The start of the school year has been nearly as seamless as our move to Jordan. The kids were ready for school; we had been preparing them for this day for the better part of three weeks, if not talking about their new school before we even left Virginia. Elise and I joked that we had bored them to tears for the last three weeks, holing them up in a giant house in a foreign country with no toys, so they had no choice but to be excited for school.
In Falls Church, they each went to a different school. Here, in Jordan, they all three are going to the same school. Clementine was arguably the most excited. She was joining her brothers at the big kids' school. The school day is much longer for her now than it was before, when she was in pre-school from 9-12. Now, her school days goes from 8:00 to 3:00 (though for the first two weeks, she will get out an hour early), a real test of her endurance.
The night following the first day of school, she woke twice, complaining of a pain in her ankle. She was exhausted. This was our little girl, out, all alone, in a big world. The pain in her foot, was largely psychosomatic, I suspect, her body's way of telling her...and us...to pull her back into the protective cocoon of home. I walked her back to her bed the first time she got up and laid with her until she fell back to sleep (I may have fallen asleep in her bed with her). The second time, we sandwiched her between Elise and I, the place her subconscious most wanted to be.
If there were any concerns she was not ready to make the jump to kindergarten, they were quickly dispelled the first few minutes of the first day of school. There was no tearful goodbye. There were no tears at all. She hugged Elise and walked into the classroom without pause. She went straight to the play kitchen set up in the corner of the classroom, only looking back briefly to give a short wave goodbye. We didn't linger. I wanted to, but we had to get Peter and Sam to their classrooms, too.
She rides the bus to school with her brothers, but Elise and I will take turns taking an Uber to the school in the afternoon to pick her up early...at least, until she stays until 3:00, after which time she will ride the bus home, as well. Yesterday, there was a little bit of confusion at pick-up (to put it mildly. Elise used the word 'chaos'). Clementine knew Elise was coming to pick her up, but the teacher was under the impression she was taking the bus home. As Elise described it, Clementine's face showed the tug-of-war between knowing what your are supposed to do and having an adult tell you otherwise. Elise arrived at the school just as the queue of children were filing off to board the bus, Clementine at the end of the line. When Clementine saw Elise walk through the door, her face melted and she burst into tears. Mostly, in relief. Elise had arrived just in time to save another little girl, too, whose mother was also coming to pick her up from mistakenly riding the bus home.
The boys, of course have hit the ground running. Sam and Peter have snack at the same time, at picnic tables outside. On the first two days of school, Sam saw Peter and went to sit with him, so they could have snack together. More than enough to make Elise--and my--hearts happy.
Peter had his first swim class yesterday. The school has a brand new, six-lane, 25-meter indoor pool. I'm jealous. We received some conflicting information regarding swim class. Not only do they need flip-flops and a sweatshirt in the event there is a fire drill during swim class, they also need a swim cap if their hair is past their ears. The first email we received stated the kids needed a swim cap if their hair was past their collar. In any event, Peter's hair is now past his ears and his collar. His mother gave him the option of wearing a swim cap or getting a haircut, and even though I convinced them I wore a cap when I did triathlons and was on swim team, Peter opted for the haircut. Which makes me a little sad. His surfer-hair was growing on me.
I had written earlier about my own transition having seams. I was having trouble understanding why this transition seemed more difficult for me than either the move to Brazil or India. I was here, but I didn't feel like I was here, really. It was like a dream. I attribute that to how fast everything happened. I think I wrote, too, about feeling as though we were in Virginia one day and Amman, Jordan the next, and I think I have identified the difference--at least for me--between this move and the moves to Brazil and India.
I had language training before we went to Brazil and India. I took six months of Portuguese before moving to Brazil and almost nine months of Tamil before moving to India. For me, this is more than time spent learning a language. It is six or nine months of extended mental preparation to live in another country. Elise and the kids never had this. There lives went on as usual. The kids went to school, and Elise worked, while I prepared linguistically, culturally, and logistically to live in another country, time I did not get this go around.
A month in, I can say things are definitely getting better. The kinks are working themselves out. It no longer feels like a dream. The kids will have Arabic class almost every day. Elise and I are also both taking Arabic twice a week. My grandparents are from Lebanon. Growing up, my dad used to take us every Sunday afternoon to cook-outs at the Lebanese-Syrian Club off of Forest Hill Blvd. in West Palm Beach. If we didn't go there, we always had dinner at Sitti's house, where she fed us kibe, sfeeha, Syrian bread, and tabouli. Every three years, starting in the mid-80's, the extended Shalhoub family (my grandmother had five sisters and one brother) get together--either in Boston or West Palm--for a giant family reunion. This place had been such a large part of my life...but in a very tangential or peripheral way. Yes, it was a part of who I was, but not part of my personal experience. Until now. And I can take a certain pride now that I am incorporating the experience, as well. Taking advantage of an opportunity many others who attend the Shalhoub reunion may never get.
Being here adds another level of richness and complexity to the kids, to me, to Elise, to her work, and to our relationship.
Even now, already, I can ask Elise, "Shoo fee ma fee? (What's up?)"
"Sa fee wa fee. (Nuthin' much.)"
As pão de queijo, capoeira, dosa and idlis are now part of our collective unconscious, so, too, will hummus and pita and Arabic lessons become part of our family history.
Elise recently told the story of a local guard that sees her coming (even though she can slip through a more pedestrian way) and opens the automobile arm for her and cheers as she runs under it like it's a finish line as she return home from the gym. She wrote, "I'm falling in love with another country. I'll be broken after this, too. I can already feel that." I am beginning to feel the same way.
Elise, the kids, and I walked to the neighborhood pet store to look at kittens and bunny rabbits. The man who worked there brought lettuce to the kids for them to feed to the rabbits as I practiced a few very broken phrases of my extremely novice Arabic out on him. A few minutes later, as we were leaving, we stopped so the kids could admire the canaries in the bird cages outside, and he offered me a cigarette. I regret not having accepted.
Last night, I was standing on the curb waiting for the pizza delivery man. Pizza delivery is not yet the exact science it is the States, but it is also not nearly the heart-wrenching, scream-at-the-heavens frustration it is in India. It falls somewhere in the middle, but does still call for standing on the curb to make sure the delivery driver can find your apartment building. As I was standing on the corner, the gendarmerie posted to our corner struck up a conversation with me. I don't speak much Arabic, and he didn't speak any English. It was a short conversation, but at the end of it, he offered me a rock candy from his front shirt pocket.
Today, on the Uber ride to the kids' school to pick up Peter who had fallen mysteriously ill with a stomach ache, the driver motioned to the dashboard and said--as we pulled away from the curb--"From now on, this car is yours. You may adjust anything you like."
Yes, I will be broken, too.
In Falls Church, they each went to a different school. Here, in Jordan, they all three are going to the same school. Clementine was arguably the most excited. She was joining her brothers at the big kids' school. The school day is much longer for her now than it was before, when she was in pre-school from 9-12. Now, her school days goes from 8:00 to 3:00 (though for the first two weeks, she will get out an hour early), a real test of her endurance.
The night following the first day of school, she woke twice, complaining of a pain in her ankle. She was exhausted. This was our little girl, out, all alone, in a big world. The pain in her foot, was largely psychosomatic, I suspect, her body's way of telling her...and us...to pull her back into the protective cocoon of home. I walked her back to her bed the first time she got up and laid with her until she fell back to sleep (I may have fallen asleep in her bed with her). The second time, we sandwiched her between Elise and I, the place her subconscious most wanted to be.
If there were any concerns she was not ready to make the jump to kindergarten, they were quickly dispelled the first few minutes of the first day of school. There was no tearful goodbye. There were no tears at all. She hugged Elise and walked into the classroom without pause. She went straight to the play kitchen set up in the corner of the classroom, only looking back briefly to give a short wave goodbye. We didn't linger. I wanted to, but we had to get Peter and Sam to their classrooms, too.
She rides the bus to school with her brothers, but Elise and I will take turns taking an Uber to the school in the afternoon to pick her up early...at least, until she stays until 3:00, after which time she will ride the bus home, as well. Yesterday, there was a little bit of confusion at pick-up (to put it mildly. Elise used the word 'chaos'). Clementine knew Elise was coming to pick her up, but the teacher was under the impression she was taking the bus home. As Elise described it, Clementine's face showed the tug-of-war between knowing what your are supposed to do and having an adult tell you otherwise. Elise arrived at the school just as the queue of children were filing off to board the bus, Clementine at the end of the line. When Clementine saw Elise walk through the door, her face melted and she burst into tears. Mostly, in relief. Elise had arrived just in time to save another little girl, too, whose mother was also coming to pick her up from mistakenly riding the bus home.
The boys, of course have hit the ground running. Sam and Peter have snack at the same time, at picnic tables outside. On the first two days of school, Sam saw Peter and went to sit with him, so they could have snack together. More than enough to make Elise--and my--hearts happy.
Peter had his first swim class yesterday. The school has a brand new, six-lane, 25-meter indoor pool. I'm jealous. We received some conflicting information regarding swim class. Not only do they need flip-flops and a sweatshirt in the event there is a fire drill during swim class, they also need a swim cap if their hair is past their ears. The first email we received stated the kids needed a swim cap if their hair was past their collar. In any event, Peter's hair is now past his ears and his collar. His mother gave him the option of wearing a swim cap or getting a haircut, and even though I convinced them I wore a cap when I did triathlons and was on swim team, Peter opted for the haircut. Which makes me a little sad. His surfer-hair was growing on me.
I had written earlier about my own transition having seams. I was having trouble understanding why this transition seemed more difficult for me than either the move to Brazil or India. I was here, but I didn't feel like I was here, really. It was like a dream. I attribute that to how fast everything happened. I think I wrote, too, about feeling as though we were in Virginia one day and Amman, Jordan the next, and I think I have identified the difference--at least for me--between this move and the moves to Brazil and India.
I had language training before we went to Brazil and India. I took six months of Portuguese before moving to Brazil and almost nine months of Tamil before moving to India. For me, this is more than time spent learning a language. It is six or nine months of extended mental preparation to live in another country. Elise and the kids never had this. There lives went on as usual. The kids went to school, and Elise worked, while I prepared linguistically, culturally, and logistically to live in another country, time I did not get this go around.
A month in, I can say things are definitely getting better. The kinks are working themselves out. It no longer feels like a dream. The kids will have Arabic class almost every day. Elise and I are also both taking Arabic twice a week. My grandparents are from Lebanon. Growing up, my dad used to take us every Sunday afternoon to cook-outs at the Lebanese-Syrian Club off of Forest Hill Blvd. in West Palm Beach. If we didn't go there, we always had dinner at Sitti's house, where she fed us kibe, sfeeha, Syrian bread, and tabouli. Every three years, starting in the mid-80's, the extended Shalhoub family (my grandmother had five sisters and one brother) get together--either in Boston or West Palm--for a giant family reunion. This place had been such a large part of my life...but in a very tangential or peripheral way. Yes, it was a part of who I was, but not part of my personal experience. Until now. And I can take a certain pride now that I am incorporating the experience, as well. Taking advantage of an opportunity many others who attend the Shalhoub reunion may never get.
Being here adds another level of richness and complexity to the kids, to me, to Elise, to her work, and to our relationship.
Even now, already, I can ask Elise, "Shoo fee ma fee? (What's up?)"
"Sa fee wa fee. (Nuthin' much.)"
As pão de queijo, capoeira, dosa and idlis are now part of our collective unconscious, so, too, will hummus and pita and Arabic lessons become part of our family history.
Elise recently told the story of a local guard that sees her coming (even though she can slip through a more pedestrian way) and opens the automobile arm for her and cheers as she runs under it like it's a finish line as she return home from the gym. She wrote, "I'm falling in love with another country. I'll be broken after this, too. I can already feel that." I am beginning to feel the same way.
Elise, the kids, and I walked to the neighborhood pet store to look at kittens and bunny rabbits. The man who worked there brought lettuce to the kids for them to feed to the rabbits as I practiced a few very broken phrases of my extremely novice Arabic out on him. A few minutes later, as we were leaving, we stopped so the kids could admire the canaries in the bird cages outside, and he offered me a cigarette. I regret not having accepted.
Last night, I was standing on the curb waiting for the pizza delivery man. Pizza delivery is not yet the exact science it is the States, but it is also not nearly the heart-wrenching, scream-at-the-heavens frustration it is in India. It falls somewhere in the middle, but does still call for standing on the curb to make sure the delivery driver can find your apartment building. As I was standing on the corner, the gendarmerie posted to our corner struck up a conversation with me. I don't speak much Arabic, and he didn't speak any English. It was a short conversation, but at the end of it, he offered me a rock candy from his front shirt pocket.
Today, on the Uber ride to the kids' school to pick up Peter who had fallen mysteriously ill with a stomach ache, the driver motioned to the dashboard and said--as we pulled away from the curb--"From now on, this car is yours. You may adjust anything you like."
Yes, I will be broken, too.
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