Elise & Paul + 2

Love

2012-02-18T16:50:00.003-05:00

Today Pete leaned over awkwardly from the bitsy training potty laid his head in my lap where I sat reading him a book, awaiting his "gift," and said "mmm mommy. yuv you."

I'll take it any way I can get it.

Is there a better day in a parents life than when your children tell you they love you for the very first time?

Not that I've yet experienced.

Words with Pete: Two Years

2012-02-18T04:30:00.003-05:00

Motorcycle: "Moga-mo"

Jelly Beans: "Belly Jeans"

Hot Dog: "Wa-Wog"

Watermelon: "Moga-mella"

Oreos: "Circle round and round and round cookies"

Strawberries: "Strawbellies"

Elephants: "Fuffants"

Muffins: "Fuffins"

Lion: "Ligon" (Tiger/Lion hybrid ala Napoleon Dynamite "Liger." You can't even teach kids pure awesome like this.)

Lightening McQueen: "Lightening DuQueen" (Cars: the movie, clothing, sippy cup, backpack, lunchbox, flip-flop, taker-overer of the world)

...and now a little something we like to call, "Twisty Nose"

Bid List!

2012-02-15T13:11:00.003-05:00

After much anticipation we finally received our bid list today:

Brazil, we will be very sad to part ways, but I have a feeling we will see each other again.

In the meantime, Bangkok, Kathmandu, London, Nassau, Moscow, Paris, Rome, Dubai, Calgary, Florence, Lisbon, Ankara....

We hope to make your acquaintance soon and have the good fortune of calling you (or one of 230 others!) home for the next two years.

A lover's semi-holiday

2012-02-15T10:38:00.016-05:00

Happy belated Valentine's Day! We spread the love all the way from the USA to Brazil with a care package from Nanny that included conversation hearts that we repackaged late Monday night to take to school for Sam's class.

Brazilians think we are completely ridiculous, for a lot of reasons, but particularly on this day, when we describe Valentine's Day, with we can most closely relate it to here in Brazil, "Dia das Namoradas." This is the Brazilian equivalent of Valentines Day, which falls here on the 12th of June, but is ONLY for "girlfriends and boyfriends." So we really creeped them out by sending Sam to preschool with treats reading "Marry Me" and "You're the One," to pass out to both boys and girls in his class. "Crazy Americans."

Putting together the treats, "Hole Puncher Man," and I sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Paul returned from putting Pete down for bed and I asked him to Google Valentine's Day to tell Sam the story about St. Valentine. I think it's important to honor our country's holidays or teach the boys about them so they don't lose touch with their inner lover's on days such as this. Paul refused, reminding me that all the stories about Valentine's Day were about being in jail and dying, which hello! Love?! That's what it's all about! Am I right?

So, Paul made up his own story, none of which I remember. Sorry Paul.

Oh and...PS: I'm never cutting his hair again, because those curls, it turns out, are attached to my heart and each time someone cuts one a little piece of me dies. It is really bad.

These, my tiny loves, extra huggy while saying goodbye to Sam for school. Paul waiting, keys and tiny puppy dog briefcase...ok backpack, in hand while the lovers tear themselves apart.

For our lover's holiday we treated ourselves to a trip to visit our Doula. One last appointment before baby girl is due, to sharpen Paul's labor massage techniques. Then we were off to dinner at Parilla Madrid, a Spanish tapas restaurant, where you can hope to, but not find any Spanish tapa on the menu, but instead a "Rodizio" of small Brazilian plates. Yummy, yet confusing in their culinary pride. I decked myself out in my least muumuu-like outfit I could wriggle in at this precious, advanced maternal state and photographed my least pregnant part. Just to prove to everyone leaving work in the embassy parking lot as I waited for Paul, that: "Damn girl! She's still got it." Whatever that might be, the sharp lines of my nose perhaps.

Paul's gift to me, though lovely (I picked it out) was caught up in the awesomeness that is DPO mail. My gifts to him, a variable cornucopia of odds and ends: an evening of arranged child care, a visit complete with Powerpoint diagrams of lady-birthing-parts from the Doula, a wedding photo framed after six years of marriage, one more night in our bed before he is forced out by the sheer mountain of pillows that I require to support my inner tiny human.

The government, however, did come through with a much awaited gift: Arriving just a day late (or so we are promised) the key to our future, The bid list. Part II, III, IV....I've lost track, of our lover's adventure soon to be determined...

Meia Maratona

2012-02-12T16:01:00.011-05:00

Weekend? What weekend? We kicked off Saturday bright and early with swim lessons rolled right into lunch and a cupcake baking/nap marathon.

We were invited Saturday night to some friends home for a pre-race dinner with the rest of Paul's running mates, so I baked Brazilian colored cupcakes in honor of: their first "Brazilian Half," my sweet tooth and to feed all nine kids in attendance.

We had an impromptu 37/38 week photo shoot on the way out the door to prove just ohhhmmaaagawd how big I am getting, but also how cute and excited these little boys are to welcome their baby sister to the world.

Paul had no trouble rolling out of bed at the usual insanely early hour that we arise, courtesy of Peter, and we hung out watching a little "morning tv" and making signs to cheer on our posse. We headed just to the end of our conjunto with snacks and water, where Paul promised to pass by sometime around 8:30.

Shortly after 8:30 (typical late start time. Brazilian style) he flew by.

Always the Superfan of his dad, Sam was eager to run and collect Paul's sweat drenched race shirt and visor that he'd shed on his way by to lighten the load for the last few miles.

...and while we didn't make it to the finish line, my friend Morgan snagged this picture of the big finisher...well finished.

This afternoon we spent fitting three car-seats together like puzzle pieces into our car to make travel happen for the next 9 months or so until we leave Brazil and finishing sewing baby girl's bedding (yes I did! pictures to follow as soon as our crib arrives!) in a furious nesting/sewing frenzy.

Perspectives

2012-02-09T15:27:00.003-05:00

Some People: "The glass is half empty."

Other People: "The glass is half full."

Sam: "That glass has a lot of....glass!"

Post Nap Tangle

2012-02-08T16:46:00.001-05:00

The Waiting Place

2012-02-06T06:47:00.000-05:00

Alas, much to our chagrin, we have arrived in that most dreaded of places (according to Dr. Seuss, at least)…The Waiting Place.

“Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting.”

…A place for people just waiting. Like us. Waiting is hard. Especially for Elise and I, people of action. Not only are we eagerly awaiting the arrival of the fifth member of our family, but we are also waiting for a promised list of places, one of which we will be lucky enough to call home for the two years following our forced eviction from Brazil.

And while we are not waiting for the fish to bite or Uncle Jake, we are learning that patience is not only a virtue but sometimes the best strategy available at the time. I learned this the hard way during my stint as a triathlete. While it seemed completely intuitive at the time to hammer the bike leg in hopes of putting a few seconds on my rivals, I quickly learned there was no honor in a fast bike split if it cost you the race. Instead, I learned to wait. I pedaled only hard enough to stay with my adversaries, sometimes shamelessly hiding in their slipstream, knowing that I might put a good minute per mile on them on the run. Even in a sprint race, I could be downing a second stack of flapjakes or halfway into a 9 a.m. High Life while my foes were still wishing away the lactic acid bubbling in their quadriceps.

We had every reason to believe the bid list would be released last Friday, but as 8 p.m. rolled around (close of business in Washington), we gave up hope. Now we have no idea when it might come and perhaps it is better this way as we don’t know exactly when the baby will come either.

So, instead of micromanaging every second of the day, we take Sam to his swim lesson, get the oil changed in the Soob, shoot newlyweds, and have dance parties.

The dance party has been around for awhile, but had never before included The Who. I mistakenly assigned the guitar riff from the opening theme of the Pixar movie Cars to “I’m Free” from The Who’s Tommy. Little did I know it was Sheryl Crow. Sheryl Crow?! I would much rather Pete strum his air guitar to Roger Daltry. Yeah, there was just something a lot cooler to the boys dancing around the living room to classic rock that Choo-Choo Soul.

Whispering Trees

2012-02-05T04:49:00.002-05:00

Sam & Peter,

Life may not always be uncomplicated, but the best moments will be found in the simplest times spent with great friends.

Mom

Yard work(ers)

2012-02-03T05:55:00.005-05:00

Snow! Hail

2012-02-01T06:11:00.002-05:00

Crazy Weekend Brasilia Weather Forecast: Completely sunny with a chance of grape sized hail:

For a minute we pretended it was snow...then we snapped out of it, because when the boys wanted to go out in it, we feared for their tiny lives.

Love, everywhere....

2012-01-31T05:35:00.000-05:00

At the ends of our strings...

2012-01-30T06:02:00.003-05:00

Day number 6,234 of Winter/Summer Vacation:

Our "Little Tiny Tom Cruise" continues to get more goofy with each passing day...and so do I...with each passing day of the World's Longest Summer/Winter Preschool Vacation.

ps. I made those checkered pants for him, and he loves them, and that makes my heart sing.

The best part of my day...

2012-01-26T18:49:00.003-05:00

Was listening to Sam explain to Peter, while laying on our bed, comforting him after a slip and fall, that when he was little (like yesterday?!) that he didn't know not to run in the house either, "but I had to learn the hard way Petey and you will, too...and when you are a bigger boy like me you will walk and you will not get hurt, of course." Because "of course" is what he says at the end of every sentence now, because, duh, of course that is what you say when you're four, about to be a dad and have it all figure out. When will those babies learn, Sam?

Overheard:

2012-01-24T17:06:00.004-05:00

Sam: "Pete, do you know we're going to be dad's soon?!"

Pete (with a mouthful of noodles): "ess!"

Sam: "See we've got hair on our arms like Dad, that means we're turning into dads! Pete we're going to be best friends forever."

6 Years

2012-01-22T05:58:00.006-05:00

Paul, if you'd have told me on our wedding day that I'd be eating Lebanese food with you in Brazil, on our sixth wedding anniversary, pregnant with our third child.....I might have believed you. Happy six years and one day. Thank you for always believing, together, with me, that all of our dreams can come true. To a lifetime more of love and adventure.

Elise

ETA: For posterity and for those interested, we did, again this year, after much toiling, gift a spin on the traditional anniversary gift as we have done for the past 6 years. This years gift: Iron. I gave Paul a new iron (ours just broke) and Paul gave me an Iron and Wine cd. Together, the romance is just more than we can take...neatly ironed clothes, chill new music, hold me back. No one ever said love had to be impractical.

Next Christmas

2012-01-18T05:45:00.004-05:00

The other morning at breakfast (don't ask why there was a Coke can on the table at breakfast), Sam blurts out, "Daddy! I know what we need to leave for Santa Claus next year instead of milk and cookies!"

"What?"

"Beer!"

After Santa flew all the way down to Brazil from the North Pole, I'm guessing a beer would be welcome.

On another note, these kids don't miss a thing...!

T-rex saves the day!

2012-01-12T18:12:00.008-05:00

This morning Sam was a little grumpy as he sat pouting at the kitchen table with a plate of scrambled eggs and pao de queijo in front of him. I had noticed and remarked, trying to lighten up the mood, that one of the pao de queijo that had its top cracked off looked a bit like an egg...but everything that looks like an egg here is a dinosaur egg. He was still grumpy. In a desperate attempt to get him to smile, I snuck away amidst the whining in to the playroom and slipped a tiny plastic T-Rex in the pocket of my hoodie. I walked casually back in, sat back down and pulled an "Oh my gosh look over there at that big bug" trick that everyone always falls for. Sam looked away and with just enough time I slipped the T-Rex into the dinosaur queijo. When he turned back around and saw it he jumped out of his chair and like a 16 year old kid in disbelief shouted "Oh Whoa, No WAY!" I think he thought at first it was the big bug I had distracted him with, then a real, but tiny hatching dinosaur...equally as frightening! When he figured out what it was he laughed. Bad mood...cured. We all laughed...mostly at his reaction and the rest of the morning went on without a hitch.

Over lunch the same dinosaur, still lingering at the kitchen table turned a tired Pete into yogurt eating machine and the tiny T-Rex into spoon. Pete ate his entire yogurt off of the upper body and disproportionately small arms of the bitsy T-Rex.

Our maid looked on in disbelief, but this is what being a little boy is all about...and if they eat...willingly...off the stunted arms of a plastic T-Rex, I'm all for it. In fact, I'm considering doing away with all our silverware and replacing it with tiny dinosaurs. Always an interesting meal at the Hanna house!

Brotherly Love

2012-01-09T06:03:00.004-05:00

Sam said to me the other night, while sharing a tiny bowl of ice cream with Peter, "Mom, this little boy has the sweetest voice I've ever heard." "Pete, keep talking to me."

...and this is Sam and Petey:

Yes, you read that correctly. Sam and the giraffe he received from his aunts and uncles, Cameron, Zanne and Mark for Christmas, he named after his brother, "because I like that name, a lot Mom."

Sprinkled

2012-01-06T11:31:00.001-05:00

Baby Girl: 31 weeks

2012-01-05T10:36:00.003-05:00

I haven't been the best about documenting the day to day growth and happenings of this pregnancy. I find myself feeling guilty about it, but I remind myself I know more now, I am older and this is our third baby. I know what is on the other side of pregnancy and that those moments are the journal entries that matter. I know now that the important things are not in the day-to-day notes in the margins documenting what I craved or how I felt. Instead it comes in the body, the days we weave together as a family.

This pregnancy has been different for me, for us. Instead of eagerly awaiting my prize at the end of the journey, I've just become thankful for each day and all the moments with my family just as it is now. Three months of nausea, six weeks of bed rest, a baby girl. Strangely different cravings, a sense of calm and peace about the change that is about to come. We've also learned to appreciate through sharing in the loss of our good friends baby at 28 weeks, the delicate process of creating a life and the reality that the finish line is never the same for every race. We are thankful for each kick and after that, each day.

I am surprised to find that just knowing the sex of this baby girl makes me even more in tune to her and I can actually feel my heart strings reaching down and grabbing on to her more tightly each day. Perhaps my pension for needing "to know" and of "hating surprises," are dictated by my visual connection to the world, photography, a photographic memory, I've never been more sure it starts in the daydreaming.

We've always thought it crazy to find out the sex of ones babe at 20 weeks, but for logistic purposes, here in Brazil, we threw our beliefs aside. Never say never. We also thought people were loony that named their babies before they were born, but her name has been the only one we've ever discussed. We don't speak her name out loud, not until we see her tiny face ourselves and introduce her to the world.

Sam and Peter already have more love for their little sister than I thought possible. Though Peter is not but a month or two older than Sam when he arrived, Peter leads either in his brothers example, feeling her kick...seeing her kick or watching my belly grow. Pete puts his mouth right up to my stomach and shouts, "You in der?" "You 'ear me?"

Sam talks to her and reminds her, "It's Sam! Your big brother!" It has been such a wake up call to witness the differences in Sam and his awareness and insight into the changes that my belly, our baby and our lives are undergoing this time in comparison to when I was pregnant with Peter. He wants to be part of it and wants to daydream with us. I watch him observe my friend Morgan's new baby and later overhear him tell Peter, car-seat to car-seat that, "Pete, do you know our baby will only have a little bit of hair when she comes out?" "Pete, do you know baby will only drink milk?" I want to wrap them both up in big bows and give them to her when she arrives, marked, "The greatest gifts you'll ever receive."

Even Paul has a more calm and confident air about him knowing she is with us. As we build our little nest for her he seems already just slightly smitten with the idea of another girl to love.

We all know are lives are about to change again, in the best of ways, which has become a welcome feeling.

Hooligans

2012-01-04T15:19:00.002-05:00

Tiny Lego Playground

2012-01-04T05:33:00.001-05:00

Elise channelling her inner Phill Loosli.

Pete is 2!

2011-12-30T18:25:00.014-05:00

Any birthday that starts out with a bag of Cheetos, is bound to be a good birthday...

This child loves a Cheeto. I have a hard time saying no to him on an average day, but when he saunters into the commissary at the Embassy, walks right up to the chip aisle, grabs a bag of crunchy Cheetos, "want deeze." If I don't indulge his immediate request to "open dis," he takes it right to the nice Brazilian man at the register, slides it up on the counter on his tippy toes and patiently waits to be rung up...on Daddy's account. "Tanks!"

Today I didn't even bother saying "no." So he walked out through the mailrooms and embassy offices gathering "oohs and awes" from everyone we met as Tiny Pete and his giant bag of Cheetos crunched and munched their way down the halls with orange fingers and orange lips. Today he munched right out to the car, where we ended with a Cheetos tailgating party just Pete, Sam and I.

We had lunch with Paul and we played and laughed all day. We drove by the only two trains in Brazil near us at a local gas station and out of our way over the "big big bridge" all in the name of Pete's big day.

For dinner I took the boys to Pizza Hut, where we met Paul after work, then wandered over to a local frozen yogurt spot for triple toppings: gummy bears, "marsh!" (marshmallows) and "choca cheeps!" (chocolate chips). I brought the candle, but no fire. To be honest, this child requires no fire. Pete ate all the toppings, Sam the yogurt, and we took a hundred silly pictures, here are just a few:

Sweet Sweet Pete,

Your intensity is matched only by your intoxicating lovability. You are the Yin to your very own Yang. You are caught (I wish forever) between a baby and a boy. Wanting to do everything Sam can do...only with "Pah-zee and Blanks" as your sidekicks for comfort and reassurance. You are strong willed and soft hearted. You are smart, so smart. There isn't a word or sentence you can't say. You can count to ten, you know all your colors and you are learning your letters right alongside "Broder Sam," even though you are just half his age. Like a tiny puppy, you win the hearts of everyone you meet with just a glance. You are curious, kind and soft. You still have the most angel soft hair in the world, the sweetest baby doll face and matching sparkling eyes to "Dah-dee," but you are mama's boy and for each ounce of comfort I might give you when you snuggle in next to me, you give me ten times more.

I love you Foosi-Fee. Happy Second Birthday!

Love,

Mama

Baby Names

2011-12-28T15:44:00.003-05:00

We were undecided...until I walked in the kitchen and saw that Paul had spelled out his first choice girl name, along-side the boys names and it has a certain ring to it!

Favorite Spot: Brasilia, Brazil

2011-12-27T10:13:00.011-05:00

Once upon a weekend outing we stumbled upon this diamond in the rough, that instantly became a family favorite. A chocolateria and cafe in Asa Sul, that serves the most decadent cappuccino and if you ask the boys...the best hot chocolate.

We stake out our spot, being always too late for breakfast and way too early for lunch by Brazilian standards, in the tiny, shady patio area.

The boys grab the bench seat that gives them room to roam and we order up our cappuccino longo and a warm croissant sandwich with ham and cheese to share. We peruse magazines, or books we've brought along and sip our thick and rich, cappuccinos exchanging glances of guilt, "These are just so good, they can't be legal?"

After we've finished our brunch, we head inside for a feast for our eyes and though we typically have no room left for chocolate, they have the most beautiful display of hand-made truffles, chocolates and cakes piled with shaved chocolate. We do occasionally splurge on a neatly wrapped box of milk chocolate race cars to share on the drive home.

Sam is 4!

2011-12-26T16:46:00.008-05:00

Pause ||

Rewind <

Stop Time .

Today my biggest littlest boy turned four. I was ok with it, more ok than I was with one or even two or three...until I sat down and began to peruse past birthday photos. A necessary evil to remind ones self to slow down, not get caught up in the rat race and enjoy every second of their childhood. It is going by so quickly. It seems like yesterday that the baby in my belly was Sam and that Paul and I ventured to the hospital for the first time to meet our son. The moment he emerged is still fresh in my mind and I will never forget his warm little body in my arms instead of me. My life changed forever, in the best possible way.

Sam,

You are four today and more of a man than I had ever imagined four would be. You are so smart and articulate, you are thoughtful and creative, you are precise and you amaze me every day. You love maps and trains like your Granddad and you love building and creating like dad and me. You have my photographic memory already and it never steers you wrong. You are passionate, so passionate sweet boy and don't ever let that go. You are so like me in so many ways and you show my pieces of myself each day for better and for worse and for both I am thankful. You are so like your Dad and becoming more so every day, from the "fuzz" on your legs to the sparkle in your eyes. You are the best brother and quickly learning to be a wonderful friend and these are the most important things you could ever be. Your imagination and careful planning of each coming day make your love for your soon to arrive baby sister infinitely greater than I could have even imagined during a time that is so hard for even adults to visualize. I hope that she and Peter will be your most cherished gifts each birthday for the rest of your life and you theirs.

You are so loved. So loved.

Happy Birthday my sweet boy.

Mom

Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T20:02:00.013-05:00

It isn't hard to see why it feels so right to be here in Brazil tonight, but it isn't hard to feel so far away from our home(s) and families either. We spent the second Christmas Eve in a row with our dearest friends Morgan and Phill, Phin and Simon tonight, whom we only just celebrated our one year of knowing with. And while we haven't found a church to attend yet here in Brasilia and will most likely watch the Jupiter First Church service on the intranet tomorrow, it isn't hard to feel the essence of Christmas or be reminded of the goodness of new beginnings or to cherish all the gifts we have in our lives. A sharp pinch is in order to believe it is all true.

In a discussion of family traditions tonight I realized that it isn't about what you do, more importantly who you spend Christmas with and as long as we are in the company of family and friends we'll never be without traditions no matter how frequently our home and horizons change.

"Dear Santa..."

"Fork over the loot!"

Sam adds a custom Santa portrait and signs off...(Petey, camera left) breaks down from exhaustion beneath the tree)

Then the "elves" set to work...

After ~~what seemed like~~ was hours we finally wrapped and assembled all our gifts and are just now hitting the sheets...so not so Christmas eve anymore as it is 12:38am...MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Christmas-Times

2011-12-23T12:28:00.013-05:00

It's beginning to look, and feel, a lot like a Brazilian Christmas! Last year we were just three weeks into our tour here in Brasilia, with none of our worldly possessions and we were like reindeer in the headlights. I don't remember seeing Christmas decorations, or hearing Christmas music, I only remember a small and sparse plastic tree decorated with just the handful of decorations I had packed in my suitcase sitting upon a strangely not-my-style Drexel Heritage pedestal table a lot of words I didn't understand and strange smells and sights assaulting my senses. This year is quite different...

Everywhere we go there are the lights and sounds and scents of Christmas. The things that seemed 'strange and foreign' last year, seem perfectly holiday-like this year. Shelves and shelves of Panettone, piles and baskets of Bacalhau, gas station attendants in Santa hats and angry honking in the grocery store parking lot. It's Christmas any way you slice it...or Feliz Natal.

I was asked to participate in my very first holiday cookie exchange, which is great, seriously... typically I am anti "large gathering of ladies" I have to maintain my street-cred, but I love to bake and I was flattered to be invited to play. I do fancy, but these women were serious and I was thus initiated into the harsh, competitive world of cookie exchanges. I had heard rumor of the cut-throat cookie ladies and I was not to be outdone. I busted out a new fusion recipe of Rum Raisin Oatmeal Sandwich Cookies and threw myself in a tie for first. After a re-vote, I took second...to my very wonderful friend Alison, so I didn't have to hike my apron up and kick any cookie rear.

BSB Cookie Exchange Competitors

My Cookies

The Loot (I told you these women were serious!)

The tiny cookie thief. He made off with four chocolate covered Pao de Mel before I even noticed him there!

7 months of baby girl...and a few dozen cookies.

Our prize, the worlds cutest aprons. Made by our hostess.

As I furiously baked 180 cookies, Paul, accompanied by the most rigid safety team, Pete and Sam headed outside to string up our Christmas lights.

Thankfully our home was already equipped with all the nails for hanging lights, leaving the Cheeto-crunching safety team to merely keep Paul from tumbling off the ladder. Miraculously, everyone survived. We held an official lighting ceremony with our good friends complete with a necessary bit of Clark Griswald family drumroll.

Christmas lights and pitanga trees.

We spent the rest of the evening indulging in a family movie night, complete with Mickey's Christmas, hot cocoa and "kocorn" as Pete calls popcorn.

...and a few blueberry caipirinhas!

Feliz Natal!

A Bed Covered With Things Soft and Pink

2011-12-22T08:45:00.000-05:00

Most days when I come home from work, the whole family is in the car port to welcome me home. Rarely, do they have pants on. Most days, Pete’s diaper is full and hanging from his crotch like a cow’s udder as he runs around the yard, blissfully unaware. Every day, Sam asks if we got any packages.

Most days the mail does come, we do get packages. Often they are for him. This close to Christmas we have been getting a lot of packages. The only thing is most of them are Christmas presents that he can’t open right there on the spot as he usually does. So, I’ve resorted to having to tell him no packages have come, even if they have, in order to avoid having to explain to him that he can’t open them then and there and has to wait until Christmas. Of course, then I have to watch his shoulders slump in visible disappointment as he trudges away. Hopefully, come Christmas morning, it will all be worth it. I think it will.

After the boys go to bed, I take the garbage out. On the way back to the house, I stop at the car and secretly bring the packages in. We’ve been hiding the boys’ Christmas presents in the guest room, under the bed and in almost plain sight in the closet. A towel covers the end of a giant ‘Thomas the Tank Engine Race from Rumble Mountain’ box that Ma and Grandad sent, because it is sticking out from under the end of the bed. I flick the lights on and hide more packages under the bed.

I pause to look at what’s on top of the bed. The entire queen-sized mattress is covered with things both soft and pink. Every shade of pink imaginable. Tiny pink skirts and pink onesies and pink leggings. There’s even a pink bathing suit. It is a tangible reminder of what—no, who—is coming. And I cannot even imagine what it will be like to have a tiny (“Small, small, small, teeny, weeny, weeny,” as Cranky Crane would teasingly say to Thomas) girl in my arms. Or what it will be like to bounce a tiny girl on top of the water in the swimming pool in her pink bathing suit. I can’t even imagine what she will look like. Like Elise, I hope. I thought my life incredibly blessed before….?!

I touch them and they are soft and perfect…and so small. It reminds me that my life is about to completely change yet again. And that is a good thing.

From the mouths of babes...Part 2 in a continuing series of mouthisms

2011-12-22T08:11:00.002-05:00

5:30pm, The Dinner Table

Sam: Maybe Simone could be my best friend.

Dad: Maybe.

Sam (smiling timidly): Maybe.

Galatea

2011-12-21T13:24:00.007-05:00

a novel by Paul M. Hanna

Today marks a very exciting day for Paul (and I). Today he self published his sci-fi novel, Galatea, to Amazon. Galatea is a piece of Paul's imagination that he has been writing and dreaming on during off hours and late nights, with sleeping newborn babies on his lap, during naps and lunch hours for the past several years.

I have, since we met, poured over his each and every piece of writing, including many short stories, emails and bits of our life read right here on our blog. I beg him to share more, to write more and to keep working towards his dream. Thanks to Paul's confidence and courage and the awesome new ability to bypass unsuspecting secretaries and word-logged publishers, Paul has taken his future into his own hands and for that I am incredibly proud.

To download Galatea, visit www.amazon.com.

Congratulations Paul!

Schools Out for Summer Ever Winter!

2011-12-16T11:23:00.011-05:00

Here in the "SoHem" or Southern Hemisphere to the layperson, summer break works a little differently...because it is in the winter, no dammit it isn't Elise, it really is summer here. Oh ya. Anyway, we're still getting the hang of it, too, thanks to Sam...and his preschool and six weeks of "Christmas Break."

Today was Sam's last day of school and instead of telling you that I baked cookies for the class (which I did, but they looked so bad I said, "Screw it! These kids don't need more sugar anyway!") or even telling you that delicately wrapped a gift for his teacher, whom I love and adore because she loves and adores Sam, or even telling you that I remembered my camera, like I had planned and documented his last day of school with Tia Pati before he moves into the four year old class next year....I will tell you that shamefully, I did none of that. Instead I picked up my boy, who seems to be coming down with a ~~winter cold~~ summer cold, brought him home and laid him beneath the Christmas lights that surround his bedroom window...then passed out for a nap myself. Hey, I just can't be perfect every day.

However, to celebrate the last day of school I have put together a gallery showing of some of my favorite works of art from my talented and passionate boy from his very first, very successful year of school.

Enjoy!

Untitled

(clay and paint)

Untitled

(clay and pencil)

"Daddy"

(crayon on paper)

"Mommy"

(pen on computer paper, "Where is all the computer paper going!?")

"Daddy as a spider"

(Crayon on computer paper)

Untitled

(finger-paint on recycled juice box-canvas)

Collected works of art, made all with recycled household objects. Our favorite is the tin-can monkey, closely followed by the egg carton caterpillar and the yogurt cup ladybug.

From the mouths of babes...

2011-12-15T17:22:00.003-05:00

8:16pm, The Boys Room

Mom: "Goodnight guys!"

Sam: "...but Mom, can I just tell you one more thing?"

Mom: "Yes, but please let this be the last thing."

Sam: "Dad really is my best friend."

"I'd like to thank my wife..."

2011-12-14T10:31:00.006-05:00

It wasn't until he'd received an award for volunteering (yes, I said volunteering!) to write thank you notes from the embassy's Obama visit AND had received a shiny, framed award from the Ambassador*, that he really began to believe*** in the art of thank you note writing.

*This is, in fact, Ambassador Shannon, not just some guy who didn't get an award.

**I'd like to think my smashing example and nearly six marital years of nagging had a bit to do with it. Also, two awards were actually won, but they didn't want him to look like such a show off so they only let him hold one.

Parabens Paulo!

The Race Against Corruption

2011-12-11T15:50:00.016-05:00

One American diplomat...

1,999 Brazilians...

Versus:

(all the corruption in Brazil)

A 10K battle from here...

(The Brazilian Congress building...and a large colorful row of port-o-lieus)

To here...

(The TV Tower, the Eiffel tower of Brasilia...only not quite)

One rainy Sunday morning...

One bad-ass cheering section...

A whole lot of excitement...and a few Pepperidge Farms Goldfish...

"Go! Lone, dedicated American diplomat. Go!"

"Go! Daddy! Go!"

You are no match for us Corrupcao.

No Match.

I dare you to find a more dedicated man.

Cusp

2011-11-12T18:56:00.003-05:00

"Peber" in the leaves.

2011-11-11T15:40:00.001-05:00

Reunited:

2011-11-10T10:38:00.008-05:00

Our holiday cups runneth over.

Planes, Airport Trains and Tiny Automobiles

2011-11-09T09:47:00.008-05:00

Travel: Both painful and beautiful. Like a tattoo. A decision to torment ones self for the purpose of engraving memories for eternity.

One redeye, one airport train, two continents, two toddlers, two tiny backpacks, three airplanes, four suitcases, four airports, six time zones, 18 hours, 20,000 matchbox cars.

When you think about spending 18 hours in incredibly close proximity, sharing air, snacks and leg room with your family, you don't always think, "bring it!" It isn't all romance, but it is a great exercise in family bonding. Sure, Peter's bouts of screaming, "All Done!" during each take-off or Sam fighting Pete for the iPod weren't my faves, but I certainly don't remember Sam cuddling up next to me and getting to lay my hand on his curly locks for eight hours straight recently or watch the rise and fall of his superman clad chest and I don't usually have the opportunity to let Pete nap in my arms anymore.

In the event of a napping emergency, you will find 'Goodnight Moon' in the seat-back pocket in front of you.

We resorted to "forced napping" on the third and final leg to freshen the boys spirits (we needed another type of spirit by this time). And kicked back to enjoy our shortest leg, just an hour and a half from Salt Lake to Spokane, quite zippy after a nearly nine hour flight from Brasilia to Atlanta. The shortest, but unarguably the hardest.

Clouds of my neighborhood:

We were greeted by the open arms of my family, Grandad, Ma, Uncle Dan and Aunt J and crisp fresh fall tones and air. Upon arriving home we welcomed Aunt Joyce and Uncle Robert to town for a good, old fashioned family holiday.

Jet lag is a kick in the rear and even more painful with a roll back of time, adding yet another hour to our great battle. However, after celebrating an early Thanksgiving on Sunday, let's call it "First Thanksgiving," sleep seems to be just a condiment on the Thanksgiving table of life. Take it or leave it, I'll have more turkey!

The Gift of Children

2011-11-03T14:45:00.001-04:00

Psalms 127:3 reads, “Children are a gift from the LORD; they are a reward from him.” No day is all good or all bad. Each day is a mixture of reward and punishment. The punishment part coming, undoubtedly, from how beastly Elise and I must have been to our parents. But it’s funny, sometimes, to think—especially in the midst of one or both of them having a complete meltdown as happened yesterday during baths when they were fighting over a water bottle—that most people think of children as a gift. But there are also definitely moments when this is easy to remember.

For instance, Pete’s goodnight kisses. They are soft and wet like a puppy dog’s nose and could not be more sincere. We got four the other night. Two for me and two for Elise. We had been encouraging Pete to give goodbye kisses when Elise leaves the house for a photo shoot or to run errands and or I go to work. But on his own, he asked one day, “Hug?” And followed the kiss with a big, two-armed embrace. These sappy moments are the ones in which one truly feels as though they are receiving a gift.

As part of prayers, I ask the boys what they want to dream about, so that we can ask God to help us dream about those things. I read once that if you want to dream about flying—because, of course, that’s what I want to dream about—you tell yourself over and over throughout the day that you want to fly tonight. The theory goes that if you say it enough, the thought of flying becomes imbedded into your subconscious and manifests itself in your dreams. Maybe if I ask the boys what they want to dream about, they will dream about Dinosaur Train Land and choo-choos instead of the mask from the movie ‘Scream’ with fake blood pouring out of it that Sam saw trick-or-treating and pretty much put an end to that.

Last night, when I asked the boys what they wanted to dream about, Pete replied, “Mama,” and Sam replied, “Tiny little poo-poo head” or something equally inappropriate. Then, Sam asked Elise and I what we wanted to dream about. I said I wanted to dream about super-heroes and Elise (mom) wanted to dream about a back massage. See? Little gifts.

Halloween Weekend

2011-11-01T12:09:00.022-04:00

I admit, I spun the DPO Russian Roulette wheel of "OMG Amazon Prime, I need this now, but live in South America" fun. Having had good DPO luck recently, I felt confident, I closed my eyes, pressed "Purchase Now," and failed. Pete's costume never arrived.

I waited, like a good DPO mail box owner until the last possible minute, but on Thursday, Paul showed up at home once again, packageless. Friday morning, just before the embassy trick or treat, Peter and I set out on a mission: To create a costume in the likes of Pete's second favorite recent thing (ok one day he saw one and smiled) a hot air balloon. It seemed easy enough and had I explored the Portuguese for "helium," "there is no party," "I need it today dammit," I would have been totally set. I stuttered my way through and came home with all the necessary objects. I settled in with my hot glue gun, 50 yards of kitchen twine and during naps I whipped up this:

It was adorable....for one minute. Then is was still adorable...as I carried it around the embassy behind him, awkwardly explaining myself to each passer-by.

Sam rocked himself as "T-Rex of the Ocean," like we've never seen (nor heard of) and roared in the face of anyone that asked him what he was. We tricked and treated to all the less horrifying sections of the embassy avoiding any Halloween inspired nightmares, and munched hot dogs before retiring home for Halloween story time, courtesy of Nanny. Thanks Nanny!

...But not before I forced Peter back into his costume for a photo which ended after 3...

2....

1...

With what can only be described as: "Classic Pete. The story of a tiny, cute boy who you should never cross."

Saturday we gathered in true Hanna family, post-nap-style, without pants for a little pumpkin carving session. Peter, always the extremist, opted to carve completely in the nude. Work it Pete. Paul may or may not have been sipping wine at 3pm, whilst wielding a knife, and Sam may or may not have been also carving pumpkin shards with a tiny butter knife. (We ask that you not look too closely for these parenting bloopers.)

We ended the evening with a "Spooky Bath" lit only by glow-sticks.

Resulting in the following series of Sam which can only be described as, "The Faces of Sam." We are beginning to think the best career option for him will be actor....

On Monday, Sam's Brazilian preschool, treated the few American students (and all of the Brazilian students) to Halloween celebration in their honor. The kids were asked to come in costume and each received a bag of treats to take home. We said thank you, by making and decorating a gaggle of owl cupcakes to share with his class.

On Monday night we joined about 20 other embassy families for a Halloween potluck, cupcake walk, bobbing for apples and Trunk-or-Treating. We decorated the back of the Subaru and assigned Paul the title of, "Official Candy Hander-Outer," and Trunked or Treated our way around to our friends cars, bribing them out of our favorite non-Brazilian candies.

The boys later zonked out while reading books beneath the glowing pumpkin garland I'd installed in their room for the holiday. A wonderful weekend was had by all.

"In Lane Number 4..."

2011-11-01T09:47:00.002-04:00

Trick-or -Treaters in Training

2011-10-25T09:15:00.000-04:00

I took a few minutes Saturday afternoon while we were waiting for Zilda to arrive, to ‘practice’ trick-or-treating with Sam and Pete.

Pete has never been trick-or-treating and didn’t even get to dress up for Halloween last year. Two years ago, Sam trick-or-treated at one house, Nanny’s, and last year…well, last year was a total bust. For his first Halloween, Sam did a successful turn as Curious George, accompanied by his father as the Man in the Yellow Hat. For his second Halloween, we asked Sam what he wanted to be for Halloween. Since the only word he could say at the time was “bus”, he was a bus. Elise and I hand-crafted a wearable bus costume with working lights.

Last year, Sam told us he wanted to be Thomas the Train. In our infinite enthusiasm, neither Elise or I thought we would have any trouble hand-crafting a wearable Thomas the Train costume, in much the same vein we had constructed the wearable bus costume. What both Elise and I failed to realize was that we were a thousand times busier than we had been the year before. I tried throwing the thing together during naps on Halloween day, but we had bit off more than we could chew. There was no way I was going to get it done. A friend kindly lent us an engineer’s outfit for Sam to wear. Since I blocked most of the day out of my head, I can barely remember what Pete was. I vaguely remember Elise hot-gun-gluing cotton balls to a white onesie so Pete could be a lamb. The only reason I remember this is I remember picking up cotton balls all night from the gymnasium floor where we ended up celebrating Halloween and picking cotton balls out of Pete’s mouth later.

In order to avoid a repeat of last year, we ordered Pete and Sam costumes. They both wanted to be dinosaurs. I dreamed of crafting a T-Rex head out of chicken wire and paper mache, and, though we are not as crazed as we were last season, the fact of the matter is, I’m not that crafty. Elise got all the craftiness.

Sam’s costume has arrived via DPO and it looks AWESOME! I can’t wait for Petey’s to get here!

As both Sam and Pete are trick-or-treat novices, a little training was in order.

Both boys went outside and pretended to knock on the door. I pretended to be an unsuspecting old Brazilian lady. (I have no idea what would happen if we actually tried going trick-or-treating in our neighborhood as they don’t celebrate Halloween in Brazil.)

It took a couple of tries before Sam remembered to say “trick-or-treat”. Then, he skipped right over just “trick-or-treat” and went straight to “Happy trick-or-treat”. Probably the most polite mini-T-Tex you would ever meet.

Whenever I asked Sam what he was, he responded, “T-Rex of the ocean!” I’m not exactly sure where this comes from unless it is in one of his dinosaur books describing an elasmosaurus or ichthyosaurus as the T-Rex of the ocean.

Pete pretended to pick up bugs and give them to me every time I opened the door. I told him he had to wait to see if I would give him a treat first before he tricked me.

Then, we practiced with buckets. Elise had bought the boys orange plastic Jack-o-Lantern buckets for trick-or-treating. I handed the buckets to the boys and closed the door for more practice. Sam didn’t even get a chance to knock on the door, before Pete swung the bucket at the window as though he were trying to smash his way into the candy.

Finally, they just started running inside. Sam would knock on the door, I would answer, pretending to be the old lady at the door and they would just sprint by me, giggling wildly, running in circles in search of candy, as I was yelling, “Hey out of my house, you hooligans! Shoo! Shoo!”

This Friday, the boys will get to come to my office and trick-or-treat door to door in the building. It should be very fun. Though I’m hoping Pete doesn’t clock my boss or the Ambassador in the knee caps with a bucket full of candy. :)

The Devil (Still) Wears Baby Gap

2011-10-24T12:29:00.003-04:00

Little Foosa, Big Attitude.

Chili Cook-off

2011-10-21T19:19:00.002-04:00

Today was our first ever embassy chili cook-off. We schemed, we shopped (we emailed the chili champion of the world, my brother Dan) and we made a hot lunch date to cook together. Paul snuck home from work this afternoon on his lunch break, we put the kids down for naps and we chopped, diced and spiced our way to chili bliss.

How can you not love a man who cooks in a shirt and tie..with a ruffled apron bearing ric-rak? You just can't.

We whipped up a spicy, filet mignon, black and kidney bean chili, garnished it with our/Paul's famous guacamole, drizzled it with chipotle sour cream and finished it with fresh cilantro and Frito crumbs.

We did not win tonight, but we didn't need to win. We've already won.

Bed Time(s)

2011-10-19T18:36:00.012-04:00

I am unsure if when these kids grow up there is anything I will miss more than the end of the day. Bubbly wrinkled toes, combing tiny tousled heads of hair into business man-style swoops, zippy pj's, last sips of milk, bubble gum toothpaste kisses and sweet boys with folded hands praying for babies, "mom's baby," "all the babies everywhere," friends, every member of our family (we usually cut this off at about 15, sorry if you don't make the cut tonight) and well, lets be honest, sometimes "poopies."

The boys have finally started interacting as room-mates at bedtimes when we leave them to their own devices at 8:00 instead of like inmates rattling the bars in their cell and cursing at the 'guards.' They've been found reading together in Pete's crib on a number of occasions, and even given us an opportunity to sleep an extra few minutes when Sam delivers Pete a book to read when they wake up in the morning. Sam has begun referring to Pete as "My tiny little bitsy boy" and Pete to Sam as "Broder."

Pete: tiny, yet efficient.

P selecting another book in Portuguese for Mom to botch on page one and later dub in English.

P: "Mom really stinks at Portugese...and improv."

Who even sleeps like this? A frog, and Pete.

A Fear in the Land of Plenty

2011-10-18T08:34:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned in a previous post, we will soon return to the States to visit and family and friends, the first such trip after living a year in Brazil.

Living in Brazil is easy, but it’s not the U.S., the land of plenty. There are many things that are easier, but there are things that are harder, too, living in Brazil. Though we’ve gotten better at ordering out, it can still be a crap shoot. Little things like I got ham on the hamburger I ordered last Sunday from Giraffa’s. I’m pretty sure I didn’t ask for ham on it, but maybe I did by accident. Every hamburger seemingly comes with either ham, pineapple and/or a fried egg on it. I like mine traditional. American-style, if you will, so I always have to ask for it without it. Either way, it came with ham on it, and I ate it, one of many charms about living in Brazil…unexpected surprises.

There’s a commissary in the basement of my building, and by browsing through it, one gets a small sampling of the processed food cornucopia which awaits us: buffalo chicken wing-flavored Ruffles and Pop Tarts crispy thins. I’m all for innovation, even food innovation. But usually when I’m in the mood for chicken wings and potato chips, I’ll eat both chicken wings and potato chips, not chicken wing-flavored potato chips. Likewise, if I ever had a hankering for Wheat Thins and toaster pastries at the same moment, I would eat Wheat Thins and a toaster pastry. I wouldn’t think to eat a Pop Tart-filled cracker.

But this will be much of the excitement in returning to the States, indulging in that which we’ve had to go without for a year. It makes me appreciate the status of food in measuring the stability of one’s universe. I had always underestimated the power of food—especially familiar food, mom’s cooking—to make one feel whole. I understand it now.

I don’t even know if Sam still remembers his beloved Starbucks ‘sprinks doughnuts. He used to eat one a day. I’m guessing the reunion will be a happy one, nonetheless. Yes, I go on and on about Starbucks, but you have to understand it’s not about the coffee or the brand. Now, it is simply the joy of being able to get exactly what you want how you want it and the familiarity of a comfortable place to collect one’s thoughts, share them and plan and fuel for the day. I won’t rush to Taco Bell for a Nacho Cheese Chalupa Supreme or Burger King for flame-broiled patties. Starbucks will be enough for me.

Oh yea, and the beer. Brazilian beer is serviceable. But it’s not a Pacific Northwest microbrew or Fat Tire. I will drink my calories this trip, thank you very much.

I think Elise and I believe the fear will set in not so much when presented with the dearth of choice, but when re-introduced to the rigidness of American society. We are fond of saying there are no rules in Brazil. We only half-joke. Traffic laws seem more a suggestion than law. Traffic signals are optional. One can understand this mentality in a place where horse and buggies occasionally share the road with $100,000 Range Rovers. I have yet to see a tow truck in all of Brazil. You can park anywhere.

It’s not just in cars. Societal norms are looser. Sungas (speedos) are sported for midday walks down busy thoroughfares and in parks. Women jog in support-less bikini tops and knee-high socks. Young couples in love make out at bus stops and park benches. All would be judged quickly in the States.

We understand that many of the differences are cultural and whether you are more comfortable in one setting than another is very personal. We also appreciate that we derive the benefits of belonging to one of the most amazing and dynamic democracies on the planet. We are daily reminded of its shortcomings and faults and seem to forget its merits.

Maybe I am afraid that we won’t want to come back to Brazil. Somehow, though, I seem to doubt we will have that problem.

Pedrito

2011-10-18T07:19:00.002-04:00

The Season of Bugs

2011-10-17T09:13:00.000-04:00

Before coming to Brazil, we had read a lot about its two seasons, the rainy season and the dry season. What someone had left out of the literature was the buggy season.

Now, understand. It’s Brazil. Amazon jungle. Sprawling cerrado. Pantanal. The bugs, in and of themselves, were no surprise. In fact, they were much anticipated, and, since our arrival, we have managed, assimilating into our daily lives all the different sizes, colors, species, shapes and manners of bugs.

The dry season just ended. Over one hundred days without a single drop of rain or a single cloud. It went from winter to summer in less than a week. After two rains the grass went from dry, crackling and yellow—if there was grass at all—to a plush carpet of viridian. By the end of the week, the grass will be waist high.

According to Paulo, Pete’s beloved gardener, the first rain or two that ends the dry season is called the Chuva da Manga, the Mango Rain. The timing and ferocity of which will determine the size of the coming mango bounty. This year, the Chuva da Manga came late. Usually, as I was told, it comes by the last week or two of September. This year, it didn’t come until the beginning of October. But when it came, it came with a vengeance. And what is, as I understand, generally one or two isolated rains, this year, ushered in weeks of torrential, but deliciously welcome, downpours.

It also ushered in the bugs.

Two nights ago, while throwing my running clothes into the washing machine, I accidently left on the light that illuminates the bay window in front of the service area. Swarms of flying beetles started hurtling themselves at the frosted glass to get to the light. The night before, as I was taking out the trash, I heard the rhythmic pinkling of what I originally thought to be rain, for it was that persistent. It was the sound of bugs banging their carapaced heads against the glass globe of the security lamps in front of our house. Thousands of them. Fortunately, the flying ants—termites, maybe?—only lasted a few days.

Then, there is the sound. During the day, the sound of the beetles rubbing their wings together fabricates an omnipresent whine. There is one type of beetle that literally sounds like it is screaming at the top of its lungs.

Soon, we will return to the States for the first time in a year. It will be winter, and we will leave the bugs behind. Though I don’t mind the bugs, I know Elise hopes the buggy season is over by the time we come home.

Dia das Criancas!

2011-10-16T14:46:00.012-04:00

Kids Day!! We've said it before, Brazilians love kids. It is both equally awesome and a huge break from the US's often "love to hate kids" mentality at our most kid-full time. There isn't a place I can think of here that when we walk in with the boys we feel unwelcome or are the recipients of any eye rolling or sideways glances. This includes a nice restaurant filled with couples, any store, bank or auto dealer. Last Wednesday was a Brazilian national holiday, Nossa Senhora Aparecida, but most of the country (as I understand) celebrates instead, Dia das Criancas, or Day of Kids. Much like Christmas is officially the birth o' Christ, but we prefer to make up stories about a jolly old fat man in a red velvet suit, delivering gifts to kids on a magic sled driven by tiny deer. We are all so alike is so many ways.

Sam's school celebrated all week long, by letting the kids dress in their street clothes and by scheduling a different fun activity each day of the week. On Tuesday they had a special story day on Thursday, Sam rode a bus down the street to a teacher's home (try that in the US) and had a picnic lunch in her backyard with his friends and played in the homes tree house filled with toys. On Friday the preschool's Capoeira teacher turned futebol buff, and the kids played soccer all morning then returned home with goodies bags filled with candy, stickers, games and prizes. Not to mention many congrats and kisses for being a kid, from his teacher, Tia Patty. Being a kid in Brazil is a pretty posh gig.

On Wednesday, as a family, we hit up Parque de Cidade, the city park, to find some hot kid action of our own. The place was mobbed, a la Disney World on spring break. A typically silly wonderland of unitards, knee high sport socks and athletic fun, was further infiltrated by marching bands, clowns, plays, shows, free popcorn, cotton candy and free go kart rides for all children over three. (Again, go karts for three year olds! I adore the anxiety-free, good times spirit of this place). We offered to let Sam go for a ride, accompanied by a side-saddle sitting adult driver, but he choose not to go. Cautious spirit that he is, he chose to play on the playground with his dad instead. Peter on the other hand, hung fence-side with me and waved to all the drivers, while making race car noises and pointing out the colors of each car. He'd have slapped on a helmet in a second, had they reduced the age to one. True.

We wandered the park, snagged free balloons and played on the playground. Pete even "got all Brazilian on us" taking off his shirt and flashing thumbs up (a way cool gesture here) at passers-by. A day of Kids was had by all...especially me who had an extra 19 weeks of crianca in my person.

Let there be Kids Day in all the world and let it begin with Brazil!

Tea Time

2011-10-15T19:53:00.003-04:00

Industrious

2011-10-15T19:44:00.003-04:00

Yes, both boys washing dishes. Thank you, dual sinks.

The Definition of Hardship

2011-10-14T13:35:00.000-04:00

Yesterday my office hosted three women from Washington, D.C. in Brazil to assess the hardship differential and cost of living allowance I receive in my paycheck for living and working in Brazil as opposed to the United States.

I had no interest in attending a meeting I knew would devolve into a gripe session. Elise and I like Brazil. We’re happy here. We don’t feel put upon or that we are suffering any undue hardship. We quickly discovered many things, including: that hardship means different things to different people, that there is a line between a situation that is placed upon you by undue hardship and a situation that is placed upon you by your own personal choice and that, even in 2011, some people haven’t heard of ordering stuff cheaper on the Internet and having it shipped to you for free.

I’m not trying to lose money. If these three women in coming to visit Brasilia deem that we are living in circumstances of extreme hardship and want to compensate me monetarily for it, who am I to say no? The way I figure it, we just pulled a fast one on them.

Everyone in the room got a turn to say how living in Brazil has caused them some form of hardship. Many were legitimate. A few were not. Some were comical. A single guy raised his hand and stated that it was a hardship that there was nothing to do in Brasilia and that when he went out to a club he had to wait in line and pay a 40 reais cover charge. Hardship or personal choice? Maybe get a hobby? I don’t know. Rent some movies on Netflix? Elise’s mom used to tell her, “Only boring people get bored.” She now uses the same line on Sam.

Is it expensive to live in Brazil? Without a doubt. According to The Economist magazine’s Big Mac Index, Brazil has the world’s 4th most expensive Big Mac, the equivalent of $9.50. A large plain cheese pizza at Pizza Hut is $35. I couldn’t tell you what it is in the States. But we can also walk out into the median of the road in front of our house and knock mangos from the mango trees there. Those are free. Even though it entails throwing rocks back and forth in the median of a busy commuter thoroughfare.

But we don’t have to have a maid, a gardener, go to Pilates, eat Big Macs or buy $500Nikes on the local economy. Those are all personal choices. Not hardships.

The meeting did help me to understand a facet of the hardship differential that I hadn’t thought much about. Brasilia can be isolating. I had always thought of this in the most literal way, physical and geographical isolation. Though it is a large city, it sits more or less out in the middle of nowhere. Imagine if in 1950, President Dwight D. Eisenhower announced that he was moving the capital of the United States from Washington, D.C. to Lincoln, Nebraska. Elise has called it Nebrasilia. You get the picture.

But much more so than physical or geographic isolation, one experiences social isolation. I never experienced this, because I work, come home, play with my kids and spend time with my wife. That is pretty much the extent of my social sphere. But it can be crippling for someone who doesn’t have a car or speak Portuguese. To not be able to leave the house or not have the ability to communicate with anyone is a hardship. I still haven’t figured out how to order coffee here. Every time I do, whether I ask for cappuccino, espresson, café culado, café italiano, it comes differently. It’s like roulette or the lottery, a complete game of chance. Elise and I are Starbucks fans. There are no Starbucks in Brasilia. Now, THAT’S hardship.

The 3 A's of Parenting

2011-10-13T15:43:00.002-04:00

As Elise alluded to in the previous post, last weekend was an exceptionally trying one. Some unknown malevolent force had taken possession of Sam and transmogrified him from the sweet and happy boy we all know and love into a petulant, brooding, insouciant brat. I couldn’t believe some of the things coming out of his mouth because I could never before fathom him being capable of saying such things or even for the life of me imagine where he could have picked them up. Things like, “You never let me do what I want to do!” What’re you talking about!? All we ever do is what you want to do! Ahh! “I’m so mad at you!” Well, not nearly as mad as I’m about to get at you, now go to your room!

You get the picture.

What Elise and I have failed to appreciate until very recently is that Sam is growing. Obviously, we recognized the fact that he is growing physically (boy, is he ever!), but he is also growing mentally and emotionally. Sometimes, it is easy to think that he will always be the happy go-lucky Sam-O that is content making Thomas train tracks on the play room floor, but, sadly, this will not be the case. He will need more. He will yearn for more and not always know how to ask for it. He will be bored. We will bore him.

This is where the 1st “A” comes in. Activity.

Sam always fairs better out of the house. This should come as no surprise to us. As a baby, he loved being outside. The favorite part of his day were the early evening walks around Abacoa to the crickets chirping madly in the high grass or just playing on the front stoop. This is still the case. The boy needs scenery. He needs change. School helps, and he will go five days a week soon. He wants to go. He just doesn’t quite want to admit it to us.

The 2nd “A” is Attention.

Sam always is in a better mood when I give him my undivided attention, whether that be by reading books with him tucked under my arm in the evening, watching him climb the jungle gym at the park or pretending to be X-Men (he calls it the Ching-Ching Game, aptly titled after the sound Wolverine’s claws make when they clash together. Sam call him “Loverine”. The ‘real’ Wolverine would be appalled). This should seem obvious. Every boy needs his dad. This seems especially true of Sam. I don’t think I do anything special to fill any particular need he has. It’s not like he can’t live without the pancakes I make in the morning or the way we say prayers at night before I tuck him into bed or the way I drop him off at school with a “Kiss and hug kiss and hug”. Or maybe it is. I don’t know.

Many of my colleagues at work are having to take jobs in offices where their families can’t accompany them. I could never, ever do that to Sam.

The problem last weekend was all I did all weekend was give him my undivided attention, and it wasn't working. All it was doing was exhausting me and pissing Sam off more. We managed to kill many birds with one stone on Wednesday, when I had a rare mid-week day off for a Brazilian holiday, Dia das Criancas, or Day of the Kids. We got everyone to Parque da Cidade and even flirted with the idea of going go-karting. Though we didn't hop behind the wheels of mini-Formula 1 cars, we played a lot and seemingly melted away most of Sam's inner ennui. By the time he woke up from nap, he was starting to act vaguely...normal.

Recently, at the kitchen table, I described to Elise my theory behind Sam’s defiant behavior and my plan to address, “The 3 A’s. Activity. Attention and…”

I didn’t have a third “A”.

“Alcohol,” Elise quickly chimed in.

I laughed. It was perfect.

Earlier in the day...I think it was before 9...Sam opened the fridge and offered me a beer. I appreciated his thoughfulness, and his acts of thoughtfulness are becoming more frequent. What does it say about me that I actually thought about taking him up on it? I mean, Brazilians grocery shop at 8 in the morning with a cold can of Skol in hand. When in Brazil, right? Yeah...it had been a long weekend. :)

The Parenthood

2011-10-10T19:29:00.002-04:00

I won't lie, this weekend was not pretty in the 'hood.' The children nearly killed us, drive by sassing, looting our hearts with tiny fireballs of parental destruction, hand to hand brotherly combat. Just about the time we threw our hands up in the air waving dish rags of surrender, things began to turn around. Three day weekend and the last four hours saved it from complete and total destruction. By the evenings end, Paul and I sat down for dinner, a rare occasion where we save our meal to enjoy post bed-time and listened to a light banter coming from the boys room. Usually the bedtime routine ends with them yelling "GO!" at each other from crib to toddler bed, tonight I stepped away from my plate to witness a moment that healed my heart from the weekends brutal beating: Sam read to Peter from Richard Scarry's Busy Busy Town, "Sweeper" and a tiny voice would repeat from the crib, "weeper." "Dump truck," "ump fruck," and so on (until Pete started crying for more milk.) For the ten minutes that it lasted we listened, giggling quietly from outside their door and silently gave thanks for saving our lives in the weekends last moments.

It's a Girl!

2011-09-29T14:57:00.005-04:00

We are not only expecting (not yet officially announced here, but you may have read between the lines) in early March of 2012, but much to our delight, we are expecting a baby girl! And what good is our first time ever finding out the sex of one of our babies before birth, without a hilarious story:

Since Paul was a little wishy washy about finding out this time (but ever the most kick ass husband, humored me anyway) I decided to make finding out a little more intimate and special for us than the typical threesome in the darkened ultrasound room. Awkward embraces, trying to avoid a gooey belly, and sharing the moment with a complete stranger. It is all a little odd, which is why we've avoided it. Until now.

With a bit of Paul's sketching and my precision art school folding skills we made this card and asked the ultrasound technician to, "PLEASE not tell us here," "agora." Instead, we would have liked for her to write "menina" or "menino" in the card to take it with us on our trip this weekend and find out together, over dinner, alone (with the rest of the restaurant, and perhaps our waiter, but whatever). Paul reiterated in Portuguese and the tech agreed, emphatically, that she "ALWAYS" writes it down, "no problem!" (Silly Americans)

We proceeded with the exam, measurements, squiggly baby, heartbeat, when suddenly she slams down "the wand" stands up and shouts out before I could muzzle her, "I can say one hundred percent...It is GIRL!"

The soundtrack to my best laid plans: SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH to a halt. I look at Paul and say with my eyes, "What the what!?" then we smile. I say "I told you so." Paul says "I told you Hanna's can make girls." I say "thank you for making a girl for me, you rock." I make a strangling motion at the back of the technician's head and then we decide that she is a goof ball and we all strangely embrace. She holds on a little too long to "Paulzinho" (little Paul) as she calls him and we all may or may not have had a group hug. I can't really remember in all the excitement, oddity, miscommunicationness. It was all very Brazilian, none-the-less

So, we saved the fun for Sam, who despite still trying to decipher his colors, was only slightly excited when he opened the card over dinner:

Paul & I: "If it's blue, it's a boy. If it's pink, it's a girl." (Toddler friendly and no, we don't really give a shit about stereotyping. We'll raise strong intelligent and open hearted children with words, actions, and kindness, not with colors.)

Sam [opening the card with buttered noodle fingers]: "Green?! What does it mean?"

Me: "Pink, Sam, pink. You're going to have a baby sister! Isn't that exciting?"

Sam: "Can I have some more noodles, no sauce please and dessert now?"

We are sure he will find the excitement in having a baby sister sometime...in....oh....say.....fifteen years when she is bringing her cute friends home.

Until then, I AM ECSTATIC, winning, lottery style. Our little family. Baby sister. Names. Dresses. Tiny fountain sprouts of hair on top of her head. Shopping. Ya Ya Sisterhood weekends. You get the idea.

Paul is excited and nervous, having never had a sister or daughter, but there is no doubt in my mind that she will steal his heart and he hers and they will dance away tiny toes balancing on polished dress shoes...late night feedings, kitchen floors, wedding first dances. Life is good. Really freaking good.

The Reincarnation of Bugs, by Sam Hanna:

2011-09-27T19:06:00.002-04:00

Today Sam shouted at me from across the yard, "Mom! The giant beetle came back to life and screwed it's head back on! Quick come look!"

Reluctantly, I did. I want to say it was a different beetle than the identical one that had been beheaded and dead in our yard for months, but I can't, I just can't.

We can't say we aren't fostering vivid imaginations around here.

First Rain

2011-09-26T19:59:00.006-04:00

Today for the first time in nearly a hundred days the clear blue Brazilian skies opened up and eager raindrops fell into the open arms of my children, myself and to our thirsty backyard. After breakfast we pulled on our rain boots and headed outside to slosh in puddles and twirl our umbrella in the morning drizzle and we marveled at the endurance of the streetlights which remained on until well into the afternoon. Then we loaded in the car to get a final few items we needed at the store to make a celebratory 'breakfast for dinner' and we opened the sunroof to catch drops of rain in our hair as we drove the shiny streets. Peter laughed at regular intervals with each silly swipe of the windshield wipers like he'd never seen them before while we jammed to the "Oh Oh" song now regularly requested and sung by Peter. We selected and were seated (by Sam) in the big window booth atop the hill at the best restaurant in town with views of big trucks on rainy days and shared french fries and happy meals while playing car counting games. The boys took extra long naps while the rain pinged down on our corrugated plastic skylight roofing. The boys played catch in the front yard with Paul still in his suit and tie while I put the finishing touches on our passionfruit, mango smoothies and blueberry french toast casserole. It was the best day in at least a hundred days, I'd say.

Mini-Guys Night Out

2011-09-23T08:39:00.003-04:00

The title is apropos in two ways: it was a short guy's night out and it was a guy's night out with mini-guys.

We've been sick all week. All 4 of us. In order to try and give mom a brief respite from the madness and allow her to soak her toes in the healing bubbles of a hot bath, Sam, Pete and I went to the grocery and to get yogurt. Nothing especially memorable or fun about the outing to mention, though it ended up being both memorable and fun. I should leave work at 4 more often.

As Sam polished off his chocolate yogurt with gummy bears in it and Pete meandered around us, occasionally opening his mouth like a baby bird would for a worm--only Pete was in search of a chocolate yogurt-covered gummy bear--the song that came on at the yogurt place was Seu Jorge. It's how Sam learned to say "fim de semana." Speaking of which....is it fim de semana yet? Almost. Thankfully.

Samisms: "Not Almost"

2011-09-22T14:39:00.004-04:00

Recently when asked any question that requires a "yes" or "no" answer, Sam responds "not almost!" It's vagueness and ability to strike confusion into our hearts and minds at a time when we are exhausted and just want an answer and is both maddening and hilarious all at once.

"Sam, are you hungry?"

"Not almost!"

Ok then.

"Sam, do you have your pj's on and are you ready for bed?"

"Not. Almost."

Huh?

"Sam do you love me?"

"Not almost."

Thanks, you too.

Portugroan

2011-09-20T17:48:00.004-04:00

Most days I get by with my sad (yet steadily improving) Portuguese. Today, not so much:

Just when you think you can say just about all you need to say to get by doing all the basic things you do everyday, you find yourself needing to say, "What the hell do you mean the urine sample is only good for three hours unrefrigerated? What the hell kind of lab is this, serving warm pao de quieijo, cafezinho and soft (live!) guitar melodies for your wait, but no instructions?" Then you realize that "I need," "I want," "I eat," or "I buy," will distinctly NOT get any of the words across that you need to say and least of all in a tone that says, "I peed in a tiny vial at 6am and hand delivered it to you while juggling it and a toddler and I am very angry." (Ok maybe I did that with my eyes.) That is when I abandon all trying and say in caveman-like statements, through welling tears, "I call. My husband. He has good Portuguese."

I am lucky enough to catch Paul at his desk and unload on him about the bad urine sample, while the nice lady waits, "just 20 minutes too old!" I tell him, "please, tell this lady how mad I am and do not leave out any of my curse words!" I hand lab receptionist number three my cell phone and simply say, "Paulo." I listen to her explain to him the same thing she explained to me, (which I am now sure is God's way of torturing the language student, allowing you to understand nearly everything that is said to you before you can actually say what you want right back) and then I listen to her listen to Paul. Who is no doubt explaining to her using his signature, always diplomatic style, omitting all my curse words, that I am hormonal and pregnant and while urine flows freely and regularly in pregnancy, it does not usually get collected in a tiny vial and hand delivered at a precise hour, from a precise hour. He is then not only good enough in Portuguese to say all of this, but to then, suave enough to convince her to test the urine anyway.

I am totally writing about urine. Yes.

She hands me back the phone, dons a tiny glove, collects my inhumanely tiny urine vial and tells me to have a nice day...or to get effed. Either way. I collect my tiny boy (who has, by the way, been sitting amazingly quietly on the floor by me chanting pao de queijo! pao de queijo!") and storm out. I have no doubt I will be redelivering later in the week.

Brazil = 6,746

Elise = +/- 1

Butter

2011-09-20T12:10:00.007-04:00

This week Peter started saying his name, which sounds a lot like "Butter" (which obviously is way more awesome than Peter.) Why didn't we think of that? I guess he just didn't look like a butter when he was born. People change, though right? It seems so obvious now....

Seriously this profile really is butter. We make exquisitely profiled babies, Mr. Hanna and I. We do.

FYI: Up until this week, if you asked him who he was, he'd confidently say "Daddy," "Mommy," or just "Nope."

Sam-o

2011-09-19T11:38:00.003-04:00

In the past Sam would have stolen Paul's glasses to snap them like a wishbone, now he steals them to strike a pose. I'm certain the next thing he'll be needing for his array of morning finishing accessories, will soon be a pair of glasses "like Daddy." Be careful what you wish for Sam...

Chapter Books and other things I never thought of:

2011-09-16T13:17:00.005-04:00

Today I read Sam a couple of chapters out of a new book that was gifted to us by a friend. I thought we were so awesome, Paul and I, reading our kids a thousand picture books a day. Filling their minds with beautiful illustrations and words. Apparently at some point though, you are supposed to 'graduate' to chapter books and we missed the boat, or were about to.

We started reading Sam, Diary of Wimpy Kid when he was about six months old, to save our sanity, but everything since then seemed too heavy. He wasn't quite ready for the creepiness of James and the Giant Peach or the death in Charlottes Web, or maybe we're not ready for that with him. There is already so much of that waiting in the world, that we believe we'd like to let him be three for a bit. Just freaking three.

Then recently the words "chapter books" had been flashing before my eyes like signs from God. I glimpse a friends blog and see "chapter books," I meet a new friend, "chapter books," I splash water in my face and peer into the mirror, "chapter books!" AHHHHH! Where did we go wrong?

We didn't. We're just late bloomers, always have been.

Today a friend gave us the first book in a *neon lights* chapter book *neon lights* series, The Magic Treehouse. Sam and I put Peter down for a nap and curled up on my bed to read "just two chapters." Because that's what we have to say now, not "just two books." Oh my baby is growing up! We began to read and my little boy who usually can't wait to find what is on the next page and scans the images, placing them just so with the story, just gazed out the window, listening, dreaming. No pictures, you see, ok maybe just a few. I wondered how he'd react. Between words and pauses I'd catch a glimpse of him laying back in his dad's spot on our bed a tattered blanket just standing by now, instead of providing comfort, his school uniform shirt still on, imagining himself climbing a giant rope ladder to a magic tree house, meeting a real, live Pteranodon.

We've entered a new stage and shouldn't these stages always be marked by what kind of book you are reading? "Oh sweet, how old is your son?" Me: "He reads chapter books."

What was the best part about your day?

2011-09-15T14:12:00.004-04:00

A family tradition, shared:

Sam: "Going to school."

Peter: "Nigh-Nighs. Moooon!" (Translated: You people, reading me Goodnight Moon as I've requested 15 times today.)

Paul: "Seeing you're beautiful face when I arrived home from work." (I totally made that up, when we engaged in this exercise at the dinner table, Peter was screaming and having to be held while Paul tried to eat. I would assume this was what he wanted to say, though.)

Me: "Watching Sam and Peter spot each other from across the schoolyard and run to each other with open arms and fall over hugging and giggling."

Brushfire

2011-09-09T08:04:00.002-04:00

This was what we saw on our drive home last night from a quick outing to buy fabric and an early dinner at McDonalds. By 2:00 a.m. the house was filled with smoke, and Pete woke at 4 crying. Hoping for a breeze to blow some of this out of here, because it won't rain for another month.

Labor Day

2011-09-06T14:04:00.002-04:00

The three-day weekend was very welcome. The preceding week had been—by far—the busiest I had to date. Hosting a twenty-six person delegation for a two-day meeting on racial and ethnic equality taught me that no matter how much time I put into planning the logistics, there is simply no accounting for one individual’s (or in this case 26 individuals’) personal eccentricities, “You want to go to the airport three hours ahead of the time we had planned all week for the driver to take you there? ….No problem.” Not the least of my duties was deciphering the buffet at the foreign ministry cafeteria for part of our delegation, “I think that’s pork. Or is it chicken? ‘Com licensa, é frango ou suina?’ He says it’s pork.”

Part of Sam’s reward for having excellent behavior at school Thursday and Friday was to get to go play the driving games at the arcade in Park Shopping, HotZone (pronounced ‘Hot-chee Zonee’). He’s getting uncannily good at handling a virtual stock car.

After both boys completely flipped out at Outback (this is probably either partially or entirely my fault, as I had forgotten to bring distractions for them and we only had one iPhone for that purpose. So while Pete was freaking out, because he had to sit still for more than 30 seconds, Sam was making a stink because his chicken fingers were overly breaded—which I didn’t even know was possible), the actual Labor Day was a dream.

I also flipped out at Outback. My expectations were too high. Not that either boy was uncharacteristically out of control…okay, well, Pete was, in all honesty…but they were both characteristically kids at a sit down restaurant with nothing on TV but soccer. I am slowly coming to the realization that the more I try to control or contain their energy, the more frustrated I become. As soon as I accept that I have no control, everything becomes easier. Now, the best I can hope for is to redirect their energy’s flow, like one attempting to steer the mighty Mississippi.

The boys and I went to Parque da Cidade to run and play on the deserted playground. We came home had lunch, followed by naps. Elise and I Christmas shopped for the boys online, before she went to a photo shoot and I threw the football in the yard with Sam then made dinner. The day was perfectly serene (well, as serene as any day can be with two boys under four), the complete opposite of the preceding day, and I have no explanation for the difference except my expectations of both.

When Sam woke from nap, his upper lip was chapped and hurt bad. After administering lip balm, he insisted on seeing his mother who was lying in bed with a hoodie pulled over head, tinkering on the computer. The three of us laid there while Pete continued to nap in the adjacent room. I told Sam that if he had a mustache, his lip wouldn’t get chapped to which he informed me, “I’m not a Daddy yet.” “How many kids do you want to have when you’re a dad?” He held out his open palm. “Five?!” Elise and I snickered.

Pete never lasts as long at the dinner table as Sam does. He eats four times as much as Sam in one-fourth the time. Though we taught him ‘all done’ in baby sign language, his signal that he is done is to stand up in his high-chair tottering like a Jenga game about to collapse. He wanders around the kitchen or playroom getting into mischief as we spend the next twenty minutes convincing Sam to eat something…anything…with some nutritional value. Last night, Pete, as he is wont to do, pulled a chair up to the counter where we stash wallets, keys and phones, and pulled my wallet down, then proceeded to go through it, littering the kitchen floor with credit cards, business cards and Brazilian bills in various denominations. When Sam was finally done, I went to the bathroom which is a spectator sport these days, all three of us crammed into the bathroom, when a square brown object comes hurtling across my field of vision only to land in the bottom of the bowl directly beneath my stream. Pete had pitched my wallet in the toilet, though he was kind enough to at least empty it of most of its content before doing so.

Sam, “That’s okay, Daddy. That’s okay.”

Thanks, Sam.

As I was preparing bubble baths, Sam told me "You're my favorite Daddy" and lifted up my shirt sleeve to give me a kiss on my tricep then thought better of it. He leaned over to give me a kiss on my cheek, but again demurred. He lifted up my glasses to give me a kiss on the space between my cheek and my lower eyelid before finally kissing me on the forehead. When I asked him why he kissed me there, he said, “The other places have too much hair.”

"Thanks, Booballuh."

Saturdaze

2011-09-04T13:03:00.002-04:00

Familymoon

2011-09-03T16:08:00.002-04:00

Fam.liy.moon [FAM-uh-lee-moon]

noun

1. An act of desperation, where a husband and wife (ok and in this case parents/in-laws) take their children/grandchildren with them to a desired location that looks nothing like a "family friendly" location thereby tricking themselves into believing that they have had a romantic getaway even though they were not discharged from their daily (and nightly) parenting rituals and are made to see the romantic vistas through sippy cup lined window sills and hold hands in king-sized beds throughout the woven arms and legs of their sleeping offspring.

2. Heaven

When my parents were in town one of our adventures was to an outlying town about and hour and a half from Brasilia. We packed up the kids and a picnic lunch and made the scenic drive into the colonial town of Pirenopolis. Paul had secured rooms at a local pousada that ordinarily didn't allow children, but made an exception for our mid-week visit. Down a dirt road into what seemed like an alley, we found Divina Pousada. [Que choir of angels]

We spent the afternoon wandering the brightly painted storefronts and winding cobblestone roads and the early evening poolside. The boys swam with Paul, while my Mom and Dad and I sipped Coca-Cola from glass bottles and icy cold Brazilian brews (also in glass bottles, if you must know).

We dined on a candlelit street that was only partially closed to traffic making the inside of the table a test of ones anxiety. Luckily Paul and Dad survived and enjoyed the carne seca to boot.

After a nearly perfect sleep, we showered under rain-head showers (even the boys, who don't typically enjoy showers spent a half an hour singing in the rain). We wandered up to the dining room overlooking sun drenched hills and enjoyed an amazing breakfast, laid out just for us. Baskets of hot pao de quiejo, guava biscuito, house-made jams, a fruit platter, homemade granola, yogurt and steaming brazilian coffee.

We spent a few more colonial streets worth of wandering and taking photos, when Sam declared that he couldn't go on walking and laid across the sidewalk. We reloaded and headed home.

After a failed attempt to hike to Salto Corumba, a lovely waterfall we spotted from the road (which we soon found out was a treacherous Familymoon hike) we retired for water and a little dream moment for my Dad then lead our caravan on back through the dry, rolling Brazilian hills and back home.

For more images from my photo journey of Pirenopolis, visit my photography blog HERE.

Two Paci Day

2011-09-01T19:34:00.002-04:00

Paul is working long hours all week and I fill him in on bits and pieces of the day as he text for updates between meetings. Today, I was able to just send this one photo and phrase, "Two Paci Day" to give him a taste of how it all was going.

Pete was desperately searching, crying "Baacee!? Baacee?!" Sam was running backup and they both managed to find one. Pete slipped his in, saw Sam had another and slipped that one in, too. For a moment there was silence.

Budding Artist

2011-08-27T08:40:00.001-04:00

Chalk on Blackboard, Sam Hanna

"Gringo"

2011-08-22T18:22:00.010-04:00

Yesterday my very own coach ran his first South American race, a marathon relay. He reminds me that it was his first race in two years, since Pete was born, because he is selfless like that and because among a myriad of 'races' we have run in the past few years, running races have not been on of them. Paul was asked to join the team of eight Brazilian runners by a gentleman he works with, who lovingly signed him up as "Gringo." They might be changing that to "Gringo's Got Wings!," now, but we'll see. Paul outran everyone on his team by at least ten minutes. When you love something, it will set you free and it does, freely down the Esplanade in Brasilia, Brazil on a beautiful Spring morning.

We watched, unrolled our sign and acquired some 'toots' from a nearby booth while we waited for Paul's turn to run. He's back folks. We think he looks better than ever. Look out.

Ties aren't just for weekdays anymore

2011-08-20T15:16:00.004-04:00

This morning we loaded up for a run at a local park and Sam yelled, "wait! I've got to get my belt and tie." So we waited, while he clipped on his tiny sailboat tie atop his favorite t-shirt and climbed into his car-seat, careful to not crunch the tie beneath it's five point harness. He unclipped it for a short run and then re-clipped once again to meet up with our friends on the quiet of the Saturday morning playground. At once kindly offering to his friend to try it on, "you can wear this, it's ok with me." Ties are the new sweatpants to our relaxed Saturdays.

ABC's and Cinco, Seis, Oito's

2011-08-18T18:31:00.005-04:00

The good news: Sam is learning to count, in both English and Portuguese.

The interesting news: There is no delineation between the two and they aren't quite in order yet.

"One, two, three, eight, quatro, cinco, seis, oito."

We think it is all fabulous.

Belted Babes

2011-08-17T14:26:00.005-04:00

The other day Sam insisted on wearing his belt for the first time ever, which makes a mother of a newly potty trained child nervous, but I complied, helping him to weave it through the individual loops of the pants he'd carefully chosen. As I latched the belt he looked at me and said, "Everybody will think I'm a dad because I'm wearing a belt." * I agreed, because, hello...everyone knows I delivered a baby and Paul started wearing a belt.

*My small boy was not mistaken for a dad that day.

For Great Grandmama:

2011-08-05T19:05:00.005-04:00

The Captain and Sam building Lego fire boats and 'The Boys' watching afternoon cartoons. We love you and wish you were here!

Mind Like a Steel (Wolf)trap

2011-08-03T11:48:00.007-04:00

Just about nine months ago I happened upon one of my favorite pianists playing at an incredibly desirable, quaint and romantic location in Virginia, Wolftrap, just before our departure to Brazil. The Jim Brickman would be playing for a small crowd of just about 200 people in The Barns at Wolftrap, in the fallen leaves of October, in the rolling Virginia hills, by nearly only candlelight, with nearly only (less 199 strangers) my husband.

I arranged to pick up the tickets at a Starbucks in Arlington from a gentleman whom Paul had spoken with from Craigslist, the man in possession of the only two tickets left for the event. He informed me through the ticket exchange between criss-crossed hands of Sam, a chocolate milk box, myself, a vanilla latte, Peter and a paci that he and his wife had seen him before at this location and that is was "breathtaking," they would however, be unable to attend this evening, fortunate for us.

I packed a picnic dinner that we had the greatest intentions of stopping and sharing on a blanket on our way to the event, but our babysitter had been running late. So I unwrapped the carefully tied strings about our wax-paper-wrapped cobb salad sandwiches, and handed one to Paul who drove us through rush hour traffic to the evening of his wife's dreams.

In the height of anticipation of our big international move, a baby and a toddler running be ragged about the city, emotionally we were both in need of an evening like this.

We arrived, sipped wine among the other guests and were ushered into "The Barn." I have always had a thing for piano music, it is just in my soul. A few chords and I can be brought to tears, a whole evening and I am on musical high. We relaxed for what felt like the first time since we'd arrived in DC.

At one point in the evening Jim played a song he had written for the country music group, Lady Antabellum. We listened entranced, but the words didn't strike me at the time, I was more caught up in the piano stylings of Jim Brickman than of the words that flowed from the woman who sang with him that evening.

Until yesterday....

As I sat in the tiny waiting room of a doctor's office in Brasilia, Brazil, holding my tiny Pete on my lap, bird like hair gently brushing my chin, quietly chewing on cheerios and baby campfire marshmallows, it began to play, in English, on the stereo:

I began to hum along into Pete's tiny ear, wondering why I knew the tune, how I knew the words....Then it hit me. From 4188.1 miles and a continent away, in Brazil, in a city that's population speaks hardly a word of english, in a waiting room that is already destined to become a fond memory on our journey to spreading our love, forever, in more beating hearts outside of our bodies than we had ever dreamed ourselves lucky enough to be in the care of....and none of us will ever be alone.

The Best Part of Your Day

2011-08-03T07:43:00.000-04:00

Sam’s new trick for not going to bed right away, “I’m still a little bit hungry.”

This one is hard to say no to and is relatively painless. I made him a peanut butter sandwich on linhaça-quinoa bread. After Sam spent 15 minutes picking linseeds out of his bread, he climbed up onto the counter and spent another 5 minutes examining the contents of the cabinets. Finally, he settled on a bowl of cheerios, which he quietly ate while I washed dishes. When he was done, he slunk back to bed.

I followed him.

“You can say ‘goodnight’, you know.”

“Sit on my bed for a minute.”

“What was the best part of your day?”

“Watching TV.” He answered three times, in case I didn’t understand the first two times that he really likes watching TV. One of his new favorites is Dinosaur Dan. This kids that knows everything about dinosaurs and either sees or imagines dinosaurs roaming the school grounds. So, in other words, he’s a lot like Sam who, earlier in the evening, requested we read “a little bit” about the Ceratopsian dinosaurs.

“What was the best part of your day?” he asked me.

“The best part of my day was you asking me what the best part of my day was.”

“I’m so tired.”

“Then go to sleep.”

Pet Rhino

2011-07-29T18:49:00.003-04:00

Some kids ask for puppy dogs and kitty cats, today Sam asked me if we could get a pet Rhinoceros. I explained that they are just too big, but he corrected me, taking my chin in his palm and directing my attention to a small photo in his animal book, "They are just bitsy mom, look!" I reminded him of the rhino we saw at the zoo and he assured me it would be fine, "we could keep him in the backyard." After discussing that that being charged by a rhino might not make playing soccer in the backyard a whole lot of fun, he changed his mind and said maybe he would like a kitty someday instead. He did go on to ask how it WOULD be possible to someday have a rhinoceros and I racked my brain wanting to give him every opportunity to fulfill his dreams. I said "You could be a vet and work at the zoo and you could work with rhinoceros' and they would be like your pet." He giggled excitedly and said "Yes, I'm going to do that."

Sentir Falta de

2011-07-28T13:51:00.000-04:00

I have never known a second language as well as I now know Portuguese. I feel as though I understand it, because there are now definitely times when words in Portuguese more accurately convey what I really want to say better than words in English. Less frequently, I find myself using phrases or patterns of speech that is clearly a translation of something I just thought of in Portuguese into awkward English. This usually happens after a day of several long meetings all conducted in Portuguese. Sometimes, it’s hard to turn off.

A good example of the former, where a turn of phrase in Portuguese, for me, is much closer to the essence of what I want to say than the same turn of phrase in English is when you say you miss someone.

Weekends are too short. Though they are often filled with complete and utter chaos, balancing the needs and wants of two incredibly energetic toddlers, not to mention the needs and wants of an incredibly adorable spouse, Monday morning comes way too quickly, maybe because neither Elise nor I have stopped moving since the preceding Friday afternoon. When you are surrounded by so much kinetic motion, the absence of it hits you like a hammer. All of a sudden you have two boys laughing, running, playing, screaming, crying, splashing all around you and the next moment, there is nothing, complete silence, parrots squawking, maybe, but definitely not the cacophony preceding it. This isn’t missing someone. You miss the bus. You miss a lay-up. You miss the trash can. This is “sentir falta de alguma coisa.”

To feel the lack or absence of something.

Because it is something you feel emotionally and physically. It manifests itself as a hollowness in your person, a space previously filled by something, a sweaty three-year old rubbing his matted curls and chewed-on blankie in your face, a one-year old rubbing his forehead back and forth on yours or crying and pointing to things that aren’t there, a pacie, a blankie, a bottle of milk. This is how I feel on Monday morning. Do I miss them? Yes. But “eu sinto falta de eles” more.

Welcome to Brasilia!

2011-07-28T11:20:00.002-04:00

We recently had the pleasure of welcoming a new family to Brasilia as their sponsors. It hasn't been long since it was us coming down that jetway, and I recall too easily the starry-eyed wonder stepping off the plane into a wet and soggy tropical landscape, my eyes and brain struggling to take it all in at once.

As sponsors, one of our duties was to ensure that the new family’s house was in order. Last Saturday, we piled everyone into the car and headed over to their house to make sure the beds were made and the house was clean and inviting. We pulled up to the drive and opened the door. We checked the alarm and entered the kitchen, checking lights and keys. There were 4 bottles of water and the welcome kit, temporary plates, dishes and kitchen utensils at the ready. We peaked into the laundry area, looking for the gas tanks to make sure they, too, were full.

When I walked back into the kitchen, Sam was walking toward me, eyes wide. I had seen that look before, but it didn’t register before Sam opened his mouth and threw up all over the kitchen floor. We hadn’t been in the house two minutes, but I quickly took to my hands and knees dabbing it up with a kitchen towel (that we since washed and replaced).

Fortunately, when we returned a few days later to drop off groceries, the stench had dissipated. Nothing like walking into your brand new house to the smell of.....well, you get the idea.

Peter Peep Toe(s)

2011-07-21T12:40:00.007-04:00

I know, I know, he's much too young to be wearing heels, but we just don't play by the rules around here:

~~Brazil's~~ America's Next Top Baby

The Windiest Day

2011-07-20T11:55:00.006-04:00

Lessons Learned from a Recent Weekend

2011-07-20T10:23:00.002-04:00

1. It doesn’t matter if it takes me 5 minutes or an hour and 5 minutes to make dinner. It will always be 5 minutes too long for Peter.

2. Never let your kids watch a movie (Rio) with samba music in it right before bedtime.

3. Building a bicycle with tiny screws, bolts, nuts, washers and allen wrenches is an exercise in extreme patience. Two steps forward one step back is actually one giant leap of progress (and I'm actually thankful for the hour of silence as both boys are engaged in intense tinkering, even if it means I am less further along than I was when we started).

4. By the looks Sam and I received on Sunday, Brazilians are not used to roller skating through grocery stores.

4b. The marble ramps into and out of Brazilian grocery stores are not conducive to roller skating.

5. Wal-mart sells glazed doughnuts (the only place we know of in Brasilia that does). Repeat: Wal-mart sells glazed doughnuts!!

Sam's (Current) Favorite Song:

2011-07-18T12:00:00.005-04:00

Ragged Wood By: Fleet Foxes

Whoa-oh-oh

Come down from the mountain, you have been gone too long

The spring is upon us, follow my only song

Settle down with me by the fire of my yearning

You should come back home, back on your own now

The world is alive now, in and outside our home

You run through the forest, settle before the sun

Darling, I can barely remember you beside me

You should come back home, back on your own now

And even in the light, when the woman of the woods came by

To give to you the word of the old man

In the morning tide when the sparrow and the seagull fly

And Johnathan and Evelyn get tired

Lie to me if you will at the top of Beringer Hill

Tell me anything you want, any old lie will do

Call me back to you

Back to you

Sam begs for this song from the chair of his backseat vista each and every time we get in the car, "I want to hear the whoa-oh-oh song!" His favorite line to sing (besides "whoa-oh-oh") is "Come back home!" which he croons in his signature deep voice that melts both our hearts and pastes a grin across my face so large it sometimes hurts my cheeks. He turns, in true kid form, certain words he doesn't understand, into other words, such as "my yearning" to "meowing" which, let's face it, might work just as well. He has always had, but has recently discovered such a love for music, but no ordinary tunes, much like his parents, and has taken to singing to us and memorizing words unlike I ever imagined a 3 1/2 year old could. Angels, I tell you, angels.

Bastille Day

2011-07-15T11:17:00.000-04:00

I think Elise likes to think of herself as part French. So, when I received an invitation to attend the Bastille Day celebration at the French Embassy, I couldn’t wait to share it with her.

I knew as soon as we walked up to the front of the Embassy, I really wished I spoke French. This didn’t prove to be an obstacle later on, but as I shook hands with the French Ambassador to Brazil, I found myself wanting to be able to at least say, “Thank you for having me” in French. (I find my cultural sensitivity is at a new high, because I found myself trying to write an email in Spanish to a colleague from Mexico. I don’t know how to write in Spanish. At least, not anymore and, at least, at nothing more than a high school level.)

After finding a bar, Elise and I made a quick toast and a promise, to one day celebrate Bastille Day in France. We listened attentively as the French Ambassador addressed the very large crowd. It was the first time I had ever heard Portuguese spoken with a French accent. I imagine it sounds much better than Portuguese spoken with an American accent.

A band struck up the French and Brazilian national anthems, followed by a mad scramble for food. Elise and I were lucky enough to be near the churrasco and helped ourselves to two spits of beef coated in garlic. They were to die for. Our only failing was our selflessness, because it was the last good thing we would eat all night. We stood in line for nearly an hour for cheese, baguettes and quiche, but nothing would live up to the pure deliciousness and pure simplicity of grilled meat on a stick. So, yes, in Brazil, the best food was Brazilian and not French. I think the French might have had a problem with that.

Some Things are Harder to Explain than Others

2011-07-14T12:43:00.000-04:00

Sam is at the age where he asks a million questions a day. Some are easier to answer than others. Why do flowers grow up instead of down? How are fossils made? We haven’t started a list of some of his most thought-provoking questions, but we should.

Every day when Elise, Sam and Pete come to my office, they have to pass through the main gate. Unfortunately, it’s not like visiting most dad’s at their office. Elise turns the car off, takes the key out of the ignition and opens the hood. She shows the guard her identification while another guard pops the hood and looks at the engine. A third guard looks at the bottom of the car and under the wheel wells with a mirror, then opens the trunk. He asks if all the bags and sacks there are her’s. Another guard uses a special wipe on the door locks to detect explosives. I don’t think I’m giving anything away here. Any Brazilian waiting outside for a visa to go Disney World or the Super-Target at the Dolphin Mall could tell you the same thing.

When Sam asked, we told him they were checking our engine and car for us, kind of like routine maintenance. But he’s getting too old and too smart for this to ring true much longer. I don’t think he’s asked again recently, but I can sense it coming. He is disappointed when he doesn’t get the opportunity to say “Boa Tarde” to the guards as they check them in.

I haven’t decided yet what to tell him. He is too young to know there are people in our world who may want to hurt his dad just because of where he works or may want to hurt him just because of where he is born. In fact, I plan to keep the evils of the world from his for as long as possible. I have trouble telling him that the ‘meat’ that meat-eating (carnivorous) dinosaurs (those Sam likes to call the ‘roaring dinosaurs’) is, in fact, other dinosaurs. I don’t even like to acknowledge that they eat each other. Though I acknowledge he will probably be exposed to much more—and at any earlier age—than many of his peers. This will be both wonderful and scary, for him and for us.

Living abroad is a double-edged sword. While it may be our hope to avoid some of the pitfalls of what may be common now in small-town, everyday Americana, drug abuse, teen drinking, abusive peer pressure, living abroad will have its own unique challenges. Not the least of which will, no doubt, make him a better boy.

Mine Old House

2011-07-13T13:26:00.001-04:00

Occasionally, Sam wants to talk about his old house. Embarking on a lifestyle which will require frequent moves, Elise and I are especially conscientious of how this will affect our boys. Sam’s a smart kid. He knows when he says he wants to go back to his old house or just wants to talk about his old house, it immediately gets our attention. I’m convinced that he doesn’t so much want to go back to or talk about his old house as much as he just wants Elise or my undivided attention. He knows this is one way to get it.

Ironically, he doesn’t want to go back to his house in Florida. I think that’s the one that immediately springs to our mind. He remembers the small apartment we lived in for 8 months in Arlington, Virginia, a two-bedroom apartment on the 18-floor of a high-rise with a claustrophobic underground garage where police sirens howled at all hours of the night. He remembers the construction site we looked over and the revolving door at my old office there. It’s hard for us to believe that he would prefer that apartment to our house in Brazil.

When he tells me he wants to talk about his old house, I try to redirect the conversation to all the good things about our new house, our Brazil house. We talk about all the toys we have and the fun things to do. I tell him that Paulo (the gardener) and Zilda (our empregada) are at our new house, and we talk about going to the Parque da Cidade and playing at the playground at my new office. I’m hoping this still works if we ever find ourselves somewhere that’s not as wonderful as Brazil. I hope as long as he has our undivided attention, I can convince that his new house—wherever that may be—is better than his old house—all of them—because it is the house that we’re all in.

Fridays With Petey

2011-07-08T10:19:00.003-04:00

I always welcome Friday mornings, besides for the obvious reasons, it is the one morning that Peter and I get to have a just a few hours to ourselves. Most school mornings, Zilda is here and she and Peter work in the garden or play at the house while I head out to Portuguese class and to run. On Friday, Sam has school and Pete and I are on our own. We load up the jogging stroller, drop big brother at school and head out for a morning run. Armed with snacks, sippy cup and a water bottle, we enjoy the sights of Brasilia at one of our favorite running loops then Pete jumps out and we wander about in the warm Brazilian sunshine, watching birds, looking for fish in the lake, throwing tiny handfuls of pebbles into the water and hunting for monkeys. We stop for a treat on the way home, typically at our favorite pão de queijo joint and wander our jardim until the time comes for us to pick Sam up from school. Precious quiet time with my tiniest boy in the midst of a busy and quickly spinning world.

Mini-Me

2011-07-07T12:39:00.002-04:00

Third of July

2011-07-05T15:29:00.000-04:00

Before it was the Fourth of July, it was the Third of July, a quiet Sunday evening with not a whole lot to do. I have tried to get in the habit of making dinner Sunday evenings. Elise has been having a few family sessions on Sunday afternoons, so I like to try and make a special dinner for her when she comes home. Though she didn’t have a photo shoot, she had requested ‘special quesadillas’ for dinner.

I haven’t made special quesadillas since we’ve been in Brazil, and, in the past, when Elise has requested special quesadillas, I’ve groaned in protest, because the special quesadilla is probably one of the most labor-intensive quesadillas ever made. But this time, I happily acquiesced.

Usually when I make special quesadilla I only have enough time and patience to make one, for Elise, and end up just throwing the remainder of the quesadilla fixins in a bowl for myself, because a lot of work has gone into the special quesadilla before any actual quesadilla-grilling has taken place.

The special quesadilla consists of sautéed onions and mushrooms, red bell pepper strips, mango, cilantro, goat cheese and grilled chicken. Okay, so when I write it out, it doesn’t sound like much, but believe me, it’s a lot of work.

I made the boys’ dinner beforehand, rice, not-so-special cheese quesadilla and broccoli. They ate, and Elise kept me company in the kitchen as I slaaaaaaved over the special quesadilla prep.

In a vain attempt to postpone eating his mango, Sam piped up, to no one in particular. Pointing at Elise and then I, “You and you are best friends.”

“When Mommy feels sad, Daddy helps her feel better.”

Sam still wouldn’t eat his mango, so Elise reached for her iPhone where she had recorded—only a few weeks prior—Sam saying, “I like mango.”

No go. He still wouldn’t eat his mango even though he had just heard himself say he liked it.

To me, “How long you going to be here?”

“A long time, Punny. I’m not going anywhere for a long time.” Then added, “You’re going to want to get rid of me long before I’m going to want to get rid of you.”

Serious, “I don’t want to get rid of you, Daddy.”

I smiled at Elise and said, “You need to get that on tape.”

He never did eat his mango, but he eats broccoli (what 3 year-old eats broccoli?!?), so I didn’t push it.

Fourth of July

2011-07-04T11:07:00.017-04:00

Happy 235th USA, all the way from Brazil. We had a big weekend, filled with events. I photographed my first diplomatic function, the official Independence Day party at the Ambassador's Residence on Thursday night, while Paul worked (it) and we passed each other in darkened corners of the party to say 'hey' and pretend we were on a date, a really terrible date, with 400 people we didn't know hanging around. We make the best of every situation, though and it felt good to be back working a larger event.

On Friday evening we stayed up late to put the finishing touches on Sam's bike and Peter's cart.

Saturday night we headed to a party hosted by the embassy. The boys had a blast jumping in the bounce houses and of course, making their debut appearance in the Fourth of July parade. See here for all the reasons (minus a fabulous photo of my brothers, my cousin and I forced to wear matching pure-white sweat suits and be wrapped up in crepe paper to walk miles side-by-side like a giant (miserable) American flag) that we must torture our children for the rest of their parade age days. An old family tradition, you might say. One of our best.

Now that the boys are old enough to ride, toddle or be pulled in any Fourth of July parade, Paul and I will pull out all the stops to make sure they have the most creative and eye catching costumes and decorations in the parade.

Now we are pleased to present to you, the Hanna boys Inaugural Fourth of July Parade:

Barnsie the Barnes & Noble bear, a gift from Uncle Dan, stripped of his cozy B&N hoodie and book-bag and dressed as Lady Lib-bear-ty herself. Complete with sparkly pipe-cleaner fireworks happening about her.

Costume Design: Mom

Props Design: Dad

Float Operator: Pete

Festive Decoration Procurement & Delivery: Nanny

"The Schwinn" decked out in all things red, white and blue.

After one lap of the turn around of the circular drive, Sam became bored of the cycling and Pete bored of the pushing after only a mere three feet. They switched vehicles and continued the parade. Sam running like an out of control Macy's Day parade float and Pete at an astonishingly slow "Deflated Macy's Day Parade float."

Festa Junina

2011-07-01T19:57:00.002-04:00

Sam's preschool class put on a celebration complete with show this evening for the Brazilian festival known as Festa Junina. A celebration of the nativity of St. John the Baptist. It is an annual winter celebration, held outside or under thatched roofs, the dress, food and music and games are all representative of rural Brazilian culture. And the dancing, oh the dancing! Each class took to the stage to Brazilian country music and square danced, jumped around and waved their tiny hands all dressed in cowboy-like attire, with painted on mustaches, goatees, freckles, straw hats and pigtails. Others (read: Sam) stood still (adorably still I might add) searching the crowd for his us, then smiled nervously throughout the rest of his much anticipated performance. It was quite possibly the most perfect and wonderful thing I have ever seen, dancing or no dancing. Peter spied Sam on stage and was overcome with his fame, pointing and saying 'Bi Bra' (Big Brother) through the rest of the performance. There was a huge spread of treats and drinks and Sam played a couple of games, both of which he won and we ended the night with a pizza dinner out and frozen yogurt to celebrate the celebration.

I, of course, dressed them both up, because WAY TO CUTE. Enough said. This picture melts my heart into a puddle of love.

Certified Nail Color Selector

2011-06-30T13:17:00.003-04:00

Today I took Sam with me to get my nails done after I picked him up from preschool. Which would (with most any other three year old and even this one on a bad day) seem like an incredibly bad idea.

When we arrived there were three tiny puppies playing about the shop and Sam took immediately to the floor, petting and playing with them until the owner scooped them up and took them home. At which point he offered to select my nail color. Lucky for me he knows just what I like and choose navy blue with sparkles. Apropos for the upcoming Fourth of July holiday and for his funky mom. He then began to color code the rack of nail polishes much to the delight of the shop keeper, "Look mom, all the pinks are here, and the blues are here!" The nail 'techs' and other customers were quite charmed that my tiny boy had done this, instead of say, throwing them all on the floor or out the open second story window.

When he had completed his task, he snuggled up in my lap and asked me to read him a story. I am considering taking him with me on nail dates more often.

Beyond the Shadow of a Doubt

2011-06-29T13:53:00.002-04:00

I am right smack in the middle of where I need to be.

Father-Son Bonding

2011-06-28T09:48:00.000-04:00

Unfortunately, I haven’t taken the time to go on many solo outings with my second-born son, Pete. He’s still very young and may not have yet benefited from the experience. (aside: you know you have been in-country a long time when you want to use a Portuguese word instead of an English word. I wanted to write ‘aproveitou’ instead of ‘benefitted’ in the previous sentence. More so, the Portuguese word better fits what I wanted to say.)

Last week, Pete and I had one of our first solo outings. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to get ice cream, throw a football in the park or see a baseball game. We went to the dentist.

In a follow-up to the visit the day after the bathroom massacre, Pete and I delivered the x-ray of his remaining tooth to the dentist. “How do you take an x-ray of a 1 year-old’s tooth?” you may be wondering. Well, let me tell you, it ain’t fun.

Both Elise and I went. Elise sat in the chair with him, a lead-lined apron as heavy as a small elephant compressing her chest. As Pete started screaming and crying, the x-ray tech, a pimpled Brazilian youth with a full set of braces who looked not a day over fourteen, told us that it would be better if Pete was “bem tranquilo” and then proceeded to wait expectantly as though there were something we could do to keep Pete from crying as Pete is staring down the metal barrel of the x-ray machine. Elise and I looked at each other in disbelief. I tried communicating over Pete’s screams, that my son wasn’t going to stop crying to which he seemed to reply that we weren’t going to be able to take the x-ray today because he was crying.

Elise speaks her best Portuguese when she’s pissed off. She looked at me and said, “Tell him we’re doing it today.” Then looked at the x-ray tech and said “Agora! (Now!)” So while Elise held Petey’s arms down, I braced his head between my palms and held it there, vainly looking away, hoping I wasn’t being bombarded with too much radiation, as I was the only one in the room not draped in anything lead-lined. At any rate, we got the pic. Now, we just had to hope that it was a good enough image to satisfy the dentist so we wouldn’t have to go through that misery again.

Pete cried a few more times upon his second visit to the dentist, including right as we walked into the waiting room. He knew something wasn’t right. Fortunately, she didn’t have to re-examine the tooth, the x-ray was sufficient and we learned that the root of the tooth that didn’t fall out was not cracked and didn’t appear to have impacted the permanent tooth behind it, all this to the tinkling of a Mickey Mouse snow globe in the background, the only thing that kept Pete from spontaneously bursting into tears. He earned a balloon for his bravery.

I wasn’t quiet done with him, or hadn’t gotten enough, so the next night, a rare TGIW (Thank God It’s Wednesday) because of a mid-week Brazilian one-day holiday, Pete and I, just Pete and I, went to the store to pick up groceries for dinner.

Pete is at the stage where he won’t let you get away with anything. There is no definitive moment when you cross from being able to go about your normal routine into a realm where the little person who totters around you day in and day out is ready to glom off of you and adapt for his own everything you do or say. It happens without you knowing it. One day you can curse without fear of being repeated and the next Pete is in the bathroom tearing a small square of toilet paper from the roll and pretending to wipe his butt with it (only he can’t quite reach his butt so it looks like he is wiping the middle of his back, but it is unmistakable what he is trying to do).

One day I belch in the kitchen without an echo, the next I hear a gurglish squeezing noise, like Donald Duck choking. It’s Pete. Trying to burp, looking up at me before bursting into giggle.

The Magic of Garden Gnomes

2011-06-25T19:41:00.010-04:00

Just as my Grandmother and mother did when we were little, I have made gardening a rewarding and fun activity for the boys and for our family. Sam has his own garden now, which grows his own seeds. Started by him at school, planted by him. Add a few spinning pinwheels we picked up at the zoo recently and it is a regular Secret Garden in our side yard.

Peter helps me tend to my garden, watering, weeding (and not always the weeds! I'd like to tell you my green onions were thriving, but someone mistook them for grass) and harvesting our crops. Peter grasps handfuls of carrot and beets that I pick and 'oohs' and 'oohs' at them, then rushes over to our outdoor sink, pulls up a chair and demands that I turn on the 'wa wa' so that he may rinse the dirt from them before we snap off the greens and take them inside.

We take to the garden almost everyday after naps, donning our gardening Crocs and plastic sand shovels, the boys help me weed the garden, inspect and pick the carrots, the herbs for the evenings meal and lettuce for salads. They then work as a team, Peter to turn off and on and off and on and off and on (you get the idea) the water while Sam expertly holds his thumb in the stream of water creating a spray that delights our crops like a summer's rain.

Both boys have been tasting, if not eating all of the vegetables we pick and sometimes right out of the garden as I so fondly remember doing as a kid. Peter is a little more adventurous and can be spotted with a piece of lettuce dangling from his lips nearly every afternoon. The pride in their eyes (and my own!) having grown these edible items from just tiny seeds is certainly the reward of a lifetime that is positively heartbreaking to let a child miss out on.

Rio in Photos

2011-06-25T13:46:00.021-04:00

As you previously read here, our dazzling weekend getaway to Rio was just that. Here are just a few photos that I took on our adventure, the rest are tucked neatly in my memory.

Zaza Tropical Bistro, the view from our window seat, shutters thrown open to the cool Rio night air...

Lovers on said getaway.

The first light. Mountains, atlantic ocean, perfection.

Cheesy tourist photo. Cheeeeeeseee!

JC himself, arms wide with welcome.

Like a moth to a flame, I catch helicopters as they buzz the Corcovada.

crazy people dangling off an ultralight

Paulo grooves to a little Samba rhythm on the ride back down.

Another kind of perfection, the rest of the photos of this latte and whoopie pie lovers reunion are too personal to share.

Rio

2011-06-21T14:54:00.001-04:00

We landed shortly after six. The sun had already set and so we were sent to scurry through Santos Dumont airport in search of a cab. One of the few pieces of advice I had been given by colleagues currently living in Rio de Janeiro was bypass the press of cabbies trying to hustle you before you get to the taxi stand and go straight to the street which is what we did.

I had seen pictures of the Rio cityscape before so had an idea of what it would look like, but anytime you arrive somewhere new by night, its true form remains a mystery until the next morning. As we drove the streets of Rio by night, from the airport to our hotel in Ipanema, the city looked like any other city, roads, building and bright orange street lights like those in Brasilia, much more orange than street lights in the U.S. and much less expansive, their glow localized to a small orb that barely lit a few square feet of sidewalk. As we drove the streets of Rio by night it looked like any other city until we saw him, a burst of light between two skyscrapers as bright as a camera flash and silver like moonlight, Christ the Redeemer. I had no idea he would be that bright and the first time I saw him reminded me of the first time Elise and I saw the Eiffel Tower sparkle like a thousand paparazzi flashbulbs popping. It was that magical.

We checked into our hotel, threw our bags on the bed and immediately headed downstairs. Our hotel conveniently and not-so-coincidentally was directly upstairs from Devassa, a chopperia. We quickly downed a few India IPAs and off into the cool winter night (by Rio’s standards) for Zazá Tropical Bistrô.

In Rio, it truly feels as though the jungle grew around the city or the opposite. Giant trees line the streets, palms poke through and crack the sidewalks everywhere and vines hang in front of shop fronts and bars. We disappeared into the darkness, remerging a few blocks away, in front of an old colonial house, bright robin’s egg-blue under the streetlights, decorative wrought iron bars on the windows, screened door on the porch and multi-colored Christmas lights draped over the railing. We were taken upstairs, asked in Portuguese to remove our shoes and padded across a lush shag carpet to a table that was no more than a few inches off the floor. We slid into a low booth next to each other and a window and were soon sipping red wine, romantically tucked into one another like two pieces from a jigsaw puzzle. Woodwork fairies with plastic wings hung from the stucco ceiling and carried small, airplane bottles of Absolut through the air.

The next morning, Rio revealed itself. We were two blocks from the sea, but the mountains appeared and we could spy a sliver of ocean between the balconies of two buildings. We hurried, saving showering for later when we knew we would have to rinse salt from our skin. We hailed a cab and were driven by Lagoa, and sunlight streamed through the palms and twinkled off the surface of the lake. Joggers made circuits of the perimeter, as did bicycles and baby strollers, in front of apartment buildings in front of mountains in front of a cloudless deep blue sky.

At Cosme Velho train station we breakfasted on pão de queijo as we waited for the cog train to take us up to Corcovado and Christ the Redeemer. Fortunately or unfortunately, pão de queijo is ubiquitous in Brazil. A colleague of mine recently commented that there are some days that he feels as though he couldn’t stand to eat another pão de queijo, warm fluffy balls of dough around a gooey cheese core, and that there are other days he feels as though he can’t get enough. This trip, Elise and I definitely couldn’t get enough and were eating them wherever we could get them, the airport, the train station, off the street.

That morning, on Corcovado, something kept happening to trump the amazing thing that had just preceded it. We took the train forty-five degrees straight up into the jungle. Soon a samba band started playing. Then, the train stopped and the conductor got out to look at a coatimundi curled up in the trees. At the top of Corcovado, an ultra-light buzzed our heads, threatening to fall from the sky, and helicopters swooped in so close, I thought Christ was going to reach out and pluck one straight from the air. Monkeys bounded about in search of cookies. They were very well-fed monkeys and certainly soon to be diabetic.

We took the train down from Corcovado and hopped into a cab headed for Leblon Shopping…and Starbucks! As I have written before, Starbucks holds a special place in our hearts for many reasons, and the opportunity to go to Starbucks after 6 months without was too good to resist. We added a Rio mug to our ever-growing collection of Starbucks mugs from all the places we have lived or visited. I ordered a java chip frappacino. Elise ordered a vanilla latte. Ordering Starbucks in Portuguese is even trickier than ordering in English. Whereas ordering Starbucks in English is already a multi-lingual exercise combining English with Italian (“Venti”) and French (“Café au Lait”), ordering Starbucks in Portuguese throws a fourth language in the mix. I soon discovered that cake-pops in Portuguese are, “cak-ee pop-ee-s” (they were for Sam, but were poor substitutes for his beloved sprinks donuts). Also, it was easier just to leave off the many qualifiers that Elise and I usually use since I don’t know how to say “skim milk” in Portuguese (“leite light-ee”?) or “frappacino with an extra shot of espresso”. I even forgot to ask for the frappacino without whipped cream, but since it is probably the only frappacino I would have all year, I let it go and tried not to feel too much like Britney Spears.

We ran back to the hotel to change into our bathing suits and skipped to Ipanema beach. We immediately stood out. Not because Elise or I don’t look Brazilian, but we definitely weren’t dressed for the beach like your typical Cariocas (slang for Rio-dwellers). I didn’t have a sunga (“speedo” or “banana-hammock” in American English) and Elise didn’t have a bikini. We lounged among the natives, quickly learning why the beach is the social nexus of Rio. I plunged into the Atlantic. Elise curled her toes in the too-perfect sand, sand the texture of talcum powder.

As the sun started to duck behind condos, a happy hour snack was in order and we shared a plate of fried fish and two ice-cold cans of Bohemia beachside from one of the many quiosques lining the sand, ready to rehydrate the masses. The proprietor of the quiosque proudly displayed his English proficiency as he convinced us that his fish was the best fried fish…not in Rio…not in Brazil…in the WORLD. He was very nearly correct.

Saturday evening, I had grand plans of taking Elise up to Santa Teresa, a bohemia neighborhood in the hills above Botafogo, for dinner in a restaurant with views of Pão de Açucar from tables nestled in tree houses, but the last thing either of us wanted to do at this point was climb into another cab. I go into so much detail here so as to whet Elise’s appetite for the next time we are in Rio. Trust me. There will be a next time. Elise just about signed me up to process visas at the consulate on the spot. If nothing else, we now know I can use our Portuguese to bid Rio in the future.

Instead, we did what Elise and I do best, wander until we find someplace sufficiently cool. That place was ¡Venga!, a Spanish tapas bar. I tried my first Estrella, a Spanish beer, which was more than adequate. Now I know if we ever go to Madrid or Barcelona, I won’t go thirsty.

Sadly, our adventure had to come to end, our batteries recharged, our bellies full, our romance rekindled (as if the flame had ever suffered), and I will not soon forget my lips on her curls or my beard on her shoulder, smelling her and the ocean at the same time and remembering how lucky we are.