sure how I hit notes that were almost two octaves above middle C (or whether I actually did), and I’m still finding flaws that no one else even noticed, but I did it. And it made me the happiest I’ve been in quite some time. I had forgotten how much I miss singing, and how much I wish that I could do something with that love. Now that I have finished gushing about my favorite part of the weekend, I can continue. We CAMPED. I probably should not have lost my camping virginity to a rugby pitch in 50F weather. It wasn’t terrible, but was awkwardly convenient to use a portable toilet in the common compartment of a tent that had my in-laws sleeping on the other side of a thin sheet of opaque plastic. There was more singing, chatting with friends, eating greasy chips from the chipper at 1am, service to the school and its participants, beautiful prayers every morning, and many goodbyes (not in the tent, just in general). It was a wonderful weekend.

The last adventure of the month was my favorite and my saddest. SISTER CAME TO IRELAND TO VISIT ME!!! Some might not understand how we are so close, but she is my best friend. I miss her the most. In fact, I think I miss her more now than I did before she arrived. It’s like I slowly got used to not having her around and then was slammed in the face with the reminder of her awesomeness and how hard it is to be away from her. I won’t make that mistake again.

She game for a little over a week. I had to work so I couldn’t be there to pick her up at the bus station, but Husband picked her up, holding up the sign I made to welcome her to Ireland. He’s so good to me. As each second slowly trickled through my day, I became more and more impatient about getting home and hugging her. When I finally did, it was like nothing had changed. We were content with just hanging out. We were content with going out and eating. I introduced her to the few friends that I have here, and she fit in almost immediately. She reveled in the cool weather and got just as excited about it as I used to get before I knew better. We went to Fota Wildlife Reserve with the family, and saw giraffes drinking each other’s pee, and black monkeys carrying white babies. We sat at picnic tables for hours, more than 10 of us, sitting and eating and chatting about all kinds of things. Sister, Sister-in-Law and I went to Dublin, also! It was my first time going there for more than just reaching a specific destination and leaving. We went to see Regina Spektor in concert. She is one of my favorite artists and she brought me to tears. We originally only had 2 tickets, but SIL is a haggler and got a street seller down from €80 to €50, a much more agreeable price, and we all got to enjoy the concert together. After physically being unable to pull our eyes away from the train wreck that was a 20 year old couple who obviously were not permitted to ever see each other and thought this was the appropriate time and venue to profess their love without words, we got to hear the incredible voice for which we had traveled. Her voice was pure and smooth and trilly. Her words were funky and all over the place. She cursed when she missed high notes and she shyly and humbly thanked the crowd for their love and adoration. And she made me cry when she sang my favorite song and caused me to remember a life so many years ago. And the next day, we got back on the train and Dublin was over.

One more day of laziness and television and just being thrilled to be together, and then a lovely dinner at Husband’s Aunt’s house with some of the Baha’is in the area, including a pair of sisters who were here as musical travel teachers and whose harmonies made me and Sister realize that we needed to learn more songs to sing together. When we got home, Sister and I stayed up until her bus at 2:30am. When Husband and I dropped her at the bus station, I felt like I was losing a piece of my own heart. It feels morally wrong to be this far away from her. Like it certainly must be against the law somewhere, and I want to live with her wherever that somewhere is. But she left me, just as I left her. And I cried. And spent the next day depressed and trying not to cry every time someone asked how she was doing and how we enjoyed her trip here. Somehow it was hard to think of the fun we had: all the goofing around, the eating, the giggling, the trips, the animals, the time with family, the photos, the everything. Now that a few days have passed, I can see those things again. And I’m glad we are going to visit in a few weeks.

What an amazing month we had. I have a feeling it’s going to be hell trying to get used to a 5-day workweek again. Thankfully I only have to do it for 3 weeks before disappearing back to the sunshine for a month. Oh, what a wonderful holiday season.

Fere's First Flurries

We had a group of friends visiting last weekend. There were stories, laughing and conversations silly, serious and over the top. It was a fantastic weekend. At 7am on Monday, Jeff woke me so I could say goodbye to everyone before their morning flights. He softly whispered, "Fere, I'm taking them now. And it's snowing." I shot out of bed and ran downstairs. I didn't even put shoes on. I ran past everyone to look outside, and there it was. It was light and delicate and was swirling and floating and disappearing as it touched the ground. I was ECSTATIC. I had a dopey smile on my face. I couldn't bring myself to go back to sleep because I didn't want to miss it. FOMO (fear of missing out, as I learned this weekend) is a dangerous thing. I have finally found something that I like about the cold: snow.

By 8:20am, I had been awake for over an hour, marveling at the beauty that is precipitation. Staring at it from behind my windows; twirling in it from my deserted driveway; inhaling deeply in the hopes I could remember its smell; taking photos and releasing tears that my sister wasn't here to play with in my first snowfall in 31 years.

Snow is something magical. It is a peaceful blanket, hiding everything that is ugly and allowing the city to start over. It is hypnotizing and playful. I sat up in bed, looking out of the windows, watching the children running in the snow before being caged inside at school. I heard the little girls next door exclaim in glee as they left the warmth of their home.

The bottom edges of the windows actually fogged up, as though someone was blowing her hot breath onto them. It's not just something that a techie sprays from a can onto prop windows!! A thick layer of snow filled up corners and gave cars a chilly embrace, as wipers tried in vain to scrape it away and people poured hot water from the kettle onto the front windshields so they could start their day indoors at a desk.

As a thick darkness of night disappeared and I saw my present more clearly, I began to giggle. Each snowflake was like a fluff of cotton rushing to the ground. Some were so much bigger than I anticipated. Each snowflake's tiny collection of ice barely dampened my fingers as it said hello to my hand. Dads walked their sons to the school down the street (though a little late, I believe), with their fur-lined hoodies protecting themselves from my miracle. How silly. Let it fall on your hair! Your face! Your eyelashes!

Snow forgives what is beneath it. Snow forgives more than people forgive. It says, "Shhhh. Calm down a little bit. Here, relax. Come up with a solution, for soon I will be gone and you will have to try again." Perhaps people/couples should have some sort of calming agent, like snow. Something to say, "Shhh, collect your thoughts. Stop reaching and trying to be heard and seen. Just calm down. Now try again." Prayer is probably a good option. It is so calming and comforting to pray as a couple. It gives hope of a connection of souls incomparable to a connection of the bodies.

I don't live in Florida anymore. For so long, that has made me mad. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss the warmth. I feel unproductive. But I get to live somewhere else for a little while. I get to experience something new. I get to meet new people with accents I can't duplicate to save my life. I get to see mountains and scenery I never thought I would see, let alone live near.

And I get snow.

One Non-Sleazy Reason to Have a Secret Account

Money can be a problem in relationships. Both parties don't always agree on what is a good way to spend the money, or what is worth the deal, or which vacation costs so much that you want to cry. Some couples have separate bank accounts and their own "allowances" and I have NO idea how they regulate those types of things and dictate how bills are paid. But that doesn't matter, because it's not how our household operates. We share it all and both have access to everything. Yay! Sharing! BUT, I have officially found a non-sleazy reason to have a secret account, whether credit or bank:

GIFTS.

Our 1st wedding anniversary was last week (related blog to come soon). We went to Lanzarote and had a wonderful time. It was the perfect way to celebrate our first year of marriage. It was also necessary for simple weather reasons: deathly cold here, warm beaches there. Since we were planning on the big trip, we decided not to do gifts, paper or not.

I decided to get Husband a gift, anyway. Nothing exciting. Just something small that I knew he would like. Since he obviously has access to our bank account online, I paid with our paypal so that he wouldn't know about the gift. FAIL. I didn't know that paypal sends an email/receipt about the transactions it pays for. Guess whose email address is attached to our paypal. Not mine. Guess who basically never checks his email but happened to check it soon after this receipt was sent. Again, not me. So my secret was out.

Randomly, because I'm a freak who needs to control things and always know our financial status, I went online to check out our bank account sometime after that, not knowing that Husband had gotten the paypal receipt. And a curious smile spread across my face because there it was: a transaction at a jewelry store. Husband had bought me a secret anniversary gift!! Stupid joint checking account!

Needless to say, because we are both so caring and wanted to let the other have the secret, neither of us mentioned that the jig was up. Somehow it came up in Lanzarote and I found out he knew and vice versa and we had a good laugh about it.

But from now on, I might start secretly siphoning money from our account and paying for gifts with cash.

The Election Heard Around the World

As the election approaches as slow as sheep crossing tiny Irish roads inhabited with cars of impatient country-goers (I have sadly never seen this stereotype actually, but I HAVE seen said sheep milling around in the fields surrounding these tiny roads), the onslaught of public opinions on a private matter is steadily increasing. Many non-Americans seem to be under the inaccurate impression that Americans do not pay attention to anything happening beyond their own borders, if even that far. But it is not atypical for large numbers of people to have no interest in the election of governmental bodies in other countries. That is, of course, unless something extreme lies in the wake of said election, or that country is already in an uproar, or its citizens are living a tumultuous life that the world is already trying to rectify.

And so it surprised me that people here are paying attention to our election. I guess I figured it was not something terrible and so why should the world be concerned? But it IS something huge. This election has extreme repercussions, no matter the winner. I have never known of two candidates who have had such polar opposite viewpoints on so many topics that are important to the general public. I mean, you expect that they will not see eye to eye on some things. What a terrible thing it would be to agree with your opponent, or to have some sort of harmony in government! How dare they!! But these things are big issues that each is using as a gateway attempt to get more votes: abortion, gay marriage, healthcare, immigration, etc. They are not just feeling opposite things. They are firmly standing on their views and are trying to drag people into the voting booths based on these "promises for a better four years." This election will mean a lot.

As a Baha'i, I am not supposed to participate in partisan politics. To me, this means, "Do not blindly vote for a specific party; vote for a person. Have no specific affiliation to a political party. Find a candidate whose views you agree with and vote for him/her. If that means voting for a Republican when you think your views are more closely aligned with Democrats typically, then you vote for that Republican because you believe the PERSON is the best choice. And keep it private."
 

“It remains for the individuals to so use their right to vote as to keep aloof from party politics, and  always bear in mind that they are voting on the merits of the individual, rather than because he belongs to one party or another.”

           -Lights of Guidance, p. 441

We are also not supposed to speak of politics unless we are being positive. There is to be no degradation of individuals in government. This is usually hard, but we are human. We are not flawless. We can only attempt these things, knowing that God knows we are trying. So I will not be using this entry to pick a candidate (too late anyway. My absentee ballot was sent in WEEKS ago), or to berate a candidate or his followers. I will not even use their names.

  

“Speak thou no word of politics; thy task concerneth the life of the soul, for this verily leadeth to man’s joy in the world of God. Except to speak well of them, make thou no mention of the earth’s kings, and the worldly governments thereof. Rather, confine thine utterance to spreading the blissful tidings of the Kingdom of God, and demonstrating the influence of the Word of God, and the holiness of the Cause of God.”

            -Abdu’l-Baha, Selections from the Writings of Abdu’l-Baha, p. 92

Instead, I will use this entry to state an observation.

I have been in a few situations in just the last two weeks when, once the individual in question realized that I am American (because apparently my accent is not as obvious as I have always thought it was), I would be asked what I thought of a certain candidate (the same each time). And before I stated my opinion, the person would say, "Good grief with that man!" or "You should just stay here if he is elected!" or "He drives me crazy. He is always lying!"

I just found it so interesting because it was consistent across the board. And because they were so forceful and adamant about it. They were completely sure about their opinions on something that had nothing to do with them.

But it does.

What happens in one country affects every country, whether it is because jobs are or are not outsourced to other countries; because there are more or less imports/exports; because people want to get the hell out of the States and overflow another country's job market, or because people want to go to the States and it has become easier or harder to do so.

“The international laws of today are of vast importance, for as international politics bring nations nearer to one another- and thus promote a bond of oneness which acts as a magnet to attract the divine confirmations-the results and benefits are limitless.”

            -Abdu’l-Baha, Divine Philosophy, p.142

Here, people are going to college and there are no jobs when they are finished. There are actually programs that help them move to Australia. I have seen advertisements on buses, and when Irish rugby teams play in Australia, it is like a home game because there are so many Irish people there. Husband called it the Irish's USA of the '80s. Where will all of the Americans move if the candidate they cannot live under becomes the President that they must respect (but will not)? Well, they will not respect him, that is for sure. Maybe they will join the crowd waiting for the sheep to pass. Or maybe they will just kill the sheep that get in the their way.

I know what I will be doing: trying to snuggle the sheep.

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An Irish Floridian’s Dichotomous Life

 

Well, it has been about 4.5 months since I have written anything. I’ve been neglectful, I know. I’m sorry. Please find it in your hearts to forgive me. Or at least to keep reading anyway. It has been a busy few months with never-ending amounts of studying but I can proudly say that it has all paid off and I PASSED THE FLORIDA BAR EXAM!!!! It’s amazing how something you have worked and prayed for can shock you once you achieve it. Last night, while eating dinner, I looked at Husband and said, “I spent four months sitting at this table, from 8-5, 5 days a week, studying. And that was before I got into it hardcore. I can’t believe this day has finally arrived.” I am so incredibly blessed.

But back to justifying my absence. For about 1.5 months I was home in Florida, soaking up the sunshine and the swimming and wearing shorts and tank tops everyday. It was like Heaven. But a friend made a very good point about my now dichotomous life.

I spent 30 years living in Florida, appreciating the warmth but craving the cold. I would complain that we didn’t have a real winter. I would pine for scarves and boots and pretty winter clothes. Fall was (and still is) my favorite season because the evenings would cool down and the air would feel crisp and my Sista, BFF and I would decorate for our favorite time of the year. And we would take the Munchkin trick-or-treating and then sit outside in the nice cool breeze giving out candy to rambunctious kids excited for Halloween. And, of course, because of pumpkin spice lattes. They always make an appearance before Halloween, and you can enjoy them past Thanksgiving, along with other delicious pumpkiny treats. But the dichotomy begins upon recognizing that I spent most of my life in Florida huddled next to the air conditioning vent, begging for the cool air and stripping off my clothes. Well, at least to the extent that it was legal. And then I moved.

I moved to the Emerald Isle (do they really call Ireland that? I’m not sure. I heard it in a movie once. It’s definitely green everywhere), and formed the other side of the dichotomy. I moved here in January, with my huge coat, and my boots and my cousin’s soccer socks. I felt like I was prepared for the winter. Man, I could NOT have been more wrong. And apparently, I got a MILD one!! This so-called “mild winter” had me huddled in many layers that I have previously mentioned, and basically strapped to the electric heater or the fireplace. Well, near the fireplace. Fire safety is no joke, kids. The weather has been pretty nice since I arrived back from my summer in Florida, like Ireland has been trying to prove itself. Saying, “See?? You went to Florida where it was 92F/32C. That’s too hot for a regular human being! Come to Ireland! Love us! It is in the high 60s/low 70s here! We know how to do summer.” Although, some people still think this is kind of warm, Husband included (if it gets into the mid-70s). But the dichotomy continues, as I huddle up for warmth here.

And yet, I enjoy living in both places. Both places can be very pretty. Both places have good and bad weather. Both have our loving family and an awesome Baha’i community, although I don’t really have any friends here. I’m trying, though. I have started taking a ballet class and have met a couple of very nice girls. I will be seeing them tonight in our 3^rd week of class.

It all brings me to my final realization: we want what we don’t have. Well….other than my family and friends being far away, I have everything I want. I can put up with the dichotomous life for a little bit.

Living in a Cold Country

As many of you experienced, or at least now know, I have lived in Florida my entire life. That is 30 years of sunshine, the beach, swimming pools, iced tea and alligators that sweat. I now live in a COMPLETELY different weather pattern, and it is confusing to my social life.

In order to try and help my transition to life here, I finally made the change over to Celsius. I know you’re probably thinking, “Uhhh, you’ve been in Celsius for four months.” But I really haven’t. Any time anyone mentions the weather (which is usually the first topic that people come to because they are jealous of the Florida sun), I have described my homeland in terms of Fahrenheit and might convert if I knew of a specific conversion (which I usually didn’t). I recently decided that I would only refer to the weather in Celsius. You might be thinking, what’s the big deal? Well, to me, it is a big deal. It’s a change. It’s a change that I never expected to make in my life. And I’m a person who learns something and then sticks to that method because it’s supposed to work every time you do it that way. So this change is a difficult one for me. It has resulted in my frequently checking the weather app on my phone and switching it back and forth between C and F so that I can compare the numbers and try and remember what they convert into, but at least I’m trying. Here is what I have learned so far:

10°C=50°F

20°C=71°F

31°C=85°F

10°C-31°C=snuggle me please, Husband.

I find it kind of funny, actually, because everyone here talks about how hot 31°C is and how they can’t survive it, and I’m sitting here craving it and wondering whether or not Husband will melt when we finally move to Florida. He likely will. I think another reason that I have been reluctant to speak in Celsius is because when the numbers are lower it seems SO much colder. Which brings me to my original topic J

Living in a cold country is confusing to me. I have always said that I wanted to live somewhere that is cold because I was so sick of the hot weather. Now that I’m living that life, my mind thinks about the grass being greener and other such applicable clichés. I now know that my body just can’t handle the cold. I spend every day wearing two or three layers of shirts, sweaters, tights, socks, and then I put furry boots on top of it all. And that’s just to stay inside the house! I wouldn’t even mind that….if I wanted to stay at home all the time. The rampant and abusive cold, tic-tac sized hail, and afro-inducing wind keeps me from wanting to leave the warmth of my guest blankets and the couch. I’m beginning to realize, however, that not everyone feels the same way (particularly my husband) and that I need to get over it (my words, not his). People keep on living their lives despite bad weather. Go figure. They simply put on more clothes and go stand in it. They put on their tights and jeans and coats, and then they pile wet gear on top of it and grab an umbrella and they go and live their lives.

At first I thought the weather was too harsh. I was better off at home. But I’m realizing that I’m missing out on things by being afraid of the cold. I’m missing my life. Before I moved here, I was looking forward to living somewhere new and experiencing different things. But the wind scared me into my house and I’ve been missing out on those experiences. Even if it was something simple like not wanting to walk to the store because my face was already numb from walking to the bathroom. Or avoiding doing yard work (which I love!!) because there is too much rain. I’m going to suck it up and live my life, regardless of weather pattern!

Lunch on the patio on a beautiful sunny weekend would be nice, though. But then again, so would a patio table and chairs. 

Good Ole Country Livin'

We technically live in the country. Not as in “the Republic of Ireland” but as in cows. If you look out the window of our back bedroom, you will see a number of large fields, one of which houses a previously mentioned horse whose owner seems to think it is a car. Living in the country here is very different from living in the country back home. In the States, country living involves fresh iced tea and fried chicken, porches and rednecks, football and cornbread. That’s what I think of when I think of country. The country is not what I’m used to, but it’s interesting.

There is something here called a “country smell.” Since moving here, I have discovered that this smell is really just the smell of manure. I’m guessing due to those darn cows and horses. Recently, Husband has walked out of the house and exclaimed, “Oh, there’s that country smell.” Now, to me, it has been smelling like burnt rubber and machinery. I can handle that smell having grown up spending a lot of time in gas stations and mechanics’ garages. Speaking of which, why don’t I know anything about cars??? Fail. Regardless, oddly enough, it reminds me of home. I’m not looking forward to when the smell goes back to smelling like poo.

There is a lot of empty land out here. It’s really pretty and provides for good scenery. It makes the area quieter than I’m used to since I moved here from the Hispanic ghetto and its loud and happy music. But back to the land. If you go to the main road and walk for about three minutes, you will see a number of extremely large houses on one side. There is one house in particular that I noticed today. It is large enough for at least ten people to live in, and is surrounded by all this land. It is extremely empty land, reminding me of little boys rolling down hills; of little girls running down these same hills, in bouncy spring dresses, with their arms spread wide in an attempt to take off in flight. Such sad, empty land. I wonder why the owners haven’t done anything to it. If I lived in that house, there would be cherry blossom trees and hyacinths and daffodils. Daffodils everywhere. And a bench for sitting and reading, surrounded by fragrant flowers. Passersby would not be able to take their eyes off of my garden. If only I lived in that house with its empty land.

Another aspect of country living is a lack of sidewalks, or footpaths, as they are called here. The roads are narrow with high foliage on either side and yet no sidewalks. You basically endanger your life anytime you leave the house to walk to the store for a loaf of bread. Thankfully, we are a gluten-less household, and so my death-defying moves are few. However, I do enjoy the walks. They give me a chance to get some much needed fresh air; to see other people; to practice my American Idol auditions as I walk past the children at the playground and their parents who are likely confused by the weird and wandering American girl. These walks make me feel less lethargic, as I have started my studying and now spend too much time in the house. I just wish there was a less car-infested path to take my walk on.

There are daffodils ALL OVER this country! It is FANTASTIC! They are so bright and happy and just pop up all over the place. They are in little clusters that were obviously planted by someone other than Mother Nature. They are random and sporadic in fields and along roadsides. They are in people’s front yards and on their kitchen tables. They are everywhere, ready to put a smile on my face at any given moment. Mission accomplished.

Some days I like country living, when I want to be somewhere quiet and don’t want to deal with the traffic and the noise and the vulgarities of city life. There is a calming sense of community in the country. On other days, I am not such a fan. Those are usually the days when I walk outside and it smells like poo. Go figure.

A Green Country

The greenery here is so different from what I’m used to seeing. The grass is thin and soft. It lends itself to picnicking on a rare sunny day. It dances a sophisticated, synchronized ballet on the unfortunately common windy afternoons. It is long and tall and is not often bothered by the harsh blades of a loud machine reeking of gasoline. It is softly chewed by horses inhabiting the countryside, but only when those horses have not taken to the uneven and narrow streets. It grows in tufts and clumps together, looking bumpy and elevated and inconsistent. The grass here is lovely and not alone.

Guarding every house from stray dogs and floating paper bags is a fence or a short wall. And guarding these walls are vines. Long, twisting vines that ascend from the ground and take over these walls. Spreading their dark greenery, invading crevices in fences, and hanging over corners of stone. Building a refuge for bugs to hide from the vicious wind. Providing a soft place for the many birds to stand. Gripping and growing, stretching and draping; joining the grass when it sees fit to descend back towards its beginning. The vines here are lovely and not alone.

The trees are abundant. They are overwhelming. They line every crooked street outside of the “city.” They hide tiny rivers that flow behind them and provide a home for those many birds with protected feet. With their moss-covered branches and leaves dripping with rain, they attempt to meet the cars that pass. They shade people from the coveted sun and the misty rains. The trees here are lovely and not alone.

This is a country of greenery. This country’s greenery thrives off of the rain that clouds most of its days. The sunny days are sporadic and surrounded by soft droplets floating through the sky. Floating, not falling. They seem to move sideways and greet you, giving an unwanted kiss on the cheek like one from a drunken man in a bar, smelling of cigarettes and cheap beer. And yet it is refreshing at times. Sometimes, it is so light and dainty that it can go unnoticed as you walk down the street. It rejuvenates you and gives you the opportunity not to feel dampened, ironically enough. The rain here can be lovely and it is not alone.

It has me.

A Spiritual Marriage Forms a Stronger Marriage

There have been a number of Baha’i events here in Cork in the last few weeks. It has been so wonderful getting to know the community here. It is filled with so many loving people and they have instantly made me feel welcome and at home. There has been a cluster reflection meeting (where we discussed what events have been taking place in the community and what new ones would be starting), feast (which is the Baha’i equivalent of church), a devotional for departed loved ones, and a Book 3 refresher course (this Book is based on teaching children’s classes). The Book 3 is taking place in our home. Jeff and I were both so upset that we are technically outside of the city limits because that meant that we wouldn’t be able to have feasts in our home. It is so uplifting to have spiritual meetings in your own home. It blesses the walls that you spend your days in. So since we couldn’t host feasts at home, I volunteered to have Book 3 here on Thursday mornings.

Our first meeting was last week, and let me just say that it made me smile. First off, it was so nice to have people here! We haven’t had too much company because our weekends have been pretty full, what with rugby matches and setting up the house and purchasing things that we didn’t have yet. So this was really the first time that we had non-family members in the house. And it made me SO happy! The class itself was great, discussing the blessing that it is to teach children.

Something else that the community planned was a prayer vigil, for the cluster, for healing, for strength, for anything. It took place on a Sunday and went all day, with people having signed up to say prayers during specific time slots so that there were prayers being said all day. I thought it was a very nice idea. So Jeff and I woke up and came downstairs, and for 30 minutes we prayed together and listened to beautiful music. When the time was finished, I felt like it had gone by too quickly. It was so wonderful to sit with Jeff and pray together, and we both felt such a closeness afterwards.

To me, a spiritual marriage forms a stronger marriage. When you have a spiritual likeness and connection with your spouse, the bond between the couple becomes stronger. This connection helps to make the love even more special as these two souls begin their journey together through all the worlds of God. And it is made even better when your in-laws also share that connection with you. Last night, my in-laws had a devotional at their house for departed loved ones. It was the anniversary of Jeff’s uncle’s passing and they had the evening in his memory. And I felt even closer to them as they relived the pain in losing someone they loved so much, and then as they relived the joy in remembering that his soul was ascending in Heaven as we prayed for him and others.

I can’t imagine a marriage that doesn’t recognize and crave God’s love. I feel blessed to be one half of a spiritually invigorated marriage.

It's Party Time!!

We had a rather large wedding in the States. It has been about 1.5 months since that incredible day. Jeff was looking through the beautiful photos that my cousin's wife took and said, "Our wedding was so awesome! I want to go back to that day." And he is right. Our wedding weekend was amazing. My aunts and uncles threw us a REMARKABLE rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, complete with Japanese lanterns, a tent, and Irish dancers. I never could have imagined everything they did for us. It was followed by the most peaceful wedding day in existence. There was no panic. There was no fighting. There were no disasters. At least not around me. My mother put together and planned a beautiful day that we will never forget, and it all went off without a hitch. Neither of us can think of anything that went wrong. Even the rain that we got all weekend caused us to move the location of the ceremony to underneath a lovely tent, and it turned out even better than the original location. It was a magical weekend :)

Unfortunately, because of the distance, cost and time of year, not too many of Jeff's friends and family were able to make the trip. I was honestly surprised that so many of his guests were even able to make it. If the wedding had been here, it would have just been my parents and sister. But because so many people couldn't come for the wedding, Jeff's parents threw a party this past weekend so that everyone could celebrate with us. I had forgotten how my mom had worried about things like the food and the guest list, etc., etc., etc. Suddenly there were concerns of whether the room was big enough and how many people were coming and whether the heating would be enough. Nothing major, but still concerns.

And then the day came. The hotel gave Jeff and I the bridal suite, which was slightly insane. I wish we had thought to take photos before throwing our stuff and gifts everywhere. The shower attacked me with its hot water and I literally had to have someone come up and show me how to get the water temperature down. While I stood there in a robe that was most definitely not one-size-fits-all. And unshaven legs. Interesting note: I wore the other robe the next morning and discovered that they had given us two different sizes. Did they already know that I am a midget and my husband is a bear? And then I put on my fancy dress, and the lovely pearl earrings Jeff gave me for my first birthday as his wife, and walked down the hall to meet my new relatives.

It was a fantastic night! We had a short program with a few beautiful songs and some of the prayers from the wedding ceremony. Of course, when the aunts sang again, I burst into uncontrollable tears and wished I hadn't brushed aside the waterproof mascara as though I wouldn't need it. Who are we kidding?? Makeup carnage! And then I gave a short speech, telling everyone about how this past year I was scared. And I was sad about the Bar. And then one day, I realized that God does everything for a reason. And in this case, the reason was so that I could get to know all of them. Two points is something ridiculous to fail a test by. God had a plan when He gave me that score. That plan was to give me the opportunity to get to know my in-laws better; to keep me from having that "see you next Thanksgiving" type of relationship with them. When I finally realized that, I stopped crying over that stupid test. Then there was a slideshow of photos from the wedding, accompanied by Pee Loon (which might officially be my favorite Hindi song EVAR), and so the crying started again. My face was a disaster.

Everyone danced their socks off to the DJing of Jeff's cousin, Jimmy. I, on the other hand, danced my hot, yet sadistic, 5 inch heels off. They lasted longer than I expected!! We had a surprise guest all the way from Memphis: Elvis! He performed and gyrated and got distracted by the children running around in circles in front of him. And then at the end of the night, he turned back into one of Jeff's uncles. Just like Cinderella. Jeff's aunt, Shirin, made a beautiful (and scrumptious) cake for us, complete with silhouette of Paris's skyline, and my mother-in-law made a rather large batch (or 12) of tasty mini cupcakes. The night ended with my smashing my toes with a chair that I was sitting on and seemed incapable of not sitting on while my foot was underneath it. That was a hot mess. And we all ended up in the residence bar downstairs, singing and playing music, accompanied by drunk randomers, until about 3am.

What a wonderful night it was :)

The Fans Can Make A Difference

A marriage can be like a rugby match: the players are more likely to succeed when they have cheering, supporting fans.

This past weekend was spent in the arms of rugby. My big tall husband plays on a rugby team and they had a game on Sunday. And on Saturday, Munster was playing. Munster is the Irish rugby team that my new family supports. They support them by going to games, near and far. They support them by dressing from head to toe in Munster gear. And they support them by screaming like their lives depend on it. We are a sport-loving family :)

It is often said that it’s hard to beat a team in their home stadium. If you think it’s silly that a change in location can have such a big impact, go to your local team’s next home game. The crowd is intense; the colors are overwhelming; the flags are flying. Literally. They give out huge Munster flags and people wave them while (and this part I didn’t really understand) the team’s song is sung (well, THAT I understand) by a woman with a rather operatic voice (THAT is what I don’t understand. It doesn’t really match with the image of rugby, does it?). It is hard to beat a team that has so much support surrounding it for 80 minutes straight. Needless to say, Munster won. I still don’t understand much about rugby. I get the basics (they’re similar enough to football), and I basically screamed when the people around me screamed. I think I became the butt of a joke when I asked if you could keep the ball if it went into the crowd, but I’m okay with that.

Even when they weren’t playing that well, the fans still supported them. THAT’S the most important part.

I have heard so many people complain about their relationships with their in-laws. Sometimes a mother-in-law inserts herself too much into their lives/marriage. Sometimes a sister-in-law is basically a witch with a B. Sometimes you’re really glad that you live 2,000 miles away and only see each other on national holidays. And then, sometimes, you actually enjoy their company. They are kind people who help you and buy you gadgets and invite you over for dinner. They are people that you look forward to spending time with and who seem to enjoy spending time with you. And this can make a marriage so much stronger.

I really enjoy my in-laws. I still miss my family LIKE CRAZY, but my in-laws help make it a bit more bearable. I am blessed in that they help us. They support us. They wear our colors everyday. They drive me into town to join them in running errands; they help me put together furniture for the house; they invite me out to coffee, and they make me laugh. Our supportive fans will make it so much easier for us to have a strong marriage and to win the game, even when we aren’t playing well.

I wonder if my mother-in-law knows any opera.

Life is Not the Same As the Movies

You know those movies like Boondock Saints or Lock Stock that portray the UK and Ireland and these places on this side of the ocean as the breeding ground for loud, cursing, beat-you-to-a-pulp “tossers” who won’t hesitate to be loud, curse and beat you to a pulp? Well, I’m learning that, not only are we strongly influenced by what we see in the movies but those scenes are not always completely accurate. Shocking on both counts, right?

The other night on our way home from dinner, we stopped at the local petrol station to buy some more briquettes for the fire (since I had used up what we had to decorate the living room). And while my husband was inside, lovingly seeing if they had anymore of their seemingly innocuous but simply decadent and diabetic-coma inducing Bakewell Tarts, a car whipped in front of me, right in front of the door to the station. Before the car had even come to a complete stop, three of its doors flew open. FLEW! Like with wings! Three rather large guys jumped out, loud and cursing, and ran into the store in a manner that one would associate with those stupid movies. The workers, who were pumping gas for their customers like it was 1962 in South Carolina (something I actually liked), looked around, slightly jittery. And I sat there. Wondering why I was even the least bit concerned, I watched the door and waited for my husband to return, hoping it would be without a bloody nose and sans wallet. Well, I wasn’t actually thinking that, but it gets the point across. And instead of seeing him walk out, I saw one of the guys from the car. But he wasn’t as large as I remembered. In fact, it was a kid. He was maybe 13. Why hadn’t I noticed this before? Wasn’t it possible that the guys in the car had to use the restroom? Or were really thirsty? Or were really excited to get some Taytos or bacon waffle crisps (which are just amazing, by the way. Be jealous that they don’t have them in the States)? Why did my mind automatically think they were the beat-you-to-a-pulp guys?

Movies and television have too much influence on us. What I mean by this is that there are so many people who do not travel for whatever reason. Their only knowledge of the world is through the media they ingest. And while I’ve always been open-minded and I like learning about new places and experiencing new things, I am ashamed to admit that movies have had an impact on what I expect from this country. That and my husband telling me that everyone from Dublin is a tosser. Maybe everyone from Dublin IS a tosser. But shouldn’t I let them mug me before I come to that conclusion?

Making and Putting Out Fires, Literal and Not

As a newly married lady, I also take on another 'first' in my life: I no longer live in the sunny state of Florida. After spending 30 years in that fire-pit of a swampland, complaining about the sun and the rain and the ugly brown grass, I now find myself missing it all. I now live in Ireland :)

Today is exactly one week since we arrived back in Ireland. It is also, coincidentally, exactly one month that we have been married. Yay!!! A friend suggested, most likely as a joke, that I start a blog about my year here so that people back home can know what we are doing and what it is like in Ireland. Little did she know, I take most jokes seriously. I also will take any opportunity to write. And to talk about myself. So I'm starting this blog to tell everyone about Ireland. But I think it might also be interesting to add in things that I learn as a married lady. The good and the bad. Shhhh. Don't tell the other half. Wait, secrets. That should probably go on the bad side. And maybe also the good?

Something that has become a necessity to my life here in this rather chilly country is the ability to make a fire. I'm pretty sure I've never built a fire before. I've never HAD to build one! It is very rare that you need one back home, and sadly, I've never been camping. So there I was, on Day Two in a foreign country, alone at home because my husband had to immediately go back to work (Husband! Eek!!). Let's just say that there is NOT an exact science to making a fire, which really sucks for me because I want things to be the same every time. I want there to be instructions and if I do it the way I'm told, then by God, I better have a fire! WRONG.

So far, I have sprayed briquette pieces all over our living room; lost a piece of one of the fireplace tools IN THE FIRE; almost burned myself a number of times, and not been warm. BUT I have refused to give up. The thing about a fire is that once you get it started, you just have to add more coal to it every so often and it keeps burning for as long as you want it to burn. You just need to build a good foundation and then the fire can be sustained for as long as you make the effort to take care of it. And so for the last few days, I've been warm :)

Now let's relate this to a marriage. I'm learning that sometimes it's just not worth it to get your point across. How things make YOU feel is not always the most important part of the argument. Sometimes you need to just let it go and be more aware of how your words are upsetting your spouse. It might seem important to make sure the other person knows exactly when something he/she does upsets you, so that it's not done again in the future. But look at it from another angle: "I don't like it when you do that. Please stop" can sometimes be perceived as, "This is something that is wrong with you." And while it's important to help each other grow as individuals, it's also important not to beat the other person down under the guise of growth. Remember that pain which is unintentionally inflicted is still pain. So instead of pointing out your beloved's faults, perhaps it is better to just tell your spouse how much you love him/her and put out the fire. In the end, I think it will build a stronger foundation for the marriage, and allow it to really become that "fortress of well-being." Once you build a good foundation, the marriage can be sustained for as long as you make the effort to take care of it. And isn't that more important than whether it bothers you that the person leaves crumbs on the counter after making toast?