Mom Voyage

The “No Belt” Prize for Piece

2011-12-11T10:59:00.001-08:00

I began martial arts with preschoolchildren - at age 39. After a yearand a half, we have tumbled, kicked, punched together, and we have groanedthrough push-ups and sit-ups together. We try to listen and hold still and bowat the appropriate times. I am 5’8” and they are 3 feet, more or less.

This school year, at the honorableinvitation of our Jhoon Rhee Tae Kwon Do Master, I decided, at the age of 40,to try something unusual - train with adults.

Our Master, trainer of bothchildren and adults, is a 4^th Degree Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do, amongother things. Her students are aged 18 months to, well, 40 years.

This fall, she invited the adultsin our group (all 7 of us) to compete in the year-end tournament. Afterinjuries, children’s illnesses and general parental duties called, only two ofus were able to attend the tournament, and at that, only for two hours.

Nevertheless, when my teammate andI stepped into the gymnasium at a boxing center in Moscow, we both gasped withintimidation at seeing about two hundred children equipped with white Tae KwonDo uniforms, ready to compete, and their parents, equipped with cameras. Thechildren wore belts of every color, not the least of which was black.

The youngest to compete were the beginners– the “White Belt” three year olds. They demonstrated punches and kicks insparring competitions in one of three rings. This was, however, no three-ringcircus. This was serious business, with judges, scores and medals (and light-upwands for the little tykes).

You already know who the oldest tocompete was. And I am what’s considered a “No Belt;” I wear a white belt, butonly because it came with the uniform I ordered on Amazon, not because I haveearned it. To earn it, I will need to demonstrate in my upcoming “belt test”that I know some basic forms – certain kicks, punches and movements.

I had agreed to photograph at thetournament and was busily doing so when my name was called to Ring 1. Theorganizers said to each other questioningly, “Only one competing in this round?”and then they looked at me, “Are you ready?” After my moment of hesitation,during which I was thinking, Go ahead,just skip me, I’m fine, really!, one of them said, “You’re ready.”

Thus, I, in my no-belt white belt, timidlyperformed one piece, or form, that of “Appreciation.” I faced my three judges, allblack belts, aged 20 to 30 years youngerthan me, and spent roughly 40 seconds performing in front of lots of on-lookingparents and even more kids with colorful belts.

My judges mercifully gave me scoresof 6, 7 and 7 out of 10 and graciously bestowed upon me a diploma and a medalof first place in my category, since I was the only one comepting and there wasno one else to give it to. I accepted my prize, bowed, and left the ring,humbled.

Industrial Landscapes Photography Exhibition

2011-09-29T10:37:00.000-07:00

"Industrial Landscapes" Exhibition at Novotel City Centre in Moscow

During the past two years in Russia,I have explored the ideas of abandonment, isolation, nostalgia and renewal as aresult of the transition from Soviet Union to Modern Russia. First arriving as a Student in Moscowin 1991, just after the August Coup, I have since carried with me a sense ofnostalgia about that time and place.

Moscow is made up of fascinatingindustrial landscapes. To me, anIndustrial Landscape is really any urban horizon, in which so many elementscome into play: Geography, Topography, Urban Planning (or lack thereof),Geometry, History, Perception (which is a reflection of our nostalgia, memory,reality).

I have been exploring these elements,and how we live amidst Industrial Landscapes, and even how we spend our leisuretime in and around them. they areinescapable to the modern urban dweller. Once I began noticing these in Russia, I noticed them everywhere. (some examples exhibited here are fromKazakhstan and the United States).

Intriguing to me is the contrastbetween what is new, unfettered by nostalgia, and what is, old, original,abandoned, half-finished or unfinished. A traditional location of leisure, such as Moscow’s Serebryanny Bor is contrasted with recently-builtbuildings in the background. anold industrial site, such as Seattle’s Gasworks, is turned into a park, filledwith bike riders, sun bathers and walking paths.

In some of these IndustrialLandscapes we see that the useful life of certain abandoned objects has come toan end, but, in their after-life, they have transformed into symbols which echoa nostalgia, a past, and sometimes, a hope for renewal: Used tires by the roadside, or anabandoned power line tower lying on its side, not yet removed but replaced byanother tower. In others we seehow difficult it is to escape anything industrial, even in our leisuretime.

In cases such as the railroad, anicon of the industrial age, we use it to travel, escape. And for many, the train and even theParticular station itself evokes a sense of adventure and the unknown coupledwith separation and good-byes, and therefore, memories and an inescapableNostalgia.

My 9/11 Story (to be written)

2011-09-28T02:54:00.000-07:00

Biden Our Time

2011-03-09T12:21:00.000-08:00

Vice President Joe Biden said it himself: “The good news is, the Vice President is coming! The bad news is, the Vice President is coming!” as he stood before US Embassy Moscow employees and family members eager to meet him and shake his hand.

It had been a typically atypical morning again: my husband was off to work earlier than usual, our pre-schooler was scolding me for not reading her book about tea parties for a third time in a row, and our toddler was sleeping in unusually late, daring to threaten our timely arrival at the Biden event. She had gone to sleep in a princess dress and so was dressed for the day already, until she urinated on the floor next to her potty just minutes before we were to leave for the event.

No food or drinks were allowed, so while there would be no chance of beklekering, as the Germans say, the girls’ outfits, there was every chance that we would be waiting for an hour and a half with children whining from hunger and thirst. The only thing not unusual about the day was my high level of anxiety about photographing the event, which I had been asked to photograph but declined, remembering my follies from Governor Schwarzenegger’s visit (see previous blog post). Even without the onus of being the event photographer, I was still the self-proclaimed family record keeper and had to live up to my claims as such.

Joe Biden was introduced by Dr. Jill Biden, his lovely wife, who thanked the spouses and families of the Foreign Service officers who dedicate their lives to this line of business. Amen to that, because every time somebody in, for example, Korea (North or South) decides to make some maneuver or provocative political comment, my husband comes home late for dinner, as he follows these issues. Our family dinners and bedtime stories are often directly affected (read: disrupted) by people in far away places who have no idea they are affecting us, but that is part of what diplomacy is about, I suppose.

On the other hand, the late nights and weekends spent by my husband and his boss and colleagues in order to facilitate the VP’s visit to Moscow were rewarded by the very sincere and articulate words of the Biden couple, Joe’s warmth toward all the children present, and his willingness to shake hands and take pictures with everyone. While gathering all the children to some carpeted steps where Joe sat down, he saw our toddler, dressed in a frilly pink tutu and plastic silver tiara and called to her, “Hey Princess, come on up here, too!”

Triathlete Slogs to Finish Line, Chocolate Clenched in Fist

2011-02-06T11:40:00.000-08:00

This headline, for better or worse, has not yet made the news at our local paper. Today was the last day of the two-week long Ironman Triathlon, and like a true athlete, I did cross the proverbial triathlon finish line, even sailing past it by a few inches.

It actually took me less than the full two weeks allotted to finish (okay, I finished only hours before the deadline) the 112-mile bike-ride (okay, it was a recumbent, stationary bike and I got through my pile of fashion magazines, looking at the pretty pictures while clocking miles at a very low speed), the 2.4-mile swim (I admit, I did this over 7 different days, inconsecutively), and the 26.2-mile Marathon run (done over 8 different days, also inconsecutively). At the end of each day (if not in the middle or at the beginning), I also consumed squares of milk, dark and white chocolate, and recorded my consumption of these. (Those stats will be brought to you later…)

What I learned from this venture:

You can do anything you set your mind to, as long as it involves chocolate.
Never underestimate the power of a good fashion magazine to get you through the rough times.
Never mix milk and dark chocolates when you are feeling guilty about the milk and are trying to “dilute” with dark, it’s such a letdown if all you really want is milk chocolate!
Do mix chocolates of any sort with almonds, walnuts, bananas, yes or even honey, in order to dispel any guilt surrounding the consumption of chocolate.
Don’t run unless you have good running shoes and a good bar of chocolate waiting for you at the end of the run.
Don’t swim unless you are sure you have a bar of chocolate waiting for you at home.
Don’t get on that bike unless you have brought Vogue, W, Elle or InStyle with you to the gym and have secured access to a bar of chocolate.
Never try any athletic endeavor, unless you have a serious chocolate consumption plan in place.
Also never try such an endeavor without the full support and consent of your spouse (who must also be eating chocolate with you as you go.)
And lastly, never discuss these strategies with anyone who is a serious athlete or doesn’t like chocolate.

Okay, now I’ll tell you the real reason I did this, chocolate or not: I turned 40 during this triathlon, and I wanted to do it for myself (could I really do it?), as well as for three of the most important women in my life: my mom and her two sisters. I did it for their hearts, and mine.

As for the chocolate, it certainly helped me get to the “finish line.”

The stats are in: 12 squares of white, 33.5 squares of dark, and 56 squares of milk. No, make that 57, as I pop one more milk chocolate heart before the midnight finishing bell.

Chocathlon

2011-01-22T10:52:00.000-08:00

I have signed up for a triathlon -- my first ever! Not just any triathlon, an Ironman, one of the roughest, toughest sport combos out there, besides the Tour de France and pregnancy.

This triathlon will be spread over two weeks, unlike “normal” triathlons which start and finish in the same day. Still, two weeks is not very long when you only have 12 hours’ worth of babysitting available during which to attempt participation. Actually, if you think about it, we all do triathlons over time. It might be over a year, but if you swim, bike and run, however intermittently, then you do triathlons!

It is less than two hours before the race begins and I still have not even opened my race packet to see how I am going to divide my swim/run/bike schedule over those 12 hours and some nighttime hours, when the kids are sleeping.

But in order to prepare for this and reduce my risk of injury due to overtraining – a problem most serious athletes like me often have – I came up with the following simple regimen, and I marvel at its simplicity:

Avoid the gym
Consume large quantities of chocolate

During this triathlon, I will be celebrating my 40^th birthday – yet another valid reason for the consumption of chocolate. I will allow only gifts involving chocolate. This extra consumption and the support of my friends should give me just the boost I need to clinch a victory.

“Triathlete Wins After a Chocolate-Only Diet!” This is the title I am sure will grace the headlines of our local newspaper, and it will, of course, be referring to me. I will go to the podium, take my medal, bow, and wave bars of chocolate with a gesture that indicates, “I owe it all to these guys right here – Milk, Dark and White!”

Mommy Firsts

2010-11-07T10:01:00.000-08:00

The first trip away from the babies is cause for both pain and celebration.

Okay, so there are Baby’s First Steps, Baby’s First Solid Food, and Baby’s First Poop, but what about Mommy’s Firsts? How about Mommy’s First Attempt at Putting on a Diaper? Or, Mommy’s First Time Breastfeeding While Typing? What about Mommy’s First Time Outside Alone with Newborn and Toddler? Now that’s scary.

But even scarier is Mommy’s First Time Away from the Babies. I’m not referring to that first two-hour break between nursings when you literally run to the store to buy yourself a new nursing bra. Nor am I thinking of the three brief hours of pre-school during which you exhaust yourself with the plethora of possibilities only to find that all you’ve accomplished between drop-off and pick-up is throwing together lunch and throwing yourself in the shower. What I am talking about is that first 7-day trip you take alone, sans enfants…

…first to your mother’s house to clean out the attic (is it really necessary?), where you hope to find your childhood Barbies, plastic horses and Smurfs to pass on to your daughters,

…and then on to a work-related conference in New York City (will it be worth it?), where you hope to collect pearls of wisdom from seminars with all your favorite industry gurus, and if not, then at least to collect some cool paraphernalia, in this case, photography-related tote bags, note cards and lens cleaners.

As my capacity for empathy has grown to unbearable proportions post-double-partum, I think I have mostly my own hormones to blame. I cry at everything now, being a Mom. Any emotional moment, whether in a movie, cartoon, or real life, my eyes tear up. So, to calm down before bedtime the night before my first solo Mom Voyage, I tried doing yoga.

It didn’t help that I was experiencing what the French might call le PMS, and I discovered that my tears were stronger in downward dog and child’s poses than upward dog and cobra. I guess there is something to be said for literally keeping your chin up. I also discovered that doing yoga without breathing somehow made stretching more difficult. Who knew?

At just about every juncture the morning I had to leave, tears came to my eyes. The already hectic, short amount of time I usually have in the morning with the girls had seemed to have been chopped to mere moments. I spent a few moments with them eating breakfast at the table, then a few minutes as they sang and danced to the Disney Cinderella song , “Once Upon a Dream” (a tear-jerker just when you don’t want it to be), then it was time to leave. I was so surprised at how much room I still had left in my suitcase and carry-on, usually stuffed with diapers, extra baby clothing, wipes, and snacks, that I briefly considered asking my four year old if I could pack her in my bag.

Feeling sick, torn, and anxious, I left my children at the top of the stairs, tears in my eyes, and stepped into the sedan taking me to the airport. After wishing him a good morning, I asked the driver about the traffic. He said today it should be light. Moscow traffic is particularly unpredictable, and I spent the extra hour built in for the car trip to the airport stuck, not moving, in traffic. The ride to the airport became an excruciating mix of emotion, handwringing and inescapable sadness. All I wanted to do was kiss the gummy cheeks of my babies.

The compassionate driver took every turn possible to avoid being stuck in traffic on the big roads, only to be stuck in traffic on the small roads. He could see my furrowed brow in his rearview mirror as I spoke on my cell phone with my two year old, who said, “I love you” to me for the first time ever (visualize Mommy’s heart melting). The “baby’s” favorite song is “A Foggy Day,” by Frank Sinatra. She requests it at every meal, and as it plays now, the tears well up again. It’s a peppy tune, it puts us all in a good mood. It’s always followed by “Let’s Fall in Love,” which my older daughter likes best. Thanks, Frankie, we love you!

“We’ve never missed a flight!” the driver chirped, as we arrived ninety minutes before takeoff. He graciously led me to customs with my bag and wished me well. He will be receiving a large bar of chocolate from me when I get back. Passing through Russian customs, there was, miraculously, no line, nor at the security check for bags, nor at the check-in counter, nor at passport control. Where was everyone? Arriving this late turned out to mean that I had missed the crowd I remember from previous years flying with Delta out of Moscow, when they would check each bag, meticulously opening every wrapped gift and every bottle of nail polish you’d wrapped in a sock.

I even had time to buy some water before boarding, but realized that in my tearful morning haze at home, I hadn’t thought to pack a single ruble. Luckily, Moscow airports still accept “hard currency,” albeit only in the overly lit, heavily perfumed Duty Free stores, where I bought two tiny bottles of water for four dollars and twenty-eight cents (they even accepted pennies!)

As we flew over Northern Europe, I wondered how I would bear each of the following seven days without my children. Would I be in my element once I get over these few hours of transition? Or would I be racked with longing and sadness for the entire trip? Would I make it back to them safely? Would I ever leave them again willingly? The nanny thinks I’m crazy because I miss my children even when they’re just outside on the playground. I had thought I would feel unending guilt, instead, I felt the deepest sense of sadness, longing to be with them, hug them, kiss them.

It was not as if anyone was hurt, sick, or dying, God forbid, knock on wood, etc. We were all okay, I was just going on my trip, the one I’d been planning for months (years, actually). Nevertheless, I counted the hours as the distance between us grew. What will the baby feel this evening and the next and the next, when I am not there to nurse her before bedtime? Had last night felt like the last time I’d ever nurse my child again? Actually, no. It was really no different than other nights of recent months. I was exhausted at the end of the day, as usual, ready to finish up, but nevertheless, cradling my little one in this unbreakable, sometimes unbearable, close bond, that keeps a mother from leaving and draws her back to the nest again, and again, from whatever the distance, from whatever ambitious thing she may be doing.

Not being able to communicate with my babies, or with anyone I knew was what made that flight so alienating and painful, such that with every trip to the bathroom, in the solitude of those narrow, claustrophobic lavatories, I sobbed. I realized that I had been operating under the false assumption that I would feel a freedom I hadn’t felt before. Instead, what I felt was a beshackling lack of purpose and an unquenchable longing, wondering every half hour, what were they doing right now? It’s twelve o’clock, they’re going to school. It’s 2:30pm, the baby must still be napping. It’s 4:30pm, they’re on the playground. I hoped that I was feeling my own absence more than they were, but achingly I knew they would notice it more at the end of the day, at dinnertime, bedtime.

My hours of desperation during that flight, dotted by moments of numbness, were temporarily quelled only by the act of writing about it, as if this would either hasten my reunion with my babies or erase the pain of this voyage altogether. And I’d like to think that it was more love than just hormones that was giving me this pain in the first place.

As it turned out, shortly after the flight I was able to contact my husband, who reassured me that they all had a good day but missed me, of course. I called several times daily, was able to hear their voices when they felt like coming to the phone, and felt relieved, that each day, each hour, that passed meant that I was that much closer to returning to the nest, to cuddle my babies once more. But not before enriching my life in other ways first – Mom Voyage!

The Momminator

2010-10-10T11:21:00.001-07:00

It was a perfect storm of events: My husband was away on business, the baby hadn’t napped or eaten dinner, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was coming to the US Embassy in Moscow to speak. Like almost everyone else I know, I have been a fan of his since childhood, more for his bodybuilding than his gunslinging, I dare say.

I had been asked to take photographs for the event and then not to and then again to and then not to, until I figured I might as well have my camera and the girls with me, in case I could either shoot the event or have them both be in the shot. In the end, neither of these things happened. Well, they sort of didn’t happen.

Thanks to Moscow traffic, the Governor’s motorcade was delayed and the dinnertime hour came and went while we waited for him. Everyone was waiting and practicing for a group shot of California constituents. I even had time to run home from the event and grab some crackers and milk for the girls, while an equally anxious Mom watched them.

By the time the Governor arrived, the baby was loopy, had wet her pants (I still don’t know if it was milk or urine, but it looked to everyone else like the latter), and was being laughed at by all the kids, including my toddler, who, nevertheless, thankfully stayed seated with the rest of the group for the photo.

Seconds after the Governor’s handler told me I should join the group shot instead of take the picture myself (the Governor had his own photographer with him), the Governor strode up and took his place among the group of California constituents. I was, perhaps, on the edge of the shot, on the floor, actually, grabbing the flailing arms and legs of my screaming two year old and thereby giving up the millisecond opportunity of being in a photo with Arnold Schwarzenegger. As a Mom, these are the choices you make. The photographer took two or three shots and then the Governor and his handlers moved on to the stairs and stage below. I was wearing the true colors of motherhood of milk and urine on my dress, as I gathered up our sippy cups, stuffed bear and my camera to join the rest of the awaiting crowd below.

The Governor made kind remarks, thanking us all for our service to the Government and noting how much he enjoyed the fact that most of us remember him as The Terminator, as opposed to The Predator, or other such titles given him over his career. A resounding cheer came from the crowd when he said the words, “I’ll be back!”

In the end, I got to shake Arnold Schwarzenegger’s hand, or rather, he shook mine. I said to him in a barely audible voice, “Gutentag!”

And to think that just an hour or two before, I had been at home, scooping cat litter, chasing down a diaperless baby, and wiping the baby’s urine off the carpet. All in a Mom’s day’s work. Mom Voyage!

Speed Dating for Married Couples

2010-04-17T11:23:00.000-07:00

For better or worse, I have never attended a “speed dating” session, which I believe is a setup in which you have, say, ten minutes to chat with someone and get to know them just a bit before moving on to the next victim – I mean, individual, and so rotating amongst several potential datable candidates. What happens after that, I don’t know, since I’ve never done it. My guess is that you pick the one you like best, who is surely the favorite of at least one other person in the group, at which point you begin a conversational tug-of-war over the chosen favorite and try to win him or her over with your charms, looks, or whatever.

Not so for married couples! Or more specifically, for married couples with children. Small children, to be exact. We have two of these (under the age of five), who require, as most young children aged 19 months to 4 years, more attention and care than you ever thought possible to give during your simple and quaint dating years many, many, many years ago.

We are on vacation in beautiful Cannes, France – the Cote d’Azur, a romantic, lovely place in this month of April. Just today, my husband, Toby, and I found ourselves sitting next to each other at breakfast time at a beach café, after having each provided our daughters with various things such as sand toys, sunscreen, cookies, juice boxes, sun hats, books, crayons and paper. Toby turned to me and introduced himself, “Hi! I’m Toby. Who are you?” -- a natural pick-up line for a guy you’ve been married to for eight years, and “dating” for thirteen.

We realized that we were close enough that he could put his arm around my shoulder and we could talk while the girls occupied themselves with the above list of items for precisely 2.5 minutes, until one of them cried.

Ten minutes – ha! That is NOT speedy. Speed dating for married couples is much more expeditious and truly “speedy.” At 10-second intervals over the course of a day, a week, a month, a year, a decade, those are the glimpses of the dating life we relish. And rather than rotate from candidate to candidate, you get to rediscover who this person, your spouse, is over and over again!

Wringing in the New Year

2010-01-28T12:24:00.000-08:00

When it comes to holiday greetings, most people say, “Better late than never,” even when that holiday greeting arrives in March. So I suppose, at the end of January it’s not too late to give one’s blog the above title. Plus, today is my birthday. I’m 39. Glad to be here. I have to write something!

This is a story of Mom (me) on a Voyage…

Feeling both nostalgic and adventurous, my husband and I decided to fly from Moscow to Berlin this New Year’s for a week, with our two children, of course. We borrowed a Berlin guidebook, arranged to stay with friends who graciously offered their apartment in their absence, and began dreaming up a list of “must-see” sights. Note the word, dreaming, here.

We had friends on tight deadlines to meet, so we saw them first on Days 1 and 2 and forwent famous sights and certain hip parts of town prone to premature fireworks, which would scare or hurt the babies’ eardrums. Day 3 was New Year’s Eve. My evening’s little black dress was actually a little black long-sleeved shirt, which ultimately was vomited on by our 15-month-old. She proceeded to vomit that evening, much to our chagrin, while visiting other friends, until it was baby bedtime and we went back to our friends’ apartment for the remainder of the evening. And the year. Things took another turn for the worse when the baby began having diarrhea and our friends’ washing machine would only fill with water, but wouldn’t “agitate” (as I subsequently learned the term back in Moscow) or spin.

So there we were, my husband and I, after the kids were tucked away in beds and travel cribs, on the 20^th New Year’s after the coming down of the Berlin Wall, wringing out sopping wet, vomitty and poopy clothes. The dryer was one of those European ones that, if you let it, will churn your clothes for 12 hours and possibly shrink them to the size of your child’s teddy bear. So, after squeezing as much water out of the clothes as we could, we opted to string the clothes around the apartment, mostly on the radiators, which were cranked thanks to the low temperatures and snowstorms that happened to be blanketing Berlin that week, matching its temperatures with those of Moscow.

On New Year’s Day we decided we needed to take the baby to the doctor, but no German Pediatrician in his right Weihnachtsmind would be working on New Year’s Day. To make a long story less long, the rest of our trip included a visit to the ER, denting our gracious friends’ Mercedes, more vomit and diarrhea, no famous sights, and coming home in Moscow to a broken washing machine.

Happy New Year, and Mom Voyage!

Put Your Money Where Your Wallet Is

2009-11-17T09:43:00.000-08:00

My idea of a relaxing evening is sipping a tea, or better yet, a hot chocolate, and writing a letter or reading a book, neither of which I do, of course, because I’m always glued to the computer screen, keeping in touch with faraway family and friends, since most of them do not live next door to us in Moscow, or I’m ordering toiletries over the Internet, also because Target is not located just down the street from us.

My husband’s idea of a relaxing evening is checking his financial portfolio and creating Excel spreadsheets that reflect various rates of savings and returns over the future.

My idea of financial diversification is keeping small bits of cash, preferably in different currencies and including coins, which I love for their shiny clinkiness, all over the house in little wallets and purses, so that when I find them, I’m pleasantly surprised and suddenly in the black.

My husband, who tracks every penny (in Excel), expresses no surprise when I come across a long-lost wallet with bills and coins inside. Instead, he rolls his eyes and laughs at me.

What? Isn’t this a kind of saving? Isn’t this the kind of currency hedging our grad school ForEx professor would be proud of?

At the very least, when I find a wallet or purse with money tucked inside, my husband and I know that until now, that money has not been misspent.

He urges me to put it into the budget, or the bank.

I’d rather spend it on another face cream, or else hide it again for the next time.

The Art of Doing Nothing

2009-10-15T09:37:00.000-07:00

I swear that the corners of every table and countertop in our house come up and hit me in the arm or leg every time I pass by.

My husband says I am just moving too fast.

No, but really, how do they have such good aim, I implore. Every time I move, something seems to hit me. "Ah-ha!" he says, "You’re moving too fast. Slow down."

Hmph.

He's right. I still think it's weird, though, how my elbows, for instance, are so magnetically attracted to corners of doors and any handle that happens to be sticking out.

In my paltry efforts to "slow down" (despite having two children under the age of 4 and 2 cats and having just moved and having a trillion items, literally, to organize [Why am I such a packrat? Fodder for another blog...]), I am trying to take the advice of British author Tom Hodgkinson to heart, a man who wrote a book entitled "How to Be Idle" and who edits a magazine called The Idler. [I must read these!]

The magazine Real Simple featured 10 pearls of his wisdom in an article this year called "10 ways to enjoy doing nothing," among them, “banish the guilt,” “play the ukelele,” and “pretend to meditate.”

For me, the hardest part about slowing down and doing nothing is probably the guilt that goes with it. Hodgkinson rejected his own guilt “upon learning that Europeans in the Middle Ages felt no shame for lolling about.” Hodgkinson pooh-poohs the guilt as being something the Calvinists and Puritans foisted upon us so we'd work harder. “When you understand that it hasn’t always been this way, it becomes easier to shake it off.” [Okay, I’ll try to remind myself of that each time a new wave of guilt hits me.]

As for playing the ukulele, well maybe I should pick up the guitar again and strum that from time to time, in between diaper changes, or maybe during them! Hodgkinson’s wife hates the sounds of that ukulele, as it signifies the sound of his doing nothing useful in the house.

As for pretending to meditate, “For us westerners,” Hodgkinson writes, “meditation is an accepted way of doing nothing.” I don’t know how to meditate, so pretending to do so will be easy. It’s just finding the time….

Hodgkinson also suggests lying in a field, gazing at clouds and napping as good activities [!] for doing nothing. In fact, it’s our own sense of busy-ness, our “restless activity” that got us into this environmental crisis in the first place, according to him. It’s true, don’t you think? We always feel like we have to be doing something, working on something, building, expanding, economically growing, that we end up creating exhaust fumes, burning energy, using resources, etc. just to get stuff done! [Right on, man!]

Even blogging about this is using computer energy. Rather than lazing on the couch with my two sleeping cats and reading a book (or not, as that would require some electrical lighting at this late hour), I am hammering away at the keyboard.

My husband says people who do less actually accomplish more.

So if I slowed down, did nothing, then slowed down some more [Is that possible?], I might have fewer bruises and actually get more done? Hmmm, my brain churns. Could I trick the system into knocking off my To Do List somehow?

Market Analysis

2009-10-14T09:10:00.000-07:00

What the world needs more of is open air markets! This is my third installment of photos from the Moscow Danilovsky market, since I can't seem to find the time to actually write in my blog, at least I will photog in my blog!

The Zen of Ralph

2009-10-03T11:45:00.000-07:00

Rather than put off blogging, as I do every night, about which I then feel guilty because I am not accomplishing yet another goal on my lengthy list of things to do in life, I'm going to mention our good friend Ralph, who is an example to be followed. This might actually serve as a nice lead-in to my previously-promised future blog entry "The Art of Doing Nothing" or "The Art of Moving Slow."

Ralph is an artist living in Paris. He is a former model and a current vegetarian. Besides the fact that he is a thoughtful, loyal and caring friend, he is also the best example my husband and I have seen of Living Zen. (Our good friends Ed and Linda come in a close second, and they also happen to be good friends of Ralph and his partner, Patrice.)

Ralph lets trouble pass over him like water rolling off of a duck's back.

The Zen of Ralph is remaining calm amidst pressure, chaos, social dynamics, Paris traffic.

The Zen of Ralph is letting go of tension, embracing the important things in life, counting your blessings, being grateful the baguette and cheese on your table.

The Zen of Ralph is accepting life as it is and not fighting it too much, which is totally contrary to my nature, and I am trying to change this, one minute at a time.

Password Protected and a bit more Marketry

2009-10-01T11:25:00.000-07:00

I have just spent the last 15 minutes trying to log into my Blog in order to write in my Blog. I now have FOUR pages of logins, usernames, and passwords, and the list just keeps growing. I try to keep it cryptic, but if anybody finds my list, my credit will be shot! Because who wants to create a separate password for each new website, online store or, heck, Blog! After password number 143, one tends to lose count, make all the passwords the same, and hope for the best. So I have this list and can't find the right login/password combination! Therefore, tonight, instead of writing about something of interest, such as "The Art of Doing Nothing," I have been fighting with the login screen! Better luck next time. In the meantime, perhaps I'll just add a few more photos from the Moscow vegetable market, Danilovsky. I just can't resist! The color, the characters, the veggies!

Market Economy

2009-09-12T11:33:00.001-07:00

In my previous post, I glibly suggested that one grin and bear it when being exiled to Moscow. This comment was made while under the influence of high speed internet access. Upon arriving in Moscow, and for the following five days, we had no internet access, and I realized the naivite of my positive attitude, and the doomed-before-it-even-began goal of my blog which was to write daily! Hah! Nevertheless, we now have (spotty) internet access and the reporting shall commence!

Later on I'll go back to such delightful nuggets as "How to not travel with 2 small children to Russia," or "Packing Tips 101." However today I'd just like to post a shot or two of a Russian "rynok" (market), which, in this early fall/late summer season displays some of the colorful vegetable, fruit and human characters at these markets. No one declined a photo. My strategy was to photograph several of the vendors from whom I'd just bought peppers or beets. How could they possibly say no?

This was the Danilovsky Rynok, a covered market, more expensive on the inside, less expensive the further from the center one ventured. My friend and I trawled the outer two rings, bargained a bit and each got a canvas bag-full of plums, spinach, apples, onions, grapes, and more. This is the "Russia" experience, or "former-Soviet" experience -- here one encounters herb vendors from Samarkand, Uzbekistan and tomato vendors from Azerbaijan. Some with gold teeth, some with smiles, some with scowls, some beckoning to try their pickled cucumbers....Mom Voyage!

Exile to Russia

2009-09-01T18:34:00.000-07:00

I'm in a panic -- I am being exiled to Russia tomorrow for the foreseeable future!

Like joining the Rockettes or becoming a plastic surgeon, living in Russia is not for the faint-hearted. All I wanted to do after college was move to Moscow. I have now gotten my wish...twice! This time we're moving with two babies (and two cats, but they've been there before, and for them, it's like going home, sort of, since they are from Almaty, Kazakhstan, which isn't exactly Moscow, but that's another story, for a future blog.)

(Speaking of said blog, this will be an attempt to write a little bit, everyday if possible, about life, travel, photography, language, babies, being a mom, being an expatriate, being a closet artist on the run. With such a narrowly-focused blog, I may run out of things to say. But I hope not.)

So what do you do when you are moving to Moscow? Pack a bikini? No. Eat as much Thai food as possible before going? Yes. They do Thai food better in the US than in Russia. Take your plastic bust of Lenin along? Not necessary. You can still find them on the black market. Pack everything in Ziploc bags and hope for the best? Sure.

Don't forget your almond butter, Crayola twistable crayons, and your Old Navy favorites. Everything else can potentially be found, at a price. Soba noodles? Check. German laundry detergent? Overpriced Hello Kitty items? Check and check. H&M? Yes. Ikea is also well-ensconced in and around Moscow, as is Belgian bakery Le Pain Quotidien, I have recently learned. Oh yes, and those old North Face double-waterproofed boots will come in handy for 7 months of the year at least.

But how do you mentally prepare for a move to Moscow? With kids and cats and household, it's just survival day by day no matter where you are. So just grimace through the rough parts and enjoy the rest. Mom Voyage!

Mom Voyage - A New Blog

2009-08-31T20:37:00.000-07:00

A mom, a journey, deep thoughts by the mom about the journey (both physical and otherwise). That's this blog! Premiering September 1st, 2009.