Our apartment has roll-down block-out shades. Most of the apartments in Amman do. We live on a busy corner, and when down, the shades help keep out a lot of the noise from the street. I am sure they have many useful features. During the hot summers, they would help keep apartments cool. We have heard Amman does get dust storms, and the shades would be the first line of protection in keeping out the wind and the sand.
We usually put the shades down at night. Partially, to keep the early risers in bed longer, truth be told. When the shades are down, it makes the house very dark at night, as no light from the streets or the moon or the sky can get in.
When one of the kids comes into our room at night, you can neither hear or see them. I sleep closest to the door, and they always come to my side of the bed first. You never really know when a child is standing in the dark, staring down at you, willing you to wake up. Somehow, I do sense that they are there. I reach my hand out into the darkness and touch a soft and round, pajama-clad tummy or a small arm or hand or small fingers, reaching out for my hand in return.
Elise has encouraged me to just let Clementine into our bed, and the other night, sensing it was her, I pulled the sheets back and she climbed in. I don't know if it was because I was already hot or if it was because I was already having trouble falling asleep myself, but I couldn't stand her lying beside me; She wouldn't hold still, twitching like a spasmodic protozoa on a slide under a scientist's microscope.
I walked her back to her bed. She said her ankle and the back of her leg hurt, and I tried to rub them in a weak attempt to sooth her back to sleep.
Elise professes to having experienced growing pains. I never did, so cant really sympathize. I surmise Clementine was over-tired. Something I can relate to. She had swim class at school earlier in the day which is usually enough to do the trick.
When the rubbing didn't work, I promised her I would get her some medicine. I went into the kitchen and filled a plastic shot glass with water, a placebo, and brought it to her.
"Drink this," I told her, guiding the small cup to her hand. She did and lied back down. I laid next to her and waited for her breathing to slow, for her to fall back to sleep.
I didn't have much sympathy for her, but stayed calm. I tried to imagine what would make a little girl get out of bed and come to her parents. Our kids are (mostly) very good. The only reason she would fight gravity and come into our room was to seek comfort, so it was my responsibility as a parent to do nothing else but provide comfort.
The placebo worked and she did fall back to sleep....
....for a few hours.
A little after 12:00 she was back in our room with the same complaints.
I took her to the kitchen and asked her to sit on a foot stool in the laundry room. No placebo this time. I was going to have to find either a thimble-full of whiskey or some children's Motrin. I opted for the later. Real medicine this time. Hopefully, she couldn't tell the difference.
The next morning, all talk at the breakfast table was on Peter's field trip. I still don't know exactly where he went. When we originally received the permission slip, it sounded like his class was going to one of those gift shops on the side of the highway on the way to the Dead Sea, one of the places where they sell salt crystals and Dead Sea mud to slather on your body in hopes of regaining a youthful sheen. To hear him describe it, it sounded the like mechanical shop in The Empire Strikes Back, the one where Chewbacca finds the uggnauts disassembling C-3PO, lasers shooting, sparks flying, and the shrill whine of rotary saws splitting the air. It was some kind of wood shop where they made small items (tchotckes?) out of olive tree wood.
Now, I thought olive trees never died, hence the reason an olive branch was the symbol of everlasting peace, but evidently I was wrong. I must be, because I can't imagine a Jordanian cutting down a living olive tree for any reason.
Peter was to bring five JD to school for the purpose of buying a few of the wooden trinkets from the wood shop, but both Elise and I forgot until the second the school bus pulled away from the curb.
Elise even thought about trying to run the school bus down, but I was headed to the school anyway to see Sam's Arabic class project, so agreed to stick my head into Peter's classroom before the field trip and bring him the money.
When I stuck my head in Peter's classroom, the class was sitting in morning circle with their backs to the door. Evidently, they must have been talking about the field trip or the money, because as I caught the teacher's eye, she told Peter her dad was here with the money.
Peter hopped up and ran toward me. I reached into my back pocket, pulled my wallet out, and gave Peter a pink bill. 5 JD notes were pink.
So are 100 Sri Lankan rupee notes.
Peter gave me a giant hug. It was completely unexpected and perhaps a little out of character for him, considering the eyes of the entire class were on us at this point. But the hug spread through me like a warm front. I could almost imagine a miniature meteorologist in my body standing in front of weather map or green screen warning of the impending heat wave.
He ran back to the circle of friends and I left the classroom. From the hall, I heard one of his friends exclaim, "Wow! That's a 100!"
I stopped in my tracks and ran back into the classroom, knowing the mistake I had made. I quickly swapped out the 100 Sri Lankan rupees for 5 Jordanian dinars. Elise had run into a similar problem trying to pay for coffee with dinars from the UAE. *Sigh* the problems faced by world travelers! : )
We usually put the shades down at night. Partially, to keep the early risers in bed longer, truth be told. When the shades are down, it makes the house very dark at night, as no light from the streets or the moon or the sky can get in.
When one of the kids comes into our room at night, you can neither hear or see them. I sleep closest to the door, and they always come to my side of the bed first. You never really know when a child is standing in the dark, staring down at you, willing you to wake up. Somehow, I do sense that they are there. I reach my hand out into the darkness and touch a soft and round, pajama-clad tummy or a small arm or hand or small fingers, reaching out for my hand in return.
Elise has encouraged me to just let Clementine into our bed, and the other night, sensing it was her, I pulled the sheets back and she climbed in. I don't know if it was because I was already hot or if it was because I was already having trouble falling asleep myself, but I couldn't stand her lying beside me; She wouldn't hold still, twitching like a spasmodic protozoa on a slide under a scientist's microscope.
I walked her back to her bed. She said her ankle and the back of her leg hurt, and I tried to rub them in a weak attempt to sooth her back to sleep.
Elise professes to having experienced growing pains. I never did, so cant really sympathize. I surmise Clementine was over-tired. Something I can relate to. She had swim class at school earlier in the day which is usually enough to do the trick.
When the rubbing didn't work, I promised her I would get her some medicine. I went into the kitchen and filled a plastic shot glass with water, a placebo, and brought it to her.
"Drink this," I told her, guiding the small cup to her hand. She did and lied back down. I laid next to her and waited for her breathing to slow, for her to fall back to sleep.
I didn't have much sympathy for her, but stayed calm. I tried to imagine what would make a little girl get out of bed and come to her parents. Our kids are (mostly) very good. The only reason she would fight gravity and come into our room was to seek comfort, so it was my responsibility as a parent to do nothing else but provide comfort.
The placebo worked and she did fall back to sleep....
....for a few hours.
A little after 12:00 she was back in our room with the same complaints.
I took her to the kitchen and asked her to sit on a foot stool in the laundry room. No placebo this time. I was going to have to find either a thimble-full of whiskey or some children's Motrin. I opted for the later. Real medicine this time. Hopefully, she couldn't tell the difference.
The next morning, all talk at the breakfast table was on Peter's field trip. I still don't know exactly where he went. When we originally received the permission slip, it sounded like his class was going to one of those gift shops on the side of the highway on the way to the Dead Sea, one of the places where they sell salt crystals and Dead Sea mud to slather on your body in hopes of regaining a youthful sheen. To hear him describe it, it sounded the like mechanical shop in The Empire Strikes Back, the one where Chewbacca finds the uggnauts disassembling C-3PO, lasers shooting, sparks flying, and the shrill whine of rotary saws splitting the air. It was some kind of wood shop where they made small items (tchotckes?) out of olive tree wood.
Now, I thought olive trees never died, hence the reason an olive branch was the symbol of everlasting peace, but evidently I was wrong. I must be, because I can't imagine a Jordanian cutting down a living olive tree for any reason.
Peter was to bring five JD to school for the purpose of buying a few of the wooden trinkets from the wood shop, but both Elise and I forgot until the second the school bus pulled away from the curb.
Elise even thought about trying to run the school bus down, but I was headed to the school anyway to see Sam's Arabic class project, so agreed to stick my head into Peter's classroom before the field trip and bring him the money.
When I stuck my head in Peter's classroom, the class was sitting in morning circle with their backs to the door. Evidently, they must have been talking about the field trip or the money, because as I caught the teacher's eye, she told Peter her dad was here with the money.
Peter hopped up and ran toward me. I reached into my back pocket, pulled my wallet out, and gave Peter a pink bill. 5 JD notes were pink.
So are 100 Sri Lankan rupee notes.
Peter gave me a giant hug. It was completely unexpected and perhaps a little out of character for him, considering the eyes of the entire class were on us at this point. But the hug spread through me like a warm front. I could almost imagine a miniature meteorologist in my body standing in front of weather map or green screen warning of the impending heat wave.
He ran back to the circle of friends and I left the classroom. From the hall, I heard one of his friends exclaim, "Wow! That's a 100!"
I stopped in my tracks and ran back into the classroom, knowing the mistake I had made. I quickly swapped out the 100 Sri Lankan rupees for 5 Jordanian dinars. Elise had run into a similar problem trying to pay for coffee with dinars from the UAE. *Sigh* the problems faced by world travelers! : )
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